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….
Of baseball and a couple other things I have loved, and not.
The world is made for people who aren’t cursed with self awareness.
I love sports. For real, I do. People who know me, know this already. [I am not one of these girls.] I love the thrill of competition, I am competitive – in things I should be, as well as those I should not – I use friendly competition in my classroom – sometimes between the kids and me, sometimes among them alone – even though I have been told that “the classroom is no place for competition”. And for so many of these reasons, I have always liked sports. I am a quick study and can learn the nuances of games quickly, and as such I am able to quickly deduce if I like a sport or not, as a spectator or a participant. Basketball, I love, clearly. Tennis I can get into. Golf can be thrilling – no lie. The end of a classic track meet with the 4×400 meter relay is incomparable. Rugby is fantastic. Cricket, more humorous to my American mind. Soccer? Yeah, I can appreciate it, especially as I learned all the parallels between the international futbol and basketball. Hockey? Can’t get into it. NFL? Oh man, I have tried to like it, but alas, only the college game will work for me. Volleyball? Surfing? Awesome. Cycling? I am getting it.
And baseball? I love it.
I don’t really like playing baseball, but as a spectator, I have aways loved the game. I am a NorCal kid and I grew up watching the A’s at the Coliseum through the amazing 70s and late 80s, and all the times in between. I also spent many a day watching the G-Men out at the Stick, sort of loveable losers, but always so much fun. The memories I have from and of my Bay Area teams are all amazing. I gravitated towards the A’s for many reasons: the DH, the friendly vibe, the sunnier-than-the-Stick Coliseum, the winning tradition, Billy Martin, Eck, Stew, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But many of my closest friends chose the Giants over the A’s. It was never much of a thing, we all had our own teams to cheer on and we had fun. So much fun!
But then something yucky happened. I can’t put my finger on it exactly. All of a sudden, I started hearing really disgusting classcist, and basically racist, criticism of the A’s from Giants fans: they were “ghetto”, they were “thugs”, they were “too poor to matter”, “If I wanted to hang around [add your own undesirable] I would go to an A’s game”, and all sorts of other ad hom attacks that had little to do with anything at all baseballesque. Some might say it happened when the Giants organization built the amazing and beautiful AT&T Park. Some, like Keith Olbermann, might argue it had more to do with the Giants finally winning a world series. As far as I am concerned the jury is out on the cause, but the effects are as clear as day, and as a result I will avoid AT&T park for the foreseeable future.
Here is why.
The other day I got a Tweet from a Twitter friend, who is a total Giants fan, a season ticket holder for years, and a true supporter of this team, who said he had tickets to the exhibition games between the Giants and As at AT&T that he was not going to use, and knowing that I bleed Oakland Green and Gold, he offered them to me. It was perfect, I was on break, it was a day game and as the last spring game we would get to see lots of different looks. I was psyched and replied that I would love to have the tickets.
We headed out to the park and took our seats in the sunny, full bleachers. I wore a black A’s hat, hardly all that obnoxious, and was glad to see a good number of A’s fans around, I have grown tired of the out-and-out mockery that lately leads to pretty cutting insults from Giants fans just for being an A’s fan. In no time it was 3-1 Oakland. The previous two games had both been won by a single run by the Giants, so as one would expect there were a good number of brooms in the hands of the Giants fans. It seemed like a great day for a friendly game between two teams who are rivals only due to proximity.
But by the fourth inning (and bear in mind we are talking about midday, like maybe 1:30 p.m.) I began to notice that the Giants fans were not cheering for their team. They were basically just hating on everyone and everything. There were a couple of lovely notable exceptions, but basically, instead of cheering for their team, they were talking shit about the A’s players (and their families, and their genitals, and how pathetic they are – I’d love to see some of these fuckers try to face even the shittiest pitcher in the majors…) The obscenities were flying. And there were kids and families all around us. Then there was a huge fight – between two female Giants fans that got the attention of the entire bleacher section. Then there were two Giants fans who caused such a scene with a young family with two young kids (all sporting the Orange and Black and having a great time) that the ushers had to get forceful to remove the fans, and the fans never shut their mouths, in front of the kids. Then a Giants fan came and sat in front of us – loud, belligerent and not in his rightful seat – who, when he stood right in front of me, I told to take a seat. But oh! He was not going to take that… “What are you missing sweetheart?” He shouted at me. I told him I don’t like to miss anything, and then he got really aggressive. Tried to get the people around him on his side and finally got a less than pleasant walk up the stairs with the Cowboy. The obnoxious fan never shut his mouth the entire time, and he degenerated to personal insults after our first exchange. I cringed to think that the Cowboy was having to deal with this idiot, but I knew the guy would be sidewalk lining if he pushed it too far.
Were it not for the two really nice ladies sitting next to us, we would have left for sure. And at this point it was only 6-1 A’s. No matter, the Giants fans kept on going about how the A’s, and all things affiliated with them, are the worst sort of garbage.
Now don’t get me wrong… I can, and have heckled, with the best of them. I see a place for it… but there is a way to heckle. Seriously. For example, I love to hate on all things Duke. They are a fabulous team to hate on, but make no mistake, I am hating on the team and what it stands for: years of success and domination. The Bluedevils are really good, and I would never say otherwise – that is what makes them fun to hate: they always win! (Well, not always… hehehhhehh…) And it is never about the kids themselves (and let’s face it, that is what all these athletes are: kids) it is a macro ‘us and them’ sort of thing. It is silly goofiness to rib my friends who love Duke and it is always in fun. I also enjoy a rivalry, but at the end of the game, it is about loving the game, not hating the opponents (at least for too terribly long, and certainly not because of their hairstyle or income level). Giants fans seem to have forgotten how to love the game, instead always going on about their stadium, how they have the best food, hating on everyone, even their own people. No one has ever been killed at an A’s game – but in 2010 a Giants fan was killed by another Giants fan at AT&T Park. I never see fights at A’s games… and funny enough, whenever I point this out, this new breed of Giants fan says, “That is because the A’s suck so bad, no one would bother to go to their game/ fight over them.” Seriously? I could give shit why people around me are not violent, crass, drunkards, as long as I am not around them, and I would far rather be around the happy fans out at the Coliseum than around these people I found myself surrounded by at AT&T Park.
As we walked out on Wednesday I heard people saying “Oh, who cares losing to Oakland? They are garbage, it doesn’t even matter” and “Whatever, we still win more games that they ever will over there.” I always have to bite my tongue about this when it comes to comparing World Series wins – really Giants fans? Do you know the history? Sigh. I left the game feeling sad for what people now have to immerse themselves in, just to have a nice day out at the yard.
And that was just the start of it. In telling my family about our day out at the ballpark, I heard a far worse story about a friend who took his family to the Monday night game. And again, it had nothing to do with the game, the players, or the A’s. This family is part of my family, and they are tried and true died in the wool Giants fans from forever. A drunken Giants fan caused a horrible commotion and my friends along with their young children, were caught in the crossfire – and they were not in the bleachers! To be fair the Giants organization is doing everything in their power to do right by my friends, but that they have to is simply an embarrassment.
I guess it doesn’t matter how nice your stadium is, eh?
Like I said, I have no idea when this all started to happen, but all I have to say about it is it’s a damn shame. I am not stupid enough to fall for logical fallacies like hasty generalizations, red herrings, ad hom attacks, straw man, or slippery slopes. I know too many amazing Giants fans who have been with their team through thick and thin, and they love this game – the highs and the lows. What I do know is this: I am really looking forward to seeing a lot of A’s games this year – at the Coliseum – and I know they will probably break my heart again, it is the reality of being a small market (read small budget) team with an incredible eye for talent (read farm system). But I still love watching them play.
And I live under no illusion: this is not my team, they don’t owe me something, they are not my friends. They are athletes who get paid (or not) to do a job. It just happens to be a job I love to watch them do. Plus, I feel like some sort of proud parent as I watch all of Oakland’s studs light up the rest of the majors… Talk about looking for the silver lining… but that is the job of a fan.
And as a fan, I love this game.
Oh, and –>
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.
TVGNFTW
Sometimes after I spend some time immersed in someone else’s words (reading, people, reading.) I find it hard to avoid mimicry. This is strange to me because I do not do the Madonna accent thing – ever. Though I have been made aware that my accent changes. Everyone talked about how I over annunciated when I came back from Asia. No shit? That doesn’t make sense to you? Then you should go to Asia. Or more likely not. When I went to Europe on my own for the first time everyone “over there” said they knew I was not only American but Californian. A guy from some other English-speaking place said he knew I was Californian because we are the only people who simultaneously stretch each word out while speaking ridiculously fast. I found that an interesting, accurate and impressive observation. Today I would explain it more simply by saying hypno-diction and hyper-syntax. Or something like that.
This also makes me remember when my entire household was so completely addicted to Tetris that it began to color how we drove, moved… hell, those pieces were permanently falling in my (drug-free… ish) field of vision. It became an element of lifestyle. That happens to me when I read sometimes… I try on these other lifestyles. It is weird to write about it because it is not something I would normally do out loud – or, like, outside of my head. I don’t think. But right now I am acutely aware that I am doing it. This whole little diatribe is quite in the vein of something else I have been reading and I cannot even stop myself from writing this way. I wonder if it reads differently to the people who know me and read this blog normally. Is it plagiarism, do you think? And then that makes me think of a line from my current favorite Noah and the Whale song:
Look at me, calling myself a writer and shit.
But Tetris was the shit, wasn’t it? I love how all of the squares make that cool sound when they land. I was reminded of Tetris earlier today for a totally different reason, which was that I had my television on and as most people know, I am quite likely the shittiest television watcher ever. It find it impossible to stay focused and can’t share the clicker because I am constantly… clicking. There isn’t anything on T.V. anyhow, save for Law & Order of like ten thousand varieties and decades, and now the same could be said of derivative CSIs. Not that I am here to judge. I have tried to find a news program to watch in the morning when I get ready for work because it seems like it is helpful to know about the weather and what the hell is wrong with Bart on any given day. But that whole Sisyphean effort has just really brought out my masochistic tendencies because the Bay Area morning news is seriously so bad it is offensive. I have given up trying to find a good program and have chosen to settle on what is categorically the worst: NBC.
Seriously, they regularly completely enrage me before 6:30 a.m. with their stupidity, vapidity, and often totally inappropriate commentary. It is more energizing than coffee. There was a husband and wife team for a while who constantly talked about how they had triplets, but now the Mr. is gone leaving the Mrs. with the guy I would say is the dullest tool in the shed (yes, Jon Kelly, I mean you), except for they have Christina Loren doing the weather, so there is not really any more room in that category. The jokes are bad, the news is useless and the weather is often wrong. I can’t really comment on the traffic guy because I take Bart, I like his name though, Inouye has gravitas. The Guy-in-the-field Bob Reddell, reminds me of Harry Dunne, and I do not mean Jeff Daniels, I really mean Harry Dunne. The tech guy is so patently conservative and anti-Obama he could make the lost iPhone prototype at Cava-22 the fault of the current administration.
Recently, in my effort to watch anything for more than twenty minutes (aside from baseball or basketball) I even tried to watch the Emmy’s. Talk about useless. I didn’t know anyone on that program. But it got me thinking about some shows I should try to watch, so I made a list. And when I sat down to watch them grading papers became more engaging. Perhaps I shouldn’t have started with Ashton Kutcher’s debut on Two and a Half Men.
In the midst of this predicament, which I am sure makes me un-American somehow, I clicked over to the TV Guide channel. And I watched it. For a really long time. I finally found a channel I like to watch. It doesn’t matter what the audio situation is, I tune it out. There is something one hundred percent satisfying about those blue squares that fit perfectly together and just scroll up your screen. Some are green (sports!) some are purple (movies!) and they are all there, all the time, fitting together seamlessly. All that potential and I never have to ruin it by actually watching any of it. I can just know what is there and what is coming up and how it fits in the schedule and there is even occasionally a gap in the programming.
Just like Tetris.
I finally found a home.
TVGN FTW.
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 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…)
You Can’t Always Get What You Want… but if you try sometimes, you might find…
I just had a job interview. Yes… just like last year, I am in the Bay Area, where I want to be, and looking for work in the field I want to work in. Of course, this is unexpected [unexpected because I (clearly incorrectly!) thought that I would be returning to the school where I worked last year for this year - where I really wanted to work again]. But not totally unexpected in terms of the state of public education and budgets and the general state of affairs that I knew I would find in California on my return last year following more than five years over seas.
I am at a funny place in my life these days. I am in a place, geographically, where I would like to stay. I am in a place, physically, that is forcing me to acknowledge that I can no longer leap tall buildings in a single bound. I am in a place, emotionally, that is totally erratic – there is simply no other way to describe it. I am in a place, mentally, that is strangely calm.
As I was riding Bart under the Bay, from the city I am so happy to call home, to Berkeley, a place I would love to work, Mick (with the assistance of the London Philharmonic Orchestra) came symphonically onto my iPod apparently reminding me:
You can’t always get what you want…
You can’t always get what you want …
You can’t always get what you want…
But if you try sometimes, you’ll find…
YOU GET WHAT YOU NEED.
I wondered if this song was going to be a good omen, or if I should skip to the next song, wanting all the luck I could account for in my corner. Then Mick said, “I saw her today at the reception, a glass of wine in her hand. I knew she was gonna meet her connection, at her feet was her footloose man…”
You can’t always get what you want…
You can’t always get what you want …
You can’t always get what you want…
But if you try sometimes, you might find…
YOU GET WHAT YOU NEED.
I let it play.
The interview was for a really good job at a good school with good people. It seemed like the briefest interview I have ever had (but on second thought, it was about the same length of every other interview I have ever had, so I am not sure what that means.) It seemed like real people were talking to me about real things and wanted real answers. At one point, in perusing my resume, the principal had said, “So, Sparks, to China. There ‘s a move everyone makes.” I laughed to myself. Yeah, how much more legitimate can a geography teacher be than one who actually pulls a freaking geographical? And on leaving the interview, the standard self-doubt and insecurities that go with the whole process came up. Did I say enough? Did I say too much? Did I sell my self? Did I look desperate? Did I seem enthusiastic? Did I demonstrate my experience? Did I highlight my talent?
As I walked out of the school and headed over to a sunny beer garden to contemplate the whole thing, Rehab’s song, ‘Sittin’ at a Bar’ came on. I smiled. I remembered hanging out of the back of a songthaew haphazardly bouncing along a pitted road between Thong Sala and Haad Rin on Koh Phanghan with a one-time soul brother as we belted out the lyrics to that song…
As I contemplated this memory in the hot (really hot – but a “dry” heat!) Berkeley sun five years later, I thought again about my situation. I am not the norm for my age group to be sure. I cannot imagine most of my friends in my current circumstances. I thought about a lot of the teachers I know who were surprised to hear I was in a situation where I had to look for another position, but really glad that they were not. I considered the disadvantage of starting at a new district, losing years of experience on the pay scale – again, starting all over – again. When you think about it like that it doesn’t sound so good.
But then, you can think about it another way, too. I don’t know too many people over here who have gotten to see and do the things that my unconventional decision-making has brought me. I may not have the security that a lot of people do, but I have navigated crazy back roads in Thailand, seen the sun come up over Angkor Wat, walked on the Great Wall of China, lived in an ashram in rural India, gone diving off the coast of Borneo in the Celebes Sea, met real geishas in Kyoto, shot automatic weapons in Vietnam, brought my preguntas to la junta with Par Par Lay in Burma, eaten buffalo at a family barbecue in northern Laos, crossed the Mekong in a longtail boat, given up my seat to a monk on a flight back to Hong Kong, been upgraded to Cathay Business class and traveled by night bus through the jungle, had Bamboo snakes in my house, fed monkeys on the beach, cursed cockatoos in my lychee tree, thrown Mexican fiestas in Hong Kong and had raging toga parties in my little house on the South China Sea. And those are just the adventures in Asia.
When I got up from lunch it suddenly seemed less terrible that I did not have a job. But I hoped I would get one anyhow.
When I got home an hour later the principal I had just interviewed with called me.
“We loved you, why don’t you come work here.”
Fuck. Yes.
YOU GET WHAT YOU NEED.
When I began writing this post I was on the train coming back to the City from the East Bay, unemployed.
When I finished it, I was sitting on the couch in my apartment in the Mission drinking a beer, employed.
I realize that there are a bunch of you out there who are waiting to tell me you told me so.
I am totally fine with that… and I love you for your infinite and amazing support. xoxo
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.
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.
A morning in the Mission
If I had billions of dollars I would buy all of the old theaters in the Mission and refurbish them. I think about this every time I walk down Mission Street.
Yeah? I’ll give you irony…
I think that hipster culture is pretty much anything but ironic. In fact, in offering me something that is simply too tempting to resist mocking (I mean really, look at that fucking hipster) and sitting outside the gates of my building smoking American Spirits, talking as loud as they want to be earnest on their smart phones, picking at their “skinny jeans”, caressing their fixie bikes and staring longingly at the Queen Bee Hipster Bitch that runs the Buffalo Exchange downstairs from me, they are pretty much the least ironic thing going. I mean, by definition irony means the opposite of what is expected, or incongruous. These people are the most predictable humans I have ever seen. Their sense of style my be incongruous, but in saying that I am being euphemistic. I am aware that the Hipster Nation is really endeavoring to be sardonic, rather than ironic and that they would sardonically tell me that I am being pedantic. But they are so irritating that given the chance to get pedantic all over their asses, I would.
With all that said, let me explain (as if my proximity to the most heinous Buffalo Exchange ever did not already make this plainly obvious), I live in the middle of the SF Hipster universe. Yup. They are everywhere. Now, THAT is ironic.
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…)
“So, tomorrow I’m going to jog to New York”
Back in the day when I was living in Del Mar and mostly attending UCSD as a reticent sophomore my roommate and still very dear friend E and I would, as many nearly 20-somethings were prone to, sit around and generate lists of all the things we were going to do to self-improve. Eat healthy. Exercise more. Drink less. Study X hours a day. Etcetera etcetera. Of course, these lists were always to commence “tomorrow” so we had one more day/night to do everything the list sought to combat.
Tomorrow.
It got to be such a joke that one day as we were listing E said, “Yeah, and don’t forget, we will jog to New York before breakfast.”
It is a fascinating element of the human condition.
I have New Years Resolution-ized before. I gave up chocolate once. Not that big a deal as I don’t really love choclate anyhow, and I made it the whole year. I gave up chips one year. Much harder. I remember being amazed at how much food I could eat at a Mexican restaurant when I was not having chips. I have not done a whole lot of other ones that are all that unique – save more money, do this or that, don’t do this or that. I am not sure if I will make resolutions this year or not.
I think I might just rather to continue to live fabulously, avoid self-flagelation when I make mistakes and celebrate successes. I already know this will be a year full of seeing friends I love and doing things I have not and smiling lots.
So for now, as I get ready to hit the town in San Francisco with T and D I wish you all a most wonderful 2011.
In keeping with the Chinese traditions I advocate cleaning up before the onset of the New Year (don’t sweep out the luck) but other than that, enjoy laaa! And if you have already decided you are going to jog to New York tomorrow, I hope it is a great run.
Happy New Year!!
Orange you glad to wake up in this place, on this day, with this life?
Today is Day One of the 2010 World Series and Day Three of our Homecoming Week at school. Conveniently enough, the class color for the Class of 2014 (yeah, say that a few times… Twenty Fourteen… dayum!) is orange. This is a challenging color to find in the wardrobe, and I have to say, I was not fully on board… but not I get it. Each class gets a color and it is their class color for their entire high school career and they wear it on spirit days and various events, and man… orange makes a visual impact!
Adding to the mayhem of orange is the fact that we are here, in fabulous San Francisco where the Giants are playing at home in the opening game of their first World Series since 2002 (loss to the LAAAme-gels) and with a chance to win their first Series since 1954. You all know I am not a Giants fan (Let’s Go Oakland!) but I have to admit – the City is en fuego. On my way to Bart this morning, the orange and black attack was out in force. And that was at 6 a.m. Everything is orange, everything is open, people are smiling and beers are flowing.
Very cool for my Freshman, who like all freshman before them, are being, and will be, denied any chance at homecoming glory – something reserved only for those dirty upperclassmen – but these 300 or so Oranges have a got a city behind them, and on a gorgeous fall day in the Bay, with funny faces and a six run 5th inning… it is pretty good to be orange.
Rennie, Carl, Bonnie, TJ, Uncle John, Kelly W., and David Casselman… this one is for you.
Really? You took one of each dish?
Today I moved a whole bunch of boxes into my new apartment. This was a very satisfying activity (though of course it underscores a whole bunch more work that I need to do…) and I was reminded of all my favorite parts of a move. Things like knowing exactly what is in your house and where for that one shining moment; or being clean down to the baseboards. And that supremely satisfying feeling of plopping down on the couch, or in my studio-dwelling reality the bed and surveying all that is yours to behold.
That all sounds great.
Amanda
