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….
Broken.
Going to leave this brokedown palace,
On my hands and knees, I will roll, roll, roll.
I went to see a friend tonight that I had not seen in years. We were thinking that it had probably been Pre-Y2K the last time we actually shared space. We sort of knew what to expect in that strange “I’ve seen you the Facebook” way, but still it had been ages. I had a few reservations about going – mostly I was feeling tired and not totally into going to a show, but it felt like I had been cancelling and cancelling and it would be nice to catch up. Still, there was something just sitting there right outside my conscience niggling me, causing me to feel uncomfortable enough to be conscious. I was a little late, but so was he, and then there was the standard cock-up at the door, as is often the case at local shows. Once inside, my anxiety completely dissipated as I was immediately swept up into the familiarity of the Auditorium. My response to live music and the accompanying scene is visceral and inescapable; it is in my DNA. And it is so easy to overlook so many things when you are suddenly the one who can sit anywhere, go anywhere, do anything, because you are with the right people.
But this night I wanted to talk to my friend. I wanted to ask him so many questions. What he had been doing. How he was. Who he had seen. Share our collective conscience. But he was in show mode. After a lifetime of always being that right person who got so many perks for so many of his ‘friends’ it is painfully evident that this has become his entire social currency. It made me sad. It made me want to just be one of those regular people talking in the crowd, milling, wondering what is behind the black curtain and up the private stairs. But it was not to be.
My friend is still my friend. He will always be. But he is broken. And that is heartbreaking. No matter how hard I tried, the disconnect, bordering on dissociation was just so hard to be around. I watched how people regarded him and saw how they sized him up weighing opportunity and cost – a simple economic equation for them, discounting the person underneath. Whenever things got too touchy everyone would fall back on the old times, old names, old faces, old places. There would be a moment of comfort and then everyone would move on. I watched my friend not really move on. Such a life he has had – so amazing in so many ways but still so lonely and sad in others.
After everyone gets what they want, who will take care of him? Looking around at the beautiful venue I could hear Jerry and his words took on a whole new tone.
It’s a far gone lullaby, sung many years ago…
Mama, mama, many worlds I’ve come since I first left home…
I looked at my friend and realized that he did not really want to talk and catch up. He wanted to fall into the familiar old roles, he the connection, me the groupie, and let’s get it on. We had come into the evening from such entirely different experiential universes and with such different objectives, I realized that we would never – at least tonight – be on the same page. And so I had to go.
All the birds that were singing are flown, except you alone….
Fare you well, my friend.
xo
Seriously, Federal Reserve? Please, grow a pair. Bill Murray would.
I have just scheduled a field trip to the Fed in San Francisco for my 60 seniors as part of their economics curriculum. This is a pretty cool trip, and I anticipated it to be especially interesting in these current socio-economic circumstances.
As I was on the phone with the Fed yesterday I had several of the students who would be a part of the trip in my classroom. They were certainly curious about the trip and are generally enthusiastic about field trips, as you might imagine.
“And, um, just so you are aware, the vault is currently closed to tours as a result of all the protests.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, because of the Occupy groups or whoever, the vault is not open for tours.”
“We cannot tour the vault?”
“That is correct.”
["What the fuck? We can't get in the vault?!?! That is so lame!!"]
“Excuse me for a minute. — gentlemen, do you think that you could control at least your language while I am on the phone? — Okay, so if we cannot tour the vault, then what will we see on this tour?”
“Well, the rest of the tour still happens.”
“Yes, but the vault is what the kids want to see.”
“Well, I am sorry, we are simply not doing that right now because of all those protestors.”
Huh.
All those protestors.
I took this news mostly in stride, thankful really for a minute to have been able to find a day that we could actually go, what with all the schedule constraints that come with seniors in May. Then I went home and told the Cowboy the story.
“What? Are you kidding me? That is so unacceptable! That is a federal building, people have the right to be there!”
“I know, I guess they are worried…”
“About what? Unruly students? Are you kidding me??”
Huh.
Later we went for a walk downtown and conveniently passed by the Fed at 105 Market Street, still currently all cordoned off from… from the unruly public, I guess? There were three Occupy activists nearby standing politely at a makeshift table disseminating literature and flyers to anyone who stopped to ask them for it. They were quiet and unobtrusive. As we looked into the lobby of the Fed the security was as subtle as an unmarked police car on Oakland’s International Avenue. It seemed incongruous juxtaposed against “all those protestors”.
Huh.
When I came to school this morning and told my partner about the field trip and the issue with the vault he became animated with amused, but righteous, indignation.
“Are you kidding me?” I sensed a trend.
“Well, they said maybe by May it would be open again…”
“Um, May Day? Do you have any idea how many Occupy events are probably planned for that day?”
“Oh. Yeah. You are probably right.” I considered. But he was back to the vault…
“That is ridiculous! They have a such gall to say that the vault is closed! That is the whole point of the trip….”
And he trailed off about the inconsistency of banks still gouging him with unavoidable fees while he was not even allowed to visit them.
Huh.
I felt remiss in my original lack of righteous indignation. But when I need to, I can definitely cultivate a nice rage. And the more I thought about the Fed’s decision to close the vault the more ridiculous it became. And also the less original. How banal to take it out on the least criminal element in society as a defensive response to being called on the carpet for your own bad behavior: “See what you terrible protestors are doing? You are ruining it for the kids!”
Um… no, actually, don’t YOU see big Federal Reserve Bank? YOU are ruining it. For everyone. You could have taken action a million different ways, and the petty action you choose to take is to shut down access to your institution to students of economics?
Brother, please. I don’t want your coins…
I am not broody. But I do like to rock.
When I heard about this show at first I was feeling sort of tepid. I mean, I love a good Victims Family show, and Jello Biafra is certainly worth the price of admission (or, what I thought would be the price of admission…) but when I got the details, that there would be kids, lots of kids, and parents, some alarms went off in my just-on-vacation-from-school state of mind.
But, I rallied and headed over with Curtis. I haven’t been to the Rickshaw Stop in ages, though I walk by it often. The price of admission was shocking – it’s for the kids - they said. I felt like telling them my freaking life is for the kids. Curtis must have read the look on my face because he paid. And as had been predicted, the place was full of kids. And parents.
At least there was a bar.
I got a beer and looked at the program for the evening. It was basically a ‘recital’ of sorts. But without even giving it much thought it was way cooler than any recital I had ever been involved with. I met the director, a friend of friends and he gave me some info on the school where Larry and Ralph from Victims Family teach. It is legitimately a school of rock. Huh. Kind of a cool concept, I had to admit. I walked further in to see the band taking the stage.
Are you kidding me? These kids were rocking to Dick Dale and this little 10-year-old was holding down the bass line. No. Shit. I looked out at the parents. And they were having a damn good time.
But the kids were having more fun.
I looked around and thought, now this would be fun as a parent. Wait – wha…. What did I just say? I shook my head. I am not broody. No, I did not just think that. Then two little rock and roll steampunk kids who were no more than 4’6″ walked by.
Okay, but I would be so down to dress my kids that way – AC/DC shirt and all.
What.The.Hell.?
I am not broody!
The San Francisco Rock Project is a private music center that strives to teach kids how to rock – and not just the music, though that is a big part of it (I saw a twelve-year-old play Les Claypool’s bass line in the ‘House Band’ (the SFRP’s top performers) cover of Jerry was a racecar driver - and he KILLED it) but they are teaching them all about the attitude of rock and roll. And I do not mean the douchey lameness that gets stereotypically thrown on to rockers (sometimes deservedly so, sometimes not…) but I mean the confidence and the power – especially for the girls – the rock and roll puts out there. It was super cool.
I talked to the director about getting some of my students volunteering over there – they need volunteers and my kids need professional arts experience for their internships, seems like a win-win. The Mythbusters dude was the emcee. (I really wanted to ask about the whole cannonball fiasco. But I didn’t.) Instead, we rocked. Sabbath. Queen. Nirvana. Primus. Even some original material and some indie girl rock. Pretty sweet.
And then came Victims Family and Jello Biafra. Rad.
So for those about to rock, and those making it happen, we salute you.
And for the record, I woke up this morning knowing I’d seen a cool show and totally pleased to only be dealing with cat angst.
Like I said…
I am not broody.
Newsbriefs….
A day (or so) in the life of… well, me.
I came across a funny Twitter post the other day from a favorite blogger of mine.
And I just had to laugh. Yep. Pretty much.
Last Thursday was The Great Shake Out in California. This was a statewide earthquake preparedness initiative that all public offices, institutions, etcetera… were supposed to participate in. This included drills, training, disaster kit making, etcetera… I had seen the fliers around and was a bit surprised that we were not having a drill at school – but no bother, we have had so many false alarms this year, who needs another?
So, I sat on the table in front of my 6th period Government class looking out at them as we discussed the differences of being a good leader and a good politician. Everyone seemed to have a lot to say on the matter. And then… we heard something unfamiliar and I looked out across the faces of these high school seniors and immediately realized that I may be better suited to be a politician that an actual leader. I was watching them as they were watching me and I have to agree with Miguel that it is a shame we were not filming because really, the only thing missing was a copy of My Pet Goat in my hands. That is how ridiculous I was.
Leave it to the heart of the California public education system – Berkeley – to provide the best hands on Shake Out possible. No hypotheticals here, we were shaking, pretty much on the epicenter of a 4.3 quake. Winning.
There was another one when I got home. It turns out that Max does not care for earthquakes. Poor little guy. Matil kept right on eating.
Last Saturday was the first night of the 25th Annual Bridge School Benefit Concert. I am thrilled to say I got to go with three amazing women I have known since my days at UCSD. The show was awesome and continued my run of excellent live music since my return to America, one of the true bonuses, I must say. Highlights of the show included:
- Beck being a family guy
- Meeting the hot guy who sang for Santana
- Eddie Vedder and his ukulele
- Mumford and Sons playing songs I could distinguish (unlike Coachella)
- Dave Matthews making my girls all excited (#48 D? I am impressed.)
- Arcade Fire… loud and in charge
- Neil with them all
It was another great night – thank you D! And seriously, one of the best addictions I have – live music and cool people.
We are finishing up the first quarter at school this week. With a big old bang, I might add… We are right in the middle of Spirit Week. Apparently coinciding nicely with Halloween as everyone tells me I should be very afraid of the impending events. The scariest thing to me is that the decade of my high school glory days has become a dress up day. I completely empathize with how my mom felt back in the 80s when we were having 1960s/hippie day. Sheesh. Talk about recalling the worst a decade has to offer. I also now realize that the whole Foxxy Brown thing was way more 70s that 60s and tie-day is a pretty narrow view of your entire youth, mom. Sorry.
The Occupy Movement is carrying on, and I have to say, in it’s perseverance I think it gains strength. I am pleased to see people making a real effort to make a difference. Still, when I head towards the Haight for my Sunday yoga class I have to say, you little aggressive vagrants are not helping. Running up into people’s faces and yelling “Occupy!” as if you are trying to channel Heath Ledger’s performance as the Joker is not only counterproductive, it is unoriginal. If you cannot tell me explicitly why you are protesting, STFU: this is not some stupid excuse to justify your suspect habits. This is real. Let it be real.
Make it real.
Speaking of which, let us not forget the long overdue shout out to my New Zealand All Blacks on their run through the Rugby World Cup culminating with a victory over France on the 23rd…
And that is all the news that is fit to print.
For now.
Clichés: from tartare to true love and points in between with piña coladas and getting caught in the rain
I had a really excellent dinner at one of my favorite restaurants last night. I go to Garçon a lot because it is super close and the food is really good – especially the soups that Arthur makes. [Also the staff is really, really, good-looking. Good looking French guys, what a cliché.]
I have been giving Arthur a bad time about taking his tuna tartare off the menu because it was one of the most yummy things ever. It’s sort of a joke because there is plenty of other great stuff on the menu, but it has become kind of a running commentary at this point. Last night he said that he hasn’t felt like putting it back on the menu because it is such a cliché.
Huh.
I told him that lots of things become cliché for a good reason. He chuckled. But then he walked away.
Interestingly, I have been thinking about clichés a lot lately. [Though, if it were really a cliché, I suppose logic would dictate that it is not that interesting. But, nevermind.] The point is I have been considering the clichéd nature of so many elements of my life.
I want to be a writer/photographer/traveler. *yawn*
I am a single woman who teaches high school and has cats. *yawn*
I am an only child with entitlement and perfectionism issues. *yawn*
I routinely make predictably bad decisions regarding relationships. *yawn*
*yawn*yawn*yawn*yawn*
I came up with the latest version of my unwritten bestseller this week. It was like an AK-47 packed with all things trite: I visualized it looking like some sort of Palahniuk-styled paperback (think Diary), self-deprecating and humorous account of the foibles and follies of my life (hello Sedaris and Fielding), with braggadocio thinly veiled as “experience” (consider every travel author you have ever read, but Bryson and Gilbert in particular.) I wanted to call it Cliché. For real. I thought how each chapter could start like:
“You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” I imagined this chapter being an ode to my long-lost tuna tartare.
Another chapter could begin:
“They say when you are in love you want to shout it from the mountaintops” and then go into some sort of humiliating anecdote about how that cliché has played out in my life. [No yelling from mountain tops, I can assure you. Not that the clichéd nature of the concept has deterred me from wanting it.]
And perhaps:
“Those who do not study history are bound to repeat it.” The myriad levels of cliché that line offers me is astounding.
There would have to be a chapter simply called “Crème brûlée” or “Tiramisù”. I think “Happy Hour” or “So, I got a tattoo” could certainly merit individual chapters. Along with “Cat Ladies”, “Burning Man”, “Yoga is my mantra”, “I know a guy”, “The Grateful Dead” [any genre of music really... I remember trying so hard to not be cliché in my music choices back in high school that I actually bought Hüsker Dü albums. Hüsker Dü was never cliché. You know why? They were not very good.]
There is a reason that things become cliché. They have some sort of merit. At least initially… and maybe that is good enough.
True love is a cliché. Does that make it lame? And crème brûlée and tiramisù are fucking delicious. Deal with it. Cats are legitimately good company. No one is going to think it sucks to have someone tell them they are better than a summer’s day. And you know every word to the goddamned Piña Colada song – although you may not know it is called Escape - and even while you hate it, you don’t turn it down. Because what comes around goes around and you can’t pass the buck forever and you probably pierced something one time that you pretend you never did and no matter how cynical the times dictate we must be, you’re still hopeful that practice makes perfect, even though you know nobody is…
You like Piña Coladas.
And getting caught in the rain.
Don’t worry. I won’t tell.
photo: Signs in chalk. October 9, 2011. 18th Street near Sanchez.
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.
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…)
Round and Around we Rebound: I’m piloting the relationship Swiffer
Throughout my basketball career, my most dominant stats were always rebounding. I had some games where I totally controlled the boards on both sides of the floor. My record for rebounding stood for ten years or so after I graduated. My coach accused me, on more than one occasion, of padding my offensive rebound stats by being such a crap offensive threat on the put back. I can’t tell you if it was intentional but I can certainly tell you I knew how to rebound. This is one of the reasons I always liked Charles Barkley. Anyone who knows anything about basketball knows, the man dominated the boards when he was so inclined. In addition to his general hilarity, bordering on total ridiculousness, and real likelihood to say absolutely anything ["These are my new shoes. They're good shoes. They won't make you rich like me, they won't make you rebound like me, they definitely won't make you handsome like me. They'll only make you have shoes like me. That's it."] Charles always sent the ball home.
I don’t care what people think. people are stupid.
~ Charles Barkley, “The Round Mound of Rebound”
Not that I want to be the Round Mound of anything, but it turns out that rebounding continues to be a particular area of my expertise.
Who knew?
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.
A New Situation.
Whenever people ask me about living in Hong Kong they are always curious about the cost of living (well, whenever people my age ask anyhow… there is quite a wide range of questions from the less chronologically proximal demographics). The thing about Hong Kong for me was that it actually was not that expensive. Let me clarify: the necessary costs of living were not that expensive (anyone who knows me is familiar with my tenuous and ambiguous relationship with the need v. want conundrum).
I chose to live in a kind of unusual place, which was not super popular with Package Ex-Pats and true Hong Kongers. Lamma was too far away, they said. The gweilo ghetto, they said. Among other far more odious comments. But it all kept the cost down. I found a great place to live, surrounded be people who stayed removed from the Peyton Place style drama of the main ex-pat hub in Yung Shue Wan. I busied myself with off island activities. By off-island activities I must admit I mean work, at least for the majority of the time I as in Asia. So, I used my home – all 750 square feet of it (with three – yes THREE – bedrooms) – as my place of rest and respite. Unless I was hosting a party, which was known to happen fairly regularly.
So that was the equation. I had a fairly inexpensive living situation (about US$800/month), which was compounded by transportation costs (a boat was required to get off the island) that ended up being about US$300/mo. I pay upwards of US$1500 in San Francisco for about 500 square feet and comparable transportation costs (not matched by service at all, thank you very much Bart.) I spent about US$1100 on the most basic costs there and here it is about US$1800. Another important variable in this equation however, concerns salaries and additional costs of living.
In terms of absolute values, there is not a huge difference here. Though, I would say it is significant and there are other little things here, like banking fees are stupid (I am talking to YOU Wells Fargo), I pay a fee for Netflix (possibly worth it, though I think more expensive than just buying my pirated discs over there), vet care is more expensive, and there are a few other miscellaneous costs I foot here that I did not there. However, behold the chart below.
I thought of Bukowski tonight.
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery–isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.
~ Bukowski
[mural detail from Capp Street, near 24th]
Kitty in the City.
Toto, I don't think we're on Lamma anymore. Just sayin'.
What not to do on a date. If you want another date, anyhow.
Alright, let’s face it, I am hardly any expert on this, and I appreciate that dating is hard. And frustrating. And often awkward. Even downright tedious. This is probably why I don’t really date and therefore lack expertise on the subject. [Hey you in the back, I hear you talking about how my choices for dates are at the root of the problem. Not that I am denying it... but, SHH.] But, even when I talk to my friends who really do date, like really make the effort to get out there and focus, focus, focus…. I hear the complaints.
Anyhow, for what it’s worth here are a few things I would say you should categorically NOT do on a date.
State of Emergency: Have you heard it all before?
This week was the “week of action” organized by the California Teachers’ Association, which included a series of demonstrations, protests and rallies. While in some ways I find this kind of grass-roots action inspiring and invigorating, I found myself feeling frustrated as a San Francisco resident who teaches in an East Bay community that is basically a satellite of the Cal community. It was the definitive “preaching to the choir” conundrum. The people who are willing to hear about the current crisis in education already support education in every way that they can. It is very frustrating.
The situation is pretty simple. As a nation, we have a compulsory education requirement, and as such, we promise to provide a free public education to our people (I am not using the term ‘citizen’ here intentionally, though the D.R.E.A.M. Act is a topic for another discussion altogether.) The idea of public education goes way back. Way, way, WAY back. Thomas Jefferson was the first leader to propose a universal public education system in the late 18th Century. In spite of the fact that the state of Texas has voted to remove Jefferson from their curriculum (would that I had not already expounded so prolifically on irony!) most of America seems to think Ole T.J. is worth considering at least to some degree. If you, like Texas, have found him to be a little too “Out there” for your more modern sensibilities, do consider that a few others who vouched for public education around the same time were Benjamin Rush, Noah Webster, Robert Coram and George Washington. They can’t all suck.
Once the United States began trying to stand tall on its own feet, it seems that education did become somewhat of a priority and the elitist approach of the traditional European approach was counter to the whole “Democracy” gig they were trying to pull off out here.
And then, we were off and running.
Through the eyes of another…
Lately I have been immersed in discussions about how the views of others help to inform us of our own perspectives and understandings of people, places and things. My freshman are reading Catcher in the Rye and my seniors, Heart of Darkness, and in both the images and understandings we glean or create about the characters come from the reflections of said characters in the eyes of others.
What an interesting vantage point: through the eyes of others.
Frenchie spent last week with me in San Francisco and it is certainly no secret that while we have far less in common than we share, we still manage to get along quite well. I think this is because we appreciate seeing things through the others eyes. [Admitedly sometimes when I do this I feel like I am wearing the drunk goggles from Driver's Ed simply because her view seems so distorted - but it is not. It is just different and has always been interesting.] I am not sure she is always aware of my appreciation, but it is there none the less.
Looking through Frenchie’s photos and seeing how she saw the City I call home was fascinating. It looked so same-same-but-different. It was fabulous. Illuminating. And a terrific reminder of how it is through these myriad perspectives that true vision can be achieved.
My foray into the San Francisco International Film Festival (or, I met Ewan McGregor and that is all that really matters.)
Last night the SF International Film Festival opened with a screening of Beginners at the historic Castro Theater and an after party at the Terra Gallery. And I got to meet Ewan McGregor. The End.
Not really. But sort of. I have never attended the SFIFF before and was fortunate to be invited by a dear friend as a VIP, which as you know, always makes me smile. Knowing that Mr. McGregor was going to be there was pretty much the icing on my silly-girl cake though. On top of this I was feeling like quite the hostess; pretty nice to be able to bring your French friend from Hong Kong to the “International” Film Festival.
Frenchie and I arrived after a lovely happy hour at Beretta and found our friends in the balcony. I love these old theaters and the Castro always reminds me of the glory days of the movies, a delicious time in our entertainment history. Though there is not enough leg room for people of my size.
The festival opened with remarks from the organizers and the director Mike Mills. Ewan was supposed to be there. He was not there. Something about a plane and a fuel leak and Paris. Then the movie began. It is a really wonderful movie and a very moving story. I cried. A lot. Loved it.
Following the film was a Q&A session and I was starting to feel like a pro at these because earlier in the day I had taken my senior AP Literature class to the A.C.T. to see a production of Jean Paul Sartre’s No Exit, after which we had Q&A. Frenchie came too, how many of you can say that you get to be a high school chaperone on your vacation, huh? [The production was incredibly interesting - highly recommended.] Still, Mr. McGregor was not there, but then in similar fashion to the new arrivals condemned to l’hotel Hell in Sartre’s work, he came sprinting down the aisle. Oh. My. God.
There he was.
The answers were much more entertaining than the questions, but I was thinking about the after party – and getting up close and personal with Ewan.
We got to Terra Gallery in perfect time, one slight glitch as I was unaware that Frenchie does not carry i.d. with her (the freedom of foreign life), but a quick reminder that we were not the droids they were looking for and we were in. The gallery space is huge and there were several bars, music set-ups and lots of people. And amazing food. Seriously awesome. And all free. –> Smiles. But… where was Ewan?
In and up to the VIP lounge and I was getting a cocktail. Walking back from the bar I see Frenchie gesticulating wildly. I rarely know what she means because Frenchie and I speak a different body language as well as about every other kind of language. [Hey, opposites and all, right?] but she was being vehement. When I got to here she said, “You and your eyes!”
“Huh?”
“You cannot see anything! You walked right by Ewan McGregor! He was right in front of you!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Shit!”
“Oui!”
“Hold my drink!”
“Okay!”
And I went back. (more…)
I am a sports fan, I am.
I believe in the Church of Baseball. I’ve tried all the major religions, and most of the minor ones. I’ve worshipped Buddha, Allah, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, trees, mushrooms, and Isadora Duncan. I know things. For instance, there are 108 beads in a Catholic rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball. When I heard that, I gave Jesus a chance. But it just didn’t work out between us. The Lord laid too much guilt on me. I prefer metaphysics to theology. You see, there’s no guilt in baseball, and it’s never boring… which makes it like sex. …Course, what I give them lasts a lifetime; what they give me lasts 142 games. Sometimes it seems like a bad trade. But bad trades are part of baseball – now who can forget Frank Robinson for Milt Pappas, for God’s sake? It’s a long season and you gotta trust. I’ve tried ‘em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball. ~Annie Savoy (Bull Durham)
I have been a sports fan for always. Mostly this is the doing of my family’s early influence. And all those sunny days at the Coliseum watching the A’s, not to mention all those brutal days out at the ‘Stick watching Jack Clark and his boys in black and orange. (It is so curious that my two best childhood friends both went to the Dark Side and I kept my heart in Oakland… but those girls are true fans and I love them for it.) The Dodgers and the Angels on at my various grandparents homes all summer, and lots of games down that way too. Let’s not forget the O-O-O-O-lympics… first the obsession with Nadia in 1976, then the disappointment of 1980 and then – there we were, there we were, there we were… IN LA. The gymnasts. The Dream Team. Carl Lewis. Edwin Moses. Jackie Joyner-Kersee. FloJo. E.P.I.C. And we were there. In addition to this there was the football fascination that I never succumbed to (yawn) until I dated a Duck – when I got all quacky. There was a college influence when I fell for the sunshiney mustard and mud Padres and the couldn’t-give-the-tickets-away- Chargers. And then there was the basketball. All the basketball: the Lakers, the Warriors, the PACERS (I love you Reg, and so glad Mullin is getting his nod at the Hall), college ball, playing ball.
I have watched sports. I have played sports. I have coached sports.
I am a fan.
I have cried over games I have been in. I have cried over games I have watched. On TV.
I am a fan.
Amanda
