I love irony: Spending May Day at the Federal Reserve.
Today is May Day. For many years I associated May Day with the Maypole and faeries and flowers and such. All very pagan and Mother Earth-y and all. I never knew that it was International Workers’ Day… likely because we don’t really familiarize ourselves with holidays that don’t offer days off, I suppose, and the US is not one of the 80 nations from around the world that recognize the date as an official state holiday because we celebrate our laborers in September. There are a few interesting wiki-factoids about the history of May 1st in the US here. A more global summary (or at least British) from the Guardian detailing the history of the International Workers’ movement can be found here.
Now, I was raised in a very labor-friendly environment. My family has always been pro-labor (as a pre-teen I interpreted this to mean that they quite enjoyed providing me with a nice variety of chores…) and I hail from a fairly humble socio-economic background coupled with a pretty liberal socio-geographic origin. As such, I believe in power-to-the-people, and worker’s rights, and I did not eat grapes until I was old enough to read about why I never got to eat grapes, and I support a livable minimum wage and fair labor practice law. Further, I do believe that the mal-distribution of wealth in our society is not a result of a working market economy and hard work v. indolence, rather it is a result of a cycle that is either virtuous or vicious, depending upon which side of the divide you stand.
Because of all these facts, I was met with some fairly amused raised eyebrows from one my colleague when I told him that the first available day that I was able to schedule my Econ classes for a tour of the Federal Reserve was May 1. Further, I was told by my contact ‘on the inside’ that “the vault was currently closed.” If the vault was closed in February, what was the likelihood that it would be open in May? On May First, no less, when the Occupy Movement was planning for their biggest day of action ever?
And so we would be in the vault of the SF Fed walking among millions and millions of dollars (hopefully), while outside there would be… well, we did not know.
I do know that last night as I sat in my apartment in the Mission, I heard people on the street yelling about “a party at Dolores!” which does make me wonder when I am thinking the point is to organize not get wasted…. And in less than an hour these people were trashing local restaurants, coffee shops, private cars, and the police station on my street. No matter how much I support labor and the ideas behind the #OWS movement, I find this kind of arbitrary vandalism not just counterproductive, but also ignorant and offensive. Really, of all the neighborhoods to fuck with? The Mission? Do your research assholes.
It is with this mood that I headed out to meet my kids to head to the Fed. I called my contact at the Fed this morning before I got to work to double check… “We are still on, right?” “Of course!” “Okay, I just wanna make sure, because… you know…” “We are all set, see you at 9:30!”
And so we went with the following objectives: tour the Fed, and then interview folks on the street and ask them about the economy, what is the economy to them? They were armed with templates and Sharpies and charm. My contribution is here:
We were unofficially greeted on the corner by a street crier dressed like a Minuteman and decrying the “system”. To be fair, much more articulately than I would have predicted. As we got to the entrance of the Federal Reserve Bacnk building, a small group of protestors put down their bongs (seriously) long enough to warn us: “Don’t go in there! They will brain wash you!” Hm. I always get annoyed when people tell me I can be brainwashed because of the implied suggestion that I am mentally feeble enough to be susceptible to brainwashing. We went in anyhow, obviously.
The tour at the Fed is actually really interesting, and it is always validating to have the presentation cover material that I have taught my kids *and* they remember. What is the Fed, officially? [The Bank for the banks.] Why was it created? [To deal with financial panics...] When was it created? [Under W. Wilson in 1913.] Who oversees the Fed? ? ? ? [Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. And he would be the mostly likely candidate to have any oversight over the Federal Reserve...]
The currency exhibit at the SF Fed is fabulous and the design of the main exhibit was the work of the husband of one of my colleagues [Cool factor: high.] We got to see one of the most comprehensive collections of paper currency ever, (even got a CD of it – woo hoo Fed swag… they did make 81.7 billion last year…) and then headed down to the Vault.
My kids talk about money with the term “stacks”. Lots of money is “stacks on stacks on stacks…” There was enough time to utter the word stacks enough times to even suggest the amount of currency we were looking at in there today. Millions and millions of dollars. Pallets of bills. Seriously. The standard box, when full of hundreds, holds 46 million dollars. We also learned that approximately 56 million dollars are shredded everyday (we all got a bag of the shreddings…) The place smelled so strongly of – well, of money - that it almost rendered you dizzy. We spent a lot of time trying to work out what effect working in this environment would have on one’s consciousness regarding money: would become obsessed? Jaded? Criminal? Prudent? It is hard to say. Seems like it would be awfully tempting to shove a few Benjamins in one’s pockets if you knew they were going to the shredder, no? Hard to say.
Ultimately, of course, the Fed presents itself in a very particular way. Though our guide was pretty candid (she told me they have never been robbed when they guard we were with told me he was not allowed to talk about things like that, and she talked about how transparency has become a real issue because for so long the Fed really was just like this giant, silent Mothership.) I appreciated her candor. When we left the building, there were a few more protestors here and there, but really, there was not much happening. [Tonight, it is clear we got lucky getting out early because things did get ugly in certain parts of the downtown area.] We walked around and breathed in the fresh air.
I contemplated the contrast in life on Sixth Street and a building holding more money than even my most voracious teenagers can fathom. It did seem strange. And in a way we did strike by not going to school today. But really, if my choice is taking these kids into the Belly of the Beast to show them what is going on, or to ave them breaking windows of local merchants in my neighborhood, I definitely choose the former.
We will be examining the other side of the story next week when we watch this little cartoon:
I am all for a fair and balanced approach….
Somedays synchronicity takes over and makes my job a whole lot easier…
Monday was one of those days.
A connecting principle
Linked to the invisible
Almost imperceptible
Something inexpressible
Science insusceptible
Logic so inflexible
Causally connectible
Yet nothing is invincible
Currently, I am teaming with my English teaching colleague on an interdisciplinary project for my seniors throughout which they are working to identify the sociopolitical narratives that surround us and then deconstructing them to see, well, what lies beneath, I suppose. Before the semester ends they will be producing a journal of self-produced investigative reports examining the power of the dollar in politics focusing on topics ranging from factory farming to fracking to the SEC (non)regulation to SOPA to NAFTA to… well, you get the idea.
The project is pretty ambitious to lay on a group of 60 seniors who at this point in their academic careers really just want to get the flock out of high school. And it is also something I am not sure I would have had the inclination or ability to grock at that age. But no matter, we forged on, hoping that we could hook them with a series of WTF moments as they questioned how our government, ostensibly of, by and for the people was working for them – or was it… working against them? [maniacal laugh...]
In the midst of the abrupt return to school (that only comes after a really rewarding vacation), I took a little step up to Shattuck to get a mid-morning Americano. As I was walking back in my own little reverie (that only comes after getting a delicious coffee and the knowledge that your prep is only half way over), I glanced over at a shop window that I had never noticed before, as I never really walk on this side of the street.
There staring out of the window at my wondering eyes was this:
And this…
Wait. What?
Okay, so yeah, I know I work in Berkeley and as such we might not be such an accurate reflection of the rest of the country, but still. There I was face to window glass with the exact premise, neé purpose of the project I had been envisioning.
I quickly shot photos of each of the other twelve panels which chronologically outlined the key turning points in the transition from a government of, by and for the people to a government of, by and for the $$$$$. And then I ran back to tell my colleague. And… being that it is Berkeley, we decided to take a little field trip the next day. We would have them look at the images and try to work out what the purpose of the store front was, the agenda, who might be behind it…
When we got there we talked about it a little bit and I challenged some of the kids to see if they could find out who was the occupant of the building. Boy, do seniors love this kind of challenge. Before I knew it they were on it and had gotten the attention of someone in the building. Suddenly our field trip was a seminar in a local progressive think-tank called Maplight.org. They took us up and showed us what they do and offered any sort of assist that our students might need. Just because they can. “It is what they do,” they said.
Talk about amazing. And whether or not this would only happen in Berkeley, I cannot really say, but I am certainly glad it happened on that day.
If you act, as you think
The missing link
SynchronicityWe know you, they know me
Extrasensory
SynchronicityA star fall, a phone call
It joins all
SynchronicityIt’s so deep, it’s so wide
Your inside
Synchronicity
One of the best love stories of all time. Like, totally fer sure.
I’ll stop the world and melt with you
You’ve seen the difference and
It’s getting better all the time
There’s nothing you and I won’t do
I’ll stop the world and melt with you
I own this movie, though I haven’t watched it in a while (no matter a I know all the words and every song by heart…) But every time I do watch it, I am reminded of how it is like, the most awesome love story ever. It is clearly responsible for indelibly imprinting a certain archetype on my brain. Thanks 1983.
Randy: So, when can I see you again?
Julie Richman: Gee, Randy… why don’t you wait until the end of the evening to say these things?
Randy: It’s how I feel.
Julie Richman: I’m here with you now.
For some reason, in spite of the fact that I spent just about every summer in LA – and mostly the Valley – from 1970 until 1987, this early 80s period is part of my most elemental programming. I wonder if it is genetic if you have Valley parents? Anyhow, I remember so well riding around in LA and seeing it exactly how it is in this movie. The malls, god, I actually loved them. And the ranch-style Valley houses, because you know there is so much ranching going on out there in the Valley… The clothes. Holy crap – I aspired to that.
Epic.
And parents that just did not fit into the norm of my peer set? Yep. I had them. I love that they run a health food store, so wonderfully 1983. The language is a bit silly, almost distracting… (were we ever that bad? Well, I did have a 3/4 sleeve shirt in white and lavender that said: “I’m a Val, I know” Seriously…) But the story is pretty much the end all be all of love stories. Okay, okay, Top Five. Like, fer sure.
And you all know I have my Nick Cage issues, but damn, he could deliver a line. He is just like the “real” guy among all the plastics, you know? I can’t imagine how he would have played in my high school, [angst in my pants!] but in hindsight it certainly seems like just what the doctor ordered. He makes every boyfriend I ever had seem pretty lame.
Man, he’s like tripendicular, ya know?
Oh, except for Joe Flynn. The scene in the movie when Julie and Randy are talking and Fred is chasing Suzie around the car happened to me almost exactly the same way when Nancy took one for the team and let a certain Hurt brother chase her while I tried to convince Joe that a nice little vanilla girl like me was just what he needed. Short lived success there, but not because I had to deal with some Tommy cretin… more just because Joe was a little too thug to make up his mind. But man, he was smoking hot. Oddly, as with Julie’s predicament in the movie, I am farily certain none of my friends agreed with me on this…
And still, every time I watch the movie I love it a little more. Who wouldn’t root for Randy and Fred. [Hi, I'm Fred. I like tacos and '71 Cabernet. My favorite color is magenta.] And another victory goes to the Bohemians.
Well, I mean, come on, we are talking about the Valley – how alternative did you think they were gonna be for the perfect little love story? Plus… they got a word for girls like me…
Family: The unfamiliar is so familiar.
my daddy was a bankrobber
but he never hurt nobody
he just loved to live that way
and he loved to steal your money
Everyone has their own narrative about their family. The story a person tells about their family really tells you very little about their family, but it opens the book on them. The idiosyncrasies one chooses to emphasize, to hide. The funny tales everyone can relate to that thinly veil the truths no one wants to admit they all understand.
Family is fraught.
Family is familiar.
Family is beautiful in dysfunction.
Family is tragically supportive.
Family is dynamic – though we tell the tales in stasis.
There is safety in a familiar narrative but it belies reality. And reality simply waits for you to show up so it can remind you of all that exists beyond your story. My narrative has always had a penchant for the dramatic, some might even say melodrama. My narrative has always had a tendency to over-emphasize the fragility of others and forget that the people from which I come are strong, in every way, even weakness. My narrative has created an anxiety that has no place in my reality. My reality has always been underscored by a complicated but beautiful fabric of love.
When you jump into your narrative you remember things like this.
Yesterday, I jumped.
It is never as hard as I think it will be.
<3 and sushi.
And very merry Christmas.
Back to the Future – or something.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I spent the night in a room I had not slept in since 1989, and not regularly inhabited since 1986. When I got up and walked out through the living room to the kitchen, my parents were sitting there chatting quietly. There was even a calico cat on one of the chairs. I was waiting for a phone call to formulate a plan to go meet a friend and did not feel especially garrulous, or even loquacious.
I looked around.
Maybe this was 1986.
No, the grey hair and improved vocabulary were both clear indicators that I was not re-inhabiting my teenage self – but little else seemed awry in this intensely personal Back to the Future moment. Somehow, I had gone home again.
It was a trip.
It is a pretty great house, in a pretty great neighborhood, in a town I swore I’d never go back to again. But, truth be told, most people agree it is a pretty great town. In fact, most of the folks that left, not wanting to be those people who never left Petaluma - you know – those people, are shaking their fists in the face of the Great Unfairness as it has now become pretty hard to get back. With kids, a sluggish economy and a no low growth community, the town holds quite a bit of appeal. Even when I go back now, I look at through a [mostly] different lens.
And through this rather altered state I headed out of the house (on foot) to go visit some friends I have known longer than my conscious memory serves. I was amazed at how quick the walk was – I swear it used to be longer; I am sure I would have never insisted my mom drive me such a short distance all those years. Would I have?
I went back again last night. It is a bit more settled-in, in terms of looking like a house my family would occupy, rather than a place they might just be passing through.
It was still a total trip.
I woke up and walked down to the corner where one of my regular mini-markets used to be which now sells gourmet wine, chocolate, cappuccino, and meats. Luckily they also still sell milk, because I definitely needed to tip Clo through my two lips with my morning coffee. Back at the house it was kind of a standard Sonoma County winter morning: cold, clear… retro.
I was in full retro-mode myself.
After years of being no closer than two hours (by air) from my family, it has taken no less than a month to revert right back to the old ways. Suddenly when I find myself with my parents after a 40-minute drive the urgency of milking every minute that I didn’t want to miss when I was staring down the belly of a 14-hour flight disappears. Though the old rotary dial phone has been replaced by the iPhone, I still catch myself tuning out of the parental orbit and trying to catch up with what Everyone else is doing. [I spent years in Petaluma keeping up with Everyone, it was an endless job, that Everyone is a busy dude.] But somehow, there is a kind of visceral comfort that I get just from being there – I guess it is the same comfort that I always got as a teenager who had the privilege of attentive parents I could ignore. Sometimes it takes 25 years to recognize that kind of privilege.
I decided I would head downtown to do a little Christmas shopping, or something. It seemed like the right thing to do. As I walked out of the house my mom said I looked like I was meant for somewhere bigger than Petaluma.
It is what I had always thought about Petaluma, too.
It was just one more irony making me feel right at home on this morning of Christmas Eve Eve. I walked down the street and felt completely at home at out of place simultaneously, and really, if I haven’t already defined what coming of age in Petaluma was like for me – this was it.
And so, what to do… I suddenly was facing a bit of pressure to be home at a certain time [awkward] and so my options were limited. I called MPFW. She was at our old 7-11. It seemed beyond coincidental. She picked me up, like it was 1986. We had a couple of things to do – different only in detail from the things we would have had to do in exchange for being out with the car 25 years ago. Then what? Coffee? Yeah, okay, that sounded good.
Or we could have a cocktail…
Yeah, we could, couldn’t we?
Yes. Yes, we could.
So, we did.
Just like we did back in 198- err…. nevermind.
Heading back to my house without even needing to ask where we were going, MPFW took out some gum.
Oh, yeah. Gum. Better get some of that before we get home… you know, because the grown-ups are there. Just like 1986.
And who doesn’t love a little anachronism for the holidays?
It is Petaluma. Do you know what year you’re in?
Rule #1: Be sure you are not placed on the end of any group photo.
My parents recently moved back to the area. Apparently the true 1%ers they have spent a lifetime trying not to be, they are now going to be snowbirds, (of a sort, still choosing rather atypical resting points.) As this move was getting closer everyone was asking me about it: Was I excited? Did I want to be closer to them? Was it going to be ‘too close’? I never really thought much about my answers. Of course I was glad, I have not lived within a reasonable driving distance of my parents since 1988 – at which point we were still living together. And after more than five years of a minimum of 18 hours of travel time to see them, I have been looking forward to easier parental access. Haven’t I?
Plus, if you know my parents, they are kind of The Shit.
Anyhow, along come the holidays… always an ass-kicking time at work and the days don’t just seem shorter because of the dark, I am convinced they really are shorter. Add to that, the family equation and life just gets busy. But it’s cool you know.
It makes for good material.
Unfortunately mom has taken to proclaiming that I am not allowed to write about certain things. Like my family. I can’t always tell which family things will get the kibosh and which will be okay, it seems kind of random. Okay, that is not entirely true, but I have to say I was getting seriously censored for a while. But, the way I am looking at it, their locality puts them back on the front page. I was willing to let slide many an opportune tale while they were up North, but now their mountain hiatus has come to an end.
So.
I will make little mention of the navigational skill of the Ways-ie App, or my step-dad’s triple-protected new-new iPhone. I’m going to jump right into my Bridget Jones montage. [The Back to Future remake will be for a later installment.]
That pretty much sums it up. For the second time in two weeks, I was completely mal-attired and borrowing clothes in order to not be simply ridiculous – though as my aunt says, at least I did not show up in a bunny costume.
But barely. Visualize, if you will, my arrival: Jeans (7 for All Mankind, but still: JEANS) and motorcycle boots. And a cute black t-shirt. And I walk in and see my grandma all dressed up. For high tea in honor of her birthday with all of the ladies.
There were petit fours on the table for goodness sake.
I thought it was weird that my uncle wondered why I wasnt carrying anything with me when he picked me up at the train station. And my aunt asked me if I needed to hang anything up. I definitely did not get the memo. Suffice it to say that one more day would be spent in a state of awkward dress. [The irony that I spent years cultivating awkward style for family events is not lost on me. A particular outfit of blue and black plaid pants, blue suede boots, a fuchsia over-sized button down shirt over long-sleeved thermals and a fedora comes to mind.]
Back to now, the afternoon moved along into the evening… everyone else was dressed totally appropriately, not that I want to harp on this, or anything, but any thoughts that my Bridget moments were finished would be incorrect.
“So, do you have a love in your life?” I was asked.
“Umm, no, not at the moment.”
“Oh, the last time we saw each other I think you were with someone.”
“Yes, yes I was.” I say. [I want to say, 'Yes, #3. He was the one who went to jail and led to Rule #1. What is Rule #1? See that picture over there? You see how it looks like I have a hand growing out of my abdomen? Yes, that is the effect of Rule #1: never find yourself on the end of any group photo. Excising (or exorcising) of anyone is made far too easy if you are on the end. That is what happened to #3. And you should see us jockey for position in the group photos these days.']
I don’t say that.
“That can’t be the granddaughter?”
“Oh, no, this is A, not K…”
“Ahh, I see I knew it hadn’t been that long!”
In discussing my work with a really amazing couple they tell me they are in a Current Events Group, and that it is really fun “because everyone is a [whispers] Democrat.” I smile and explain that if it were not that way, “group” might not be the correct noun. “We probably shouldn’t talk about politics,” she whispers, shh-ing me.
Sitting down to eat, my step-dad and I get to talking. Somehow my (lack of a) love life comes up again. I am not bothered by this conversation, I know the discussion comes from a place of concern… or maybe that is the wrong word, but I am sure my parents just want for me what they’ve got. And truth be told, what they’ve got is awesome. But, still… I don’t really know why I why I don’t meet many people and etcetera and etcetera. [Not totally true: I don't meet people because I work all the time and because most people my age [who are not categorically dysfunctional or insane] are happily married to rad people, or gay.]
By the end of the evening, my clothes faux pas (and my neglect in remembering to bring my camera), my obvious singleness, and my concern over mom being angsty about all of the above had faded. Partaking in a marathon goodbye (the length of the goodbye seems directly proportional to proximity) none of it seemed to matter. I was getting a ride home from my parents and the weekend was still young. I made a call to see about going out.
Maybe some things really are meant to stay the same.
Just be sure to get to the middle when the group photos commence.
Thoughts while reading Vanity Fair on a rainy Sunday morning
- Johnny Depp
- Is it ironic that this advertisement presents Angelina Jolie is posed on what I imagine is some tributary to Tonle Sap with a Louis Vuitton bag that cost the equivalent of several years’ annual income for a local in the area? [Or is she giving the money back to Cambodia? I don't know, but if I had a US$ 2,000 handbag I sure as shit would not be lugging it through the backwaters of Southeast Asia.]
- The Burberry model looks a bit syndrome. That is not PC, but it doesn’t make it less true.
- I need a watch. Probably not Patek Philippe, but you know, a watch would be good.
- I should be grading papers.
- I wish there actually was a lip gloss that looked like the one in the Tom Ford adverts in real life. There is not, so don’t try to sell me on that.
- JOHNNY Depp.
- Emma Watson has done quite well for herself. Still, wish she would not have cut her hair. I wish my cats could refill my coffee even more than that, though.
- An “all business class airline” offering a $150 discount. That is funny. However, it made me look and though useless to me as it is only gonna get me from JFK to Paris, it is not that expensive.
- Guess has gone totally back to their 1980s ads. I guess it works, but I don’t really look at them because I feel like I have seen them all before. And Anna Nicole was such a hot mess she really brought that extra “something”.
- Elizabeth Warren and Stockard Channing look a lot alike. Interesting that they embedded the article on Channing’s play into the Warren article. I think Warren is a total BAMF. [Warren article is really good. Vote for her, MA.]
- So, because a lot of the Occupy Cal protestors were carrying signs that said, “I stand with Bartleby.” I investigated and am now reading the Melville short story, Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street and Melville’s Moby Dick is profiled in the mag this month as a masterpiece that “remains supremely relevant – a survival manual in times of crisis, a challenge to the Ahabs of every century, and an expression of democracy’s “divine equality”". I love synchronicity.
- There is such a thing as “voguepedia”? Not sure how I feel about this.
- I need to grade papers.
- The article on Norman Mailer is excellent.
- Michelle Williams and Dougray Scott are well cast as Marilyn and Arthur Miller in the upcoming film.
- An entire article on how messed up California is. Obviously from the desk of “No Fucking Shit”. Using Vallejo as your case study seems especially silly. Vallejo? Have you been there? Sheesh.
- Courtney Love is 47? Shit. She is a guilty pleasure of mine but she is seriously Mickey Rourke-ing her face. And this quote is agitating: “I am not punk rock anymore, I’m the liberal elite.” Maybe because that seemingly unavoidable transition has become cliché.
- Johnny DEPP.
- Grade papers.
- But the article is called: “The Hunter in Johnny Depp.” Like I am going to leave that for later? No.
But now, I must get more coffee and so perhaps I will grade some papers. After all, it is still raining and the cats are not fucking up anything at the moment.
Rather #winning for a gray Sunday.
Top photo: California College of the Arts, Saturday, November 19, 2011 by author
Bottom: “FanFare” from Vanity Fair Magazine, November 2011, photo of photo, by author
[Yay Hipstamatic.]
Coffee: DENIED!!
Last week I went back to my hometown for a Halloween party. I even wore a costume and everything. I don’t go up there very often, and every time that I do go… I am glad. Thought I was going to say I regret it, huh? Nope. Anyhow, R and I got to the party fashionably late and in high style. Who knew that this evening would lead to my latest WTF moment…
One of the things that I enjoy about going to the hometown is that all of the pressure of socializing with an agenda is out the window. I have long abandoned the idea that this particular little slice of heaven would bring forth a guy I would want to date… or would want to date me for that matter – let’s not forget I did more than a decade of hard time there, so I have some context for this attitude. Plus, when I am there I am generally flanked by R so I have a nice comfortable landing spot, and exit strategy. This shindig was no exception to my previously established assumptions. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise to make contact with someone (new) who seemed pretty interesting, and who has an incredible back story as well. Suffice it to say I was intrigued enough that it made the next morning’s brunch conversation agenda.
Over the course of several hours of brunch Dr. T and R and I talked about the changing social dynamic we are facing these days re: meeting people, and of course the inherent distinction between his, and ours. Facts being what they are, it is a lot easier to be a dude of our – shall we say, station – or just be honest and say age? It reminded me of this sentiment from an article about all the Single Ladies:
I realized that I too have always just assumed that the whole “love” thing would just work itself out. It turns out that is a bit naive, and by the way, don’t read that article if you are still in that frame of mind: total spoiler. So, we contemplated, what was the best course of action to take in navigating these waters, (which seem like they should get smoother with maturity – not more fucking rocky)? We could all speak to different strategies coupled with equally diverse (and though often humorous, still disappointing) outcomes.
Should one “get out there” and try to make things happen even if it’s not what you were naturally inclined to do? Should you use places in your comfort zone as a “hunting ground”? Internet dating? The fact of it is, all of it made me want to barf in my cappuccino. I have always said that if I wasn’t going to meet someone doing what I normally do, and in the course of my normal life, then I wasn’t going to meet the right person. I still believe that, but the reality of that scenario is that I work pretty much around the clock during the school year, using my free time for yoga and the gym… and then I want to travel when I am not working. This is not conducive to being a successful dater (which we have long-established I have no idea how to do anyhow.) Not to mention, I don’t even know what i am looking for. This particular line of rhetoric was precipitated by my admission that I do not go out on Friday night. “I am just too tired,” I told Dr. T. “But it seems like you are always doing stuff… totally energetic,” she replied. “You can’t trust Facebook,” I reminded her.
And here it is, Friday night and I am home. Exhausted. Not at all unhappy, but completely aware that my staying in perpetuates the reality that I will continue to reduce the odds of meeting someone new and interesting or at least the bearer of interesting potential.
So, maybe it was not too crazy to consider someone I met in my hometown. Shit, I have certainly considered far more suspect possibilities in places far afield.
Information was acquired (from both sides of the equation, I might add) and contact was made. “Let’s get together for coffee or something…” “That would be great, we should have some free time coming up with the holidays…” “By the way, I thought you were gorgeous.”
Aaawwwwww.
And then the Facebook connection was established. I looked at his profile. I saw some things that made me go “Hmmmmmm….” [You went to Pahrump? On purpose? FOR.FIREARMS TRAINING????] But, in my typical optimistic fashion (don’t laugh I am an optimist, but of course only in the most ridiculous circumstances) I overlooked these few things. After all, had I not just spent hours talking with my best friends about how (c’est la vie said the old folks, it goes to show… ) you never can tell? Plus, you can’t trust Facebook.
Plans were made. Life went on. Two days later I got this message:
Listen, why don’t we hold off getting together for that drink. After checking out your fb stuff I realized that you and I are polar opposite on our politics. Friendship sounds a hell of a lot better at this point.
Of course, being the headcase that I can sometimes be, my first reaction was to go back and look at my Facebook page. Umm… What? I couldn’t even figure out how it was “political.” Save for the poster from my union that one of my amazing coworkers made for us to carry at the General Strike standing behind Occupy Oakland… oh, hm. Perhaps that is political. But, as a historian, I would certainly NOT miss an event like that! And as a teacher (he is one too) who in the world could be anti-union? I looked further. I had a Howard Zinn quote. Okay, maybe I am a little political. I considered all of this in a new light. But cancelling a coffee date? I shook my head. Does the guy know anything about me? Well, he is related to people I have known since I was six. He knows where I grew up, not a traditionally conservative bastion – though these days, sheesh. Everything else he gleaned from… from… Facebook?
I looked at all the stuff on my Facebook. Things I have selected to share with a very wide variety of people and re-reconsidered. It may be political. It may ideological. Hell, it may be psychological. But mostly, in my opinion, it is there to be intellectual – and I don’t mean all smarty pants, but I mean to engender thought, or perspective. Yeah, even argument. Some of the people I respect most in my life are the ones who really come at me from a different angle and are not afraid. [That would be you, Mr. Fox Island.] But in the end I went back to the same old place:
“Seriously. Am I not cute enough to override the red flags??? Do you know how many guys I have gone out with in spite of the plethora of screaming scarlet banners??????”
Ooohhhh…
Wait a minute…
…perhaps Mr. Freinship-sounds-a-hell-of-a-lot-better-at-this-point is on to something here…
Of cows, rules and realities.
I have been so busy lately. People who know me would know this by my absence in several areas where I usually have a greater presence. I have not been writing much. Or at least I have not been finishing anything I start writing – and when this happens I tend to get really mentally muddled. All this shit bouncing around my brain, leading me to feel more overwhelmed and then more busy…
For the most part has been a good busy, like work stuff, which I like, and people stuff, which I like (more on that presently.) I have also decided that I am going to try to go to the gym every day this month – sort of like a challenge to myself, and I don’t really like or dislike this. Though I have to say I am enjoying the fact that for the first time – probably ever – I am not going to the gym because I feel physically repugnant, but because I am trying to do something to make my knee situation better. It is nice to be freed up of the more superficial elements about going to the gym. Though, truth be told, I would feel like a giant cow if I were still in Hong Kong. Fortunately – in America I feel really thin – so, there you have the benefit of perspective, I suppose.
Speaking of cows, one of the things that has been leading to my busy-ness is a significant amount of mental energy going towards an unexpected focal point. I have been spending time (in hindsight not that much time, but that it seems like a lot is interesting) with a person who I enjoy allowing to take up my time. [This person is wicked smart and frequently a total ass (not usually to me - though that I am not above reproach is also very cool.) So, clearly I think they're completely great.] But I am unsure if this is a good decision on my part or if I am making something out of nothing. Like, is this person just keeping me “on the hook“? Or is there something more to it? In discussing this with both T, now Dr. T to us regular folk, and R, the answers were the same, “Well, why would a guy buy a cow when he gets the milk for free…?” I am not really interested in being bovine. Or purchased for that matter. But their point is clear. The only way to find out the answer the questions I have would be to withhold the milk. [Have I mentioned I am lactose intolerant?]
I would almost just rather pass the person a note via a third-party and be like, “Do you like me? ____ Yes ____ No”
I am annoyed that there have to be rules to stuff like this. But it appears, from all angles that there are. I tried to justify the decisions I had made: I know the person fairly well. There have been “signs” that suggest certain things. The nervousness. Who called who. Who did what, when, where.
Whatever.
The reality is that people are messy and honesty is like using a bad paper towel to clean up a big old pile of reality. It makes it worse first. Telling someone how you feel is risky and difficult. And judging from my personal tastes, it is also a pretty direct route to awkward. I tend to not talk about these kinds of things. To anyone really. Let alone the specific people to whom I should be speaking. [My grandma apparently said about me as a young child, "A will share about anything that doesn't matter." Or something along those lines.]
The further reality is that I have never been made to feel so nervous around someone before, and this nervousness makes me feel like a total jackass and likely act like one too. Thus perpetuating the cycle wherein the rules become tedious and the realities become obfuscated.
Moooooooooo.
The Weather is Changing. Again.
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
You’ve got more than money and sense, my friend,
You’ve got heart and you’re goin’ your own way
I love the fall. It is something I missed terribly while I lived in the tropics and I am glad to catch wisps of it swirling around what I think will be quite an Indian Summer in the City. I think every year that I must write about how I love fall. I never really know if I just love the transitory nature of the shoulder seasons or if it is fall itself, but either way, this time of the year always finds me in a really good mental space.
The fall signals shorter days, the smell of deciduous foliage, hopeful longing at fall fashions that will only slow cook you the minute you buy them due to our capricious weather, my birthday, the World Series (shame about those Giants. Yeah, okay, not really), a strange sense of new beginnings with the onset of a new school year whether you are in school or not, my birthday, football season, my birthday… and a palpable sense of calm that I attribute to the balance of the equinox – and the departure of the tourists.
This calm is something I always welcome after the mania of a summer, especially one as well spent as mine ended up being. Nothing stresses me out in the fall, even the things that should. It is just a time that I feel so relaxed that I often feel like a stranger in my own Type-A skin. It is a rather out-of-body sensation.
I woke up to foggy skies again today, and quiet streets on this Labor Day. The Burners are not yet back, the hipsters not yet up, the Church-y types doing what ever it is they do when it is not their own personal sabbath. It is quiet in the Mission. Sitting in bed with hot coffee and bossy calico cat (and clumsy dude-baby cat) I contemplated my day. Starting with thinking about what I wanted for my birthday.
I am pretty sure I will get it all.
L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N.
What you don’t have now will come back again
You’ve got heart and you’re goin’ your own way
I Love L.A., Part Five: “We love it we love it we love it!”
Century Boulevard – We love it!
Victory Boulevard – We love it!
Santa Monica Boulevard – We love it!
Sixth Street – We love it, we love it, we love it!!
We love L.A!
I get up early now. I do not know how or when this change occurred, and I don’t mind that much, except for the part about how I still stay up really late. Anyhow, up early on this occasion was okay. I was getting a ride back to Hollywood in time for brunch. My aunt was totally cool to make the drive, especially since Carmageddon had been such a bunch of baloney, and Malibu takes a few hours to be beach ready anyhow. The Malibu surprise had been epic on many levels, and my work there was done. And I was going to be eating some brunch with a side of magic, apparently.
When A first told me they were staying at The Magic Castle, I was nonplussed (and I mean this in the vein of the actual meaning of the word, not that I was unfazed, which apparently many people believe that word means.) Why not The Roosevelt? A explained that with the entire A-Team in tow, The Roosevelt wouldn’t be ideal. Fair enough. And, why I am at all surprised that anything A plans is not entirely thought out just shows my forgetful nature (this is the girl who shows up at music festivals with coded spreadsheets of the bands. For real.) The hotel was great. And by great I mean, generous, friendly, and insanely tolerant. I give them an excellent rating for customer service, location, and chillness. On Saturday morning, I was greeted by Dr. I (aka Mr. A) bearing a Bloody Mary. Nice start. Showers and outfits done and we were ready to get things going.
Come on, you know you want to go.
I Love L.A., Part Four: “Look at these women!”
Look at that mountain
Look at those trees
Look at that bum over there, man
He’s down on his knees
Look at these women
There ain’t nothin’ like em nowhere
I met my aunt at the Vanilla Bake Shop in Santa Monica. Let me just tell you, if you are in the greater LA area and you need a cake – of any kind – go here. Epic. The staff, the cakes and the whole vibe is just perfect. I sat and had a coffee while getting (slightly illegal) text updates from my aunt about how there was absolutely no traffic on the 405. #Winning. When she got there our excitement levels started to rise because my aunt generally increases the excitement level whenever and where ever she might be, and the bakery peeps were getting excited too, (I had told them what we were up to. That earned me a free cupcake. #Winning) The cake weighed a ton, but we managed to heft a couple of bottles of champagne along with it…
Where were we headed you ask? Well, let me tell you.
I Love L.A., Part Three: “Let’s leave Chicago to the Eskimos”
Hate New York City
It’s cold and it’s damp
And all the people dressed like monkeys
Let’s leave Chicago to the Eskimos
That town’s a little bit too rugged
For you and me, babe
The third installment of the LA-Carmageddon Tour de Force is actually more like the third, fourth, sixth and seventh. But that is how things are with A and her family. Full on, and trust me, Carmageddon wouldn’t have anything on these guys.
One time Dr. I (aka Mr. A) told me that he always has the most fun anywhere, no matter who is there and what is going on: He always has the most fun (though he takes the most joy in proclaiming it). I would have to agree. Further, I’d suggest that this is somewhat of a family motto. I am glad to be an honorary member of this family. But, as with all things of mad velocity, force and intensity, there are always a few miscues and timing is always… flexible, especially when they stipulate that it is not. On this sluggishly sunny day, this flexibility simply contributed to the amazing synchronicity of timing that had graced the previous day.
I woke up in Santa Monica in the company of one more of the growing army of amazing women that I am amassing. This person is someone I have known in that strangely familiar way that is engendered by the internet. We met as members of an online writing cohort that I have tried repeatedly to recall how I fell into. I have no idea how I got involved but it certainly was a watershed moment in my life, peripatetic even. Anyhow, meeting Ruth was like walking into my own Technicolor idea of exactly how it should be. It would be hard to explain this kind of connection to people who haven’t had something similar occur… so I won’t. We spent the morning catching up, which is hilarious to do the first time you ever meet someone. And it was lovely.
I had some time to kill enjoy before meeting up with the A-Team, so I parked myself in the sunshine in Century City and had a mojito. Or two.
And then it was off to Hollywood. To The Magic Castle to be precise. To say I was intrigued would be an understatement. I haven’t spent a lot of time in Hollywood since I was a little kid. I used to go down there and see movies at Grauman’s Chinese and shows at the Pantages… Then there was the later phase of discovering clubs and such… but this was something pretty different.
Ok, maybe not that different. Maybe pretty much exactly what you’d expect in this part of Hollywood. When the most junior member of the A-Team and I were walking back to the room from a recon mission to the restaurant above, she looked across Franklin Avenue and said:
“Hey, there’s Superman! And he has cupcakes!”
Well, if that just isn’t exactly what I would assign Superman in the Superhero world of domesticity.
I Love L.A., Part 2: “Looks like another perfect day”
From the West Side to the East Side
Everybody’s very happy
‘Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day…
I remember the first time I saw the ESPY Awards. It was this ridiculous combination of a bunch of shit that I love: pretty people, spectacle, the thrill of victory, sports rivalries, touching stories of perseverance, high-profile hosts, higher profile attendees. It looked like a seriously good time. I also remember telling #4 that I was going to go to that show some day.
I say lots of things like that.
But you know, there is something to be said for manifestation. Or maybe, I just know the right people. Enter D. I’ve known D since we had the pleasure of Ocean View and the Third (now Marshall) College Dormtastic life at UCSD way back in 198X. And, D has one of these sort of amazing jobs that actually has perks. [I suppose sitting here on summer vacation it appears that I have a few professional perks too, but D's perks? They are in another league altogether. Like, another galaxy really.] And the thing about D is that she has a very wide circle of friends who like all sorts of different things. Guess who likes sports?
Yeah. Me.
My 4.5-day Los Angeles-Carmaggedon Tour de Force coincided perfectly with this year’s ESPY Awards at the LA Live Nokia Center. D was unsure if she was going to go… she has lots of events like this on her calendar. But I was totally thrilled for the chance to go and so the decision was made: fun times for me and some good schmooze time for D. Following our perfectly timed meeting in the lot across from the LA Live facility, I got to introduce D to TCH, move my luggage from one car to another, make way to the first red carpet event of my life. I realize these things do not interest a lot of people.
I am not one of those people.
I also understand that this kind of thing could get incredibly tedious and blah, blah, blah.
Also, not one of those people.
We headed into the ESPN Zone where the pre-party was. It was a completely hosted bar and had amazing food. Things were looking good.
I Love L.A., Part 1: “We was born to ride”
Rollin’ down Imperial Highway
With a big nasty redhead at my side
Santa Ana winds blowin’ hot from the north
And we was born to ride…
I was considering going to LA a few weeks back. Then some shit happened. Like the job I thought I was going to have, I did not have. And so, I thought, perhaps a trip to LA was not the most prudent thing I could be doing. I figured maybe I would pass. But, the ticket was going to be pretty cheap. And when I had mentioned it to D she said, “Oh! That is the week of the ESPYs!” And when I told my aunt N, she said, “Oh! That is the week of Char’s 21st!” And when I told A, she said, “Oh! That is the weekend we are going to be there!”
I was a bit conflicted. Then I got a job and bought an airline ticket and ceased the conflict.
The thing with this trip was, I was going to try to a tremendous amount in a very short time, without getting a rental car, and under the impending doom of carmageddon. It meant that I was going to have to ask some people for some favors. Also, I was going to have to be very sneaky about one part of it as I was trying to surprise my cousin at her 21st birthday bash. In a nutshell, I would land at LAX at which point I would have to get transformed on the fly into evening attire and be downtown by 4 p.m., find a way to get to Santa Monica where I would be staying that night, make my way to Hollywood where I would be meeting people the next day, back to Santa Monica to rendezvous with my super-sneaky Malibu connection for the next day, be back to Hollywood for brunch the next day, and then get back to LAX to catch a morning flight on Sunday, kind of early. Kind of like this:
Oh, and I was going to have luggage.
I hate the Buffalo Exchange. Like, totally.
This is a public service announcement.
With guitar!
Know your rights – all three of them.
I live upstairs from a Buffalo Exchange. This has turned out to be the only shitty thing about my living situation for the last year, and I realize that all things considered, it is not that shitty. But I really, really, hate the Buffalo Exchange. I have no idea how a group of people who work at a thrift store, no… actually thrift store aside, I have no idea how a group of people in general could possibly be so up their own asses. Like, how do they even manage to maneuver through the rest of the world on a day-to-day basis?
When I first moved here, I didn’t give this establishment a whole lot of thought. Rabid infestation of hipsters aside, it was just another trite thrift store. And in fairness, I live in what could easily be called the West Coast center of the hispterpocalypse anyhow. [I only assume there are more of them in Brooklyn because it just seems like there would be based on the apparent genetics of Brooklynites who just look like hipsters no matter how they dress, talk, bike or choose bad beer.] Further, I think that the idea of reusing clothes is good on many levels of economics, the environment and general good karma.
But the Buffalo Exchange is different.
(more…)
Small things.
11:00 a.m.
18th Street, The Mission, San Francisco, California
When I walked back by an hour later, all the I love you, toos were gone.
The rest of my walk home I imagined what people might be doing with the little slips of paper.
- Bookmark? (I had just bought a book.)
- Writing down a phone number? Address? (A potential mixed message.)
- Putting it in a scrapbook? (Someone’s SF memento?)
- Burning it in angry effigy? (I hear people do this.)
- Practicing saying the words? (Sometimes this can be hard. I practice on my cat.)
- Holding it up to a window to see who noticed? (Very art school.)
- Putting it in an old-fashioned letter? (But, email…)
- Dropping it on the ground one block later? (The moment passed.)
- Forgetting it on the table with the shopping? (It is small.)
- Inadvertently placing it in someone else’s bag. (Then they would wonder.)
I don’t suppose it matters really. The harder part is saying it first.
And that was still there.
Amanda
