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.
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.
It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year…
I am a huge advocate for all sorts of birthday celebrations. I see nothing strange or unusual in using the entire month of one’s cumpleaños for a series of fabulousness of any scale. A barbecue? A boat party? Brunch? A night on the town? A spa day? Happy hour(s)? A dinner party? A toga party? An all-night fetish themed dance party?
Yes, please.
And to this end I have quite a history of birthday shenanigans. However, for the past two years, I have found myself spending my actual birthday working a twelve-hour day encompassing a full day of teaching and the always popular, Back-to-School night.
Seriously.
It is a tradition at this time of the year. Along with a variety of other things that I really like, the change in the weather, the Autumnal Equinox, a new year for those of us on the academic calendar. That I have been at school since 7:15 a.m. this morning has been totally ameliorated by the following things:
- Birthday greetings that began in Australia (Hey Lou!) and finished in Hawaii (Leone!) and encompassed friends in more than six countries, a dozen states.
- A series of voice mails that started with mom (of course!) and ended with Max and Sammy W. (Ooh La La! Cha Cha Cha!!)
- A Back to School night that exceeded my expectations (everyone wanted to talk about my shoes!)
- And a really big birthday card….
Dinner.
I think it is a sad reflection on our civilization that while we can and do measure the temperature in the atmosphere of Venus we do not know what goes on inside our soufflés—Nicholas Kurti
The word alinea is a synonym for pilcrow. In more common usage the pilcrow is the ‘paragraph’ mark. [Though as fewer and fewer people actually write with complete words, let alone sentences or paragraphs this may not be quite as common knowledge as it may have once been.] We rarely use the word anyhow, relying predominantly on the symbol: ¶. The Latin translation (a linea) is ‘off the line’. It is this definition that best suits the subsequent use of alinea in this post.
Off the line.
Atypical.
So far from the norm an entire new vocabulary is required for deriving meaning.
This is what the restaurant Alinea in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood was for me.
When A told me she wanted to have dinner at Alinea while we were in Chicago I was amenable to this. I am amenable to dining in general. When she told me that it would be expensive, I was curious what kind of expense might merit forewarning, but I carried on. When she told me that we had to get reservations months ahead, I was definitely curious (it turns out you can only book one month out and when A called within an hour of the allowable time we got a table for 9:00 p.m. on a Wednesday.)
“Molecular gastronomy seeks to investigate and explain the chemical reasons behind the transformation of ingredients, as well as the social, artistic and technical components of culinary and gastronomic phenomena in general.”
I think I am a somewhat sophisticated human being. I think I have seen lots of crazy shit and done an equal amount of it. I tend to be characterized by curiosity rather than shock. But I was totally unprepared for what would serve as my introduction to ‘molecular gastronomy.’ Not in a bad way, but this was an experience so completely beyond my ken that it simply defied explanation – as I imagine the chefs behind molecular gastronomy would hope for, it is an experience that you are never really going to comprehend without full participation.
Molecular gastronomy is the joining of (I will not say marriage, as I think there may occasionally be grounds for divorce) molecular science, both chemical and physical, with cooking, but actually the founders would not say cooking, they would say gastronomy. Hervé This (excellent article by This here), who along with Nicholas Kurti, is considered the originator of molecular gastronomy distinguishes cooking and gastronomy this way: “the first is the preparation of food, whereas the latter is the knowledge of whatever concerns man’s nourishment. In essence, this does not concern food fashions or how to prepare luxury food—such as tournedos Rossini, canard à l’orange or lobster orientale—but rather an understanding of food.” This was the first recipient of a PhD in molecular gastronomy, awarded at the University of Paris in 1996 (Now many universities are offering courses in ‘culinology’ – does that even seem like it should be a word? Here is a publication from Southwest Minnesota State University as an example and a nice layman’s overview of this entire movement.) As part of his dissertation, This identified what he believed the five goals of his discipline to be:
- to collect and investigate old wives’ tales about cooking
- to model and scrutinize existing recipes
- to introduce new tools, products and methods to cooking
- to invent new dishes using knowledge from the previous three aims
- to use the appeal of food to promote science
There are a handful of restaurants in the world that have made this new methodology of considering and conceptualizing food and taken it to the highest level – at least according to Michelin. There is a very small group of chefs who come up again and again in this field, Ferran Adrià of El Bulli outside of Barcelona (now closed), Adrià’s protegé, José Andrés (credited, according to some, for bringing the small plates concept to the United States), Thomas Keller from our local French Laundry, and Grant Achatz, the man of Alinea (and a Keller protegé).
Alinea has received a slew of awards, including the highest Michelin rating (three stars, described as “exceptional cuisine and worth the journey”.) It is currently ranked the #6 restaurant in the world.
Pretty good for a restaurant where all the food is basically based on a dare, scientifically speaking.
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.
Kitty in the City.
Toto, I don't think we're on Lamma anymore. Just sayin'.
18th Street Art: Koi
Art is everywhere. I love that about the world.
It is all in the way you look at things.
I have been missing the koi pond in my old village recently.
And then, today I saw these koi on 18th Street between Mission and South Van Ness.
No matter where you go…
…there you are.
SFMoMA, just a little taste.
City living has advantages. There are, of course, some disadvantages, like that my neighbors almost got me to hate on Jerry Garcia the other day after 22 straight hours of the same bootleg tape on repeat so loud that when I knocked on the door to ask them to turn it off they could not hear me… though I did get a nice contact high from standing there. And Matilda still hates it here. But other than that I would have a hard time identifying negatives to living in the City by the Bay. There is every kind of fantastic food any time I want it. There are too many things to do. Too many people to meet. Too many places to go. And it is all right there.
Like SFMoMA.
If you don’t go, you should go. Here are a couple of reasons why. (more…)
The Saturday Experience.
I work on Saturdays. Except for the part about not being able to do other things, I really don’t mind this. I arrive at my office anywhere between 9:00 am and 9:45 am. I begin teaching at 10:00 am. I do not stop until 6:00 pm. I teach Creative Writing to 9th graders from 10:00-11:30. I teach Creative Writing to 7th graders from 11:30-1:00. I have a private Literature tutorial from 1:00-2:00. I teach Creative Writing to 10th graders from 2:00-3:30 (this is one of my favorite classes, ironically not featured here because we forgot to take pictures. I will add photos when I see them next in two weeks.) I have another private tutorial (covering several subjects) from 3:30-4:30. I teach IB A1 SL Literature from 4:30-6:00. Then I go home. This is a little bit of what it looks like:
Sampan in the sunshine all the way home.
I do not often take sampans in the light of day. I should probably preface this with a definition of sampan. Basically, in order for me to get home I have to take a boat, and the ferry that goes to the village where I live on Lamma Island stops running before I finish working (there is another option that goes to Yung Shue Wan that runs later, I just have a 20 minute walk to my place if I take that one and so I often take sampans at night.) They are also the only way for the late night revelers to get back to Lamma and so it is generally considered a nocturnal event. The ferry costs me HK$17.50 to my place and HK$14.50 to Yung Shue Wan. I pay HK$100 on the high side down to HK$20 to take a sampan directly home, depending on how many of us there are. There are usually several.
But today after yoga I went to the grocery store and decided I did not want to wait for the ferry back to my place so I took a sunny sampan. What this entails is finding an available boat and driver. It is basically like a taxi on the water… only cheaper than taxis most places. I take a bus or a taxi from Causeway Bay and get out at the Aberdeen Praya Road. Then I go find my sampan people. By now they know me and so I no longer have to deal with negotiating prices and shit, it is just a done deal.
So, you jump in and then 25 minutes later you are home. In your own little island village. Or you can wait an hour for the slow, loud, crowded (on weekends) ferry. Sampan, FTW.
One of my guys.
And in the “Job-You-Wish-You-Had” Category:
So, today there is a giant Ham Sandwich and a giant Orange wandering around on the street outside my office. I might think this peculiar were I not so accustomed to the large anthropomorphized food stuffs trolling the streets of Causeway Bay.
Last year it was the giant Corn on the Cob outside Exit F of Causeway Bay Station. And the giant T-Bone Steak near Sogo and Windsor House.
The Sandwich and the Orange are offering some deal in honor of the Hong Kong Rugby Sevens, which hit town tomorrow and will effectively negate any possibility of navigating the streets of Causeway Bay, Wan Chai and Central Hong Kong.
So, if you though your job sucked, consider this:
Truly Absurd Shit.
Well, I was going to focus on funny absurd shit here… like the sign from the store called “SMEG” or the condom ads featuring the black stallion – the “horse” condoms [I may still share those.]
But today’s super truly absurd shit is the pollution in Hong Kong. Hong Kong means “fragrant harbor” – and oh man, imagine. Splendiferous.
Take a look at this shit – and just be glad you don’t have to breathe it… I already took care of that for you.
Taken from the 8:00 ferry from Yung Shue Wan to Central, 17 March 2009
Working on Saturdays; I am not alone. But it still sucks.
Every Saturday I get up and go to work. For eight hours. Don’t be jealous.
Here is how I get there:
So, it starts here, coffee in hand, contemplating departure.
This is what I see when I look up as I walk down the path from my house...
First I get on this ferry - for 10 minutes.
Then I get on this ferry, for 25 minutes.
Sometimes it’s the journey not the destination.
There are no taxis where I live.
There are no escalators.
There are no buses, trains, planes or automobiles.
Because of this I walk home.
A lot.
This is what my walk looks like through the eyes of my iPhone.
Sometimes I start here. This is Lamma parking on the main pier.
A lot of the walk looks like this.
I see a lot of this. It is China after all.
I like to pause when I pass by here... most of the time.
These rustle. Could be snakes, I guess.
From here it is all down hill. Only literally.
When I see this I know I am getting close.
All in all, we're just...
Then I end up here. So the destination is pretty alright.
I have a lot more photos of this walk that are actually substantially better. [But I liked the consistency of using only iPhone photos, and the iPhone camera is mediocre at best. (Not that I care because it is the coolest gadget I have ever had... and does lomo.)] I think it is about a mile and a half. It is much quicker to go from my house to the village because it is more downhill, but it’s not so bad coming back these days because the weather hasn’t crushed us yet. I did walk home through one of the typhoons last summer… that was pretty mad.
Anyhow, this is a moment or 15 in a day in the life of me on Lamma.
That is all.
Amanda
