berin

The Golden Notebook

2010-07-16T12:37:00.000-07:00

I read the Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing in February, when I was at home in Sao Paulo for spring break/Carnaval. Considering all that has happened since then, it has been an age since then, and for that reason, my thoughts on this book might be thinner than usual.

A shame, really, because it set me unexpectedly alight.

I knew of Doris Lessing through her Nobel Prize brouhaha, but little else. I picked up the book while browsing at my old Haight St. joint, and considering its heft and status, thought it might be a good to set aside when I was ready for a challenge. I've become afraid of taking on classics only to become stymied, discard it and then hate myself for it afterward. I am very, very careful with the big boys.

I must have reached the bottom of my pile, and an upcoming vacation must have geared my intellectual stamina, when I picked it up.

Sure, it was a bit slow going at first, but eventually, the sentences began to choke me. The brief idea would slide in and take a fast hold on my imagination, forcing me to consider it, as opposed to pacing with the story.

The protagonist is the thinly veiled Anna Wulf, and the book moves between her four notebooks -- the black one, her African experience of her early years; the red one, her political life and disillusionment with communism; the yellow one is a novel in progress in which she relives her experience; the blue one is a personal diary. Toward the end, she falls in love and feels herself cracking up, and attempts to draw all of them together into the golden notebook of the title.

From her African notebook, following a heady narrative of romantic intrigue and tragedy amongst a bunch of young ex-pats out in the bush.

[a date, some months later]

I read this over today, for the first time since I wrote it. It's full of nostalgia, every word loaded with it, although at the time I wrote it I thought I was being "objective." Nostalgia for what? I don't know. Because I'd rather die than have to live through any of that again. And the "Anna" of that time is like an enemy, or like an old friend one has known too well and doesn't want to see.

I read this, and knew that exact sentiment. It might be the very reason I have never successfully kept a diary. I could talk myself in and out of anything I wrote, and eventually reduce it to nonsense. I never had any sort of conviction.

I fell hopelessly in love with the constant meta-cognition, because in a strange and beautiful way, it holds the book together. It made me feel I could do something similar. I have long been under the impression that a writer, a person must (at least project themselves to) be complete, especially if they want make any sense to anyone else. However, Anna Wulf goes back and forth through these several books, and her deadly intent to understand herself and humanity reveals itself as a unifying principle. The final golden notebook becomes a tragedy as she succumbs to the compulsion to be coherent -- it was when she was more fragmented that she was more at peace. It not only showed me it's relatively impossible to have a seamless, whole identity, it's an injustice to the human condition.

Its good to know a little about her life: Doris Lessing was born in Persia and grew up Africa, but spent most of her life in England. Her composite cultural identity is a lot like those I grew up with in the international schools and expat circles; the to and fro between two national homes is something that I often consider deeply and at times, struggle with.

She was also a bad wife and mother. She married twice and left both families (her children were toddlers) in rapid succession, and eventually fled to England. She later said she felt she had no choice, and had done a brave thing. Radical in the 40s, still radical today, as we think of the family's loss; but, the cost of a feminist epic. Anna Wulf is also mother, but her daughter is more often used a foil to consider the next generation of women, and less to contemplate the maternal mystique. She builds a hodge-podge family with her best friend who is also a single mother, and also has a troubled relationship with her troubled son. There are no remarkable fathers. Being part of a big, loving family, this dimension of the book is less relatable for me, but I still think its essential to think about, as woman.

Some veins of feminism make me squicky, especially those that bully female characteristics, but I feel this book simply has a more complex, difficult concept of femininity, and that's somehow easier for me to relate to.

(Ok, not so thin. Hah. Good thing!)

Ugh.

2010-07-15T11:52:00.000-07:00

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Should I?

2010-07-15T08:37:00.001-07:00

Two years have gone, and I'm thinking of coming back here. I no longer work at Kay Eight School because I'm going to Columbia Teachers College this fall to get my Masters in English Education. I moved from San Francisco a few weeks ago, and it was one of the hardest goodbyes I've had since leaving home when I was eighteen (Cornell was pretty easy). So, at this joint (!) in time -- a lazy summer, a new spurt of interest in my creative cache -- it seems fitting to return to sporadic writing.

Though books will continue to be the heart, I imagine it will run a little differently. I'm in the thick with Google Reader, but I will "share with note" less, and beam it here. I want to write more.

Aside from Sao Paulo/Sweden/NYC anecdotes, heart-flutters over stuff I like, watch for posts on these books I really should write about:

Reader killed the blogging star

2009-01-23T07:23:00.000-08:00

So did teaching full time. I'm not blogging anymore for now. Maybe I'll resume in the summer, when I have more time on my hands and juicer writing jones. In the meantime, I've been beaming my stuff through my Google Reader.

Until then, BIG kisses. Maybe I'll be back.

Can't do it like I used ta!

2008-08-26T23:25:00.000-07:00

Yea, so I've just started work at Kay Eight School. It's going great. Kids only come next week, but the prep has been relatively intense (briefings, seminars, orienteering, unpacking, stapling, cutting, gluing, getting know a ton of peoples).

I used to read blogs and their posts, almost as they came up. I was on the internet for several hours a day, trigger-happy with the "send" and "refresh" buttons. With this new job, on with 23 eight-year-old freaks all day, it simply cannot be done. My Google reader is far into the terrifying triple digits and stale by the time I get home. I'm just going to cut it down to my nearest and dearest -- friends' personal blogs and the New York Times.

Not to mention, I have to figure out whether I should kid-proof my general internet presence, from Facebook photos to anonymytating this thing. They know how to do everything!!!!

My nets has been wrenched away!

In the meantime, my midsummer has been good. The above is me and Paul-do at Tom Petty. I put up pictures on my Facebook.

for my radio-nerds

2008-08-19T22:54:00.001-07:00

“I keep waiting for it to stalk down the hill and attack the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Herb Caen on Sutro Tower

4 things of beauty

2008-08-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

(spent this morning looking at cool stuff with Bira)

1. Michael Phelps' miracle finish, frame-by-frame at Sports Illustrated. This is all over the web, but I had to put it as well. Not for the finish, but for the beauty of the butterfly -- the relatively young, incredibly difficult stroke, that if mastered, is the fastest way to move in water.
2. Tony Cragg's sculptures. I suddenly remembered a small tucked-away exhibit of his in Rome in 2003, I spent some good time today revisiting him online.
3. Daphna Simon's jewelry. Ooooh.
4. Video for "Day in the Life" by the Beatles. It's nightmarish, surreal and luminescent all at once.

Primeira medalha de ouro do País nos Jogos Olímpicos de Pequim

2008-08-16T14:18:00.000-07:00

In the 50m freestyle, in a big upset, Cesar Cielo Filho broke an Olympic record this morning, won his second medal, Brazil's first gold in these games and the first gold ever in swimming. At the end of the race, when he realizes he's won, he goes ba-na-nas. I was bursting with pride and joy!!!!!!

I haven't seen footage of him recieving the medal, but I've been told by my people back home he couldn't stop crying and was positively inconsolable when the Hino Nacional started playing. Bless him.

I had to share

2008-08-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

I've been having this problem with stinky towels in my house. No matter how often I washed them, how consistently I hung them up, how hot the water was, there would always be this weird musty smell. Especially in David's towels, which are a little threadbare. I kind of gave up after a while. Just lived with the gross towels.

Then, on a nice quiet day, I googled "stinky towels" and millions of pages of advice came up. It turns out it's mostly due to old machines where there's been a lot of residue-build-up, which sounds about right in my case. The most common and do-able trick was adding a cup of vinegar. Went and bought a ton of cheap white vinegar, and dumped a cup in after a normal wash and ran it again. It WORKS! They smell divine at last.

Personal History by Katharine Graham

2008-08-11T22:29:00.000-07:00

Personal History by Katharine Graham

It's been a long time since I've posted a proper book review, having let this blog wind through a somewhat random phase (it's been a brownian-motion summer.)

In any case, the best book I have read this year, far and away, is Katharine Graham's autobiography, Personal History. I'm not the type to list heroes and heroines, but, oh, this woman. She's just incredible.

Summary: Born into a wealthy D. C. family, her father, Eugene Meyer purchased the down-and-out Washington Post for a song when Katharine was a child. It would be one of his favorite investments, and would eventually pass the role of publisher on to his beloved son-in-law Philip Graham. A bright and talented superstar in D. C. Mr. Graham made the paper competitive and developed many powerful relationships in the White House, notably with Lyndon B. Johnson and John F. Kennedy. Unfortunately, he had serious alcoholism combined with manic-depression. He committed suicide in 1963. One month later, insisting that the beloved newspaper be kept in the family, his wife Katharine walked into the office and to step into his shoes. She would make the Washington Post as we know it today and history as one of the world's most powerful women.

She had been educated at Vassar, had always taken a personal interest in her father's pet project and had a lively post-college stint as a reporter in San Francisco. However, as soon as she got married, she removed herself from any professional ambitions and never expected to take on the role as publisher. She did just fine as a mother, wife and demure hostess (she would later look back on her acquiescence with some embarrassment). When she took over after Philip Graham's death she found herself, not only stumbling with nuts and bolts of the institution, but struggling with how to position herself in the powerfully male world of news and politics. Despite the odds, she became even more formidable, feared and admired than her husband.

I could go on forever about her and her book. It is long and every page is riveting, with many incredible stories, such as her own family's history (always my favorite part of autobiographies) juicy tidbits about celebrity friends (Capote's infamous Black-and-White Ball was held in her honor), acute remembrances of the presidents, other high-profile politicians (Adlai Stevenson had a mega-crush on her). There is a great deal said about journalism, a bit of bickering between the D. C. paper and the Grey Lady in New York, and of course, Watergate. She oversaw the breaking of the story and investigation (though never knew Deep Throat's identity), which takes unheard-of courage in a small town like Washington. However, what I love most is her tremendous insight into the emotional texture of her time and place:

President Kennedy's charm was powerful. His intense concentration and gently teasing humor, and his habit of vacuum-cleaning your brain to see what you knew and thought, were irresisitible. The Kennedy men were also unabashed chauvinists, as were the great majority of men at the time, including Phil [my husband]. They liked other bright men, and they liked girls, but they didn't really know how to relate to middle-aged women, in whom they didn't have a whole lot of interest. This attitude made life difficult for middle-aged wives, and induced -- or fed -- feelings of uncertainty in many of us in those years. Though the men were polite, we somehow knew we had no place in their spectrum. My ever-present terror of being boring often ovewhelmed me in social situations with the President at the White House, particularly whenever I was face to face with the president himself or one of his main advisers, and my fear was a real guarantee of being boring, as it paralyzed and silenced me. (p. 290)

For me, today in 2008, it's a familiar sentiment, though I don't have as recognizable a context (!) Katharine Graham at this point was easily one of the most powerful people in the world, yet she had incomparable grasp on her circumstance as a woman-- the injustice, possibility and fear

Though she may not have written extensively in her career, her love and talent for clarity and engagement certainly betray her as a writer. To offer such a precise description, rolling from the president, to the people in the room, to herself, not only reveals an incredible intuition regarding others, but her sense of self, which is always the more heartbreaking.

What I did this weekend with my cool friends

2008-08-06T12:09:00.001-07:00

FRIDAY: went to a party at the "Warehouse", one of those as prop-filled homes, where you find things like this old-school wheelchair and leggy good-time girls. Yay Charley!

SATURDAY: Barbeque at Greg's, bump into everyone I know at Dolores Park, then head out to Berkeley to help Paul move. At night, set up a beer-pong game in the back of U-Haul - first stop: foggy, soggy Sunset, then party-ready Mission.

SUNDAY: Headed to the monthly Alameda Antiques Fair and only managed to get through 25% of it before we were shopping-sated and starving. Went to a great ribs place for lunch.

SAUDADES!

2008-07-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

My mother sent this to me. Best with sound on.

I love this thing to death.

To get nerdy and sorted out by my Wikipedia friend: As part of the Good Neighbor Policy, in 1941, before the US entry into WWII, the US State Department commissioned Disney to take a goodwill tour and create a movie about South America. If you watch the Three Caballeros (which also has a red Mexican bird, Panchito) these political motives are REALLY obvious. The explicit exoticization can sometimes be a bit iffy.

But, Brazilians still love Ze Carioca, and he has his own little comic book there, which appears almost every two weeks. He lives in a landfill, plays on the neighborhood soccer team and has a bunch of bird friends. His stories usually involve him trying to trick girls into romance (even though he has girlfriend) or expensive dinners, but he is usually seen through and gets into trouble.

He's a good example of the Brazilian malandro, the lazy, good-natured ne'er-do-well, who relies entirely on charm and only cares for shortcuts and the good life. There's a ton of scholarship on this figure, especially how he figures into Brazil's national character -- in the sense Brazil has immense potential but never gets around to it, because it's lazy in some way. Which reminds me of this gem from old Charles deGaulle, "Brazil is not a serious country." Haha.

In spite of the complicated context, I love how the artists had obviously been taken around Rio and shown a good time (note cachaca moment). This short was clearly created with great affection. The music is amazing and so is the artwork -- beautiful and filled with humor. Tear.

The Haight-Ashbury Problem and Me (AT LENGTH!)

2008-07-29T10:14:00.001-07:00

In my previous post about Haight-Ashbury, I described a somewhat jumbled neighborhood, historical and affluent but with a long-rooted population of homeless hippies. There is a corner, Stanyan and Haight, flanked by a McDonald's and a semi-used parking lot, which Whole Foods has had its sights on for about two years. Their possible presence has stirred up quite a bit of local debate.

The Haight-Ashbury Neighborhood Council (HANC, for residents) has been giving Haight-Ashbury Improvement Association (HAIA, for businesses) and other pro-Whole Foods type a hard time, arguing the proposed building is hideous, traffic would overwhelm an already congested area, and all the great little independent guys along the street would be crippled by the competition. The very big, corporate name also seems to live a very sour taste on their NIMBYist tongues. Agh! McDonald's and Whole Foods as the guardians of Haight Street? Never! Note: A few years ago, the GAP opened a store on the very Haight-Ashbury intersection and was shut down shortly after protests and boycotting. This a neighborhood to be reckoned with.

On the other hand, there are many out there who wants HANC to get over itself and let some businesses in. I myself do feel the lack of a pharmacy and bank. Besides a lovely supermarket, Whole Foods would give the neighborhood give some of its property-value increasing magic (not that it's already $), 62 affordable (?) apartments on top of the business, an approximate 4% increase in property taxes and a taming of the drug and crime beast that stalks that particular corner. It would give our little rag-tag neighborhood some long-deserved polish.

Last week, I received a mailing (pictured below) from Mark Brennan, asking the neighborhood to rally behind the Whole Foods prospect. It was awful. Clumsy, crass, positively puerile politics. It had a picture of HANC figurehead Calvin Welch, calling him a "fossil", a "bitter obstructionist" and listing several vague "crimes" he's committed -- such as acquring his $2 million dollar home by evicting tenants (which I'm sure isn't the whole story). Overall, he paints the bizarre picture of Calvin Welch as crusty hippie hanging on to his glory days, entirely vested in perpetuating the "urban blight" at Stanyan and Haight.

His latest move is more measured and polite -- a statement to HAIA in which he articulates the "real" problems of moving this project forward -- beyond the costs, that many residents of the neighborhood are not sure how to involve themselves, and it's only HANC, a relatively small group, that has been stomping around. He makes it clear that anyone with the slightest interest MUST get in touch with the supervisor of District 5, Ross Mirkarimi and insist that he take a stance.

He's up for reelection in November and has been reluctant to take sides on the issue, encouraging general foot-dragging about the Environmental Impact Report (a riveting 255 pages) and its hearing. It's pretty annoying. Lack of leadership, I'd say.

With a lousy economy, clueless neighbors, generally pissy mood, it seems like the project's about to be tossed. Mark Brennan's getting desperate, hence his atrocious politics and sudden visibility in the local blogosphere.

Bla bla bla. I get a little sick of it all after a while. I'll write a note to Mirkarimi, keep an eye on the rags, but it seems like it's going in circles at this point.

What do I want?

I love the Haight Street Market, run by a Greek family -- I've become friendly with Gus and Bobby, who are there all the time and generally shrug their shoulders about the whole brouhaha. I'm sure they have their opinions, but they're gentlemen.

If the Whole Foods were to open, I would probably buy my meat and fish there, and everything else at Gus and Bobby's.

I'm generally for it, but I think there are some things that need to be worked out:
1) Opening a swishy business as a solution to a homeless problem seems perverse. I hope it's not tantamount to simply chasing them away. Not kosher by me. Hopefully the powers-that-be will have some smart ideas and money in a pocket somewhere to beef up options for the homeless.
2) The design (also below) is really horrible and doesn't fit in at all for a classic, Victorian-Edwardian studded neighborhood.
3) Most of all, I'm disappointed that there haven't been more communiques with residents. It's virtually impossible to get a clear picture of what's really going on.

The flyer (need a scanner!); horrible building design.

The Haight-Ashbury Problem -- In Broad Strokes

2008-07-25T12:14:00.000-07:00

I like to keep an eye on local politics, mostly because they're written about in fairly histrionic notes -- either the reporter is completely caught up in the town hall drama, or is desperately trying to infuse some importance into simple issues (should we change the name of State Street to MLK Jr. Avenue?)

But, now I live in Upper Haight, three blocks away from historic Haight-Ashbury, where 1967 happened, Summer of Love, the epicenter, zenith of American Hippie culture (to get a good picture, read Joan Didion's incredible essay on that one summer, Slouching towards Bethlehem.) Now, it's a tourist destination, with pastel and teva-clad out-of-towners taking pictures of the Haight-Ashbury cross sign and the Puff Puff Pass store.

There's also a lot of homeless people wandering around, selling poems for a morning coffee, or asking for change for "marijuana research". They're somewhat different from the downtown homeless who are far more desperate, drug-addled and ill. The Haight-Ashbury homeless usually come with ratty overstuffed backpacks, dreads, adopted strays, and are still somehow captivated by the "romance" of the 60s (again, read that Didion essay.) There are some visibly troubled types, but by and large, they look like unwashed runaway kids. So, whatever, I only give them change every once in a while.

When I had previously lived in a cloistered collegetown, I now live in a lively, visible neighborhood that I've become very attached to. I don't feel the issues here are very simple. The politics feel more real here.

Visitors say our homeless provide a bit of "local color", while residents find the littered needles, the all-over smells of human excrement and rheumy eyes are unnerving and aggravating. They feel the neighborhood (already pricey to live in) should have had this managed long ago. San Francisco's homeless problem is serious, and it could be said that the free wheeling, free love, "lifestyle choices" of the Haight bums don't help.

A particular problem spot is Haight and Stanyan. This is more of less the end of Haight Street, after which it flows into Golden Gate Park's Hippie Hill, a sunny, tucked-away drug marketplace. Haight and Stanyan is home to Amoeba Music and a McDonald's, and a huge parking lot. The combined elements of cheap food, free music-listening stations and lack of persnickety businesses shoving them off, makes Haight and Stayan a homeless hotspot, particularly of the rougher kind.

Now, of course, this parking lot is prime real estate. Whole Foods has had its sights on it for two years now. Some argue that their presence would end the "urban blight" in this part of town, the city could use the property-tax kick, a little extra low-income housing (built on top of the supermarket) and the neighborhood would at long last get some deserved polish. Others say it would spell death for the local groceries and vitamin shoppes, and clog the place with traffic.

Upcoming: The players, their deals and details. Histrionic local-politics writing.

Taqueria Cancun is not fit to kiss La Cumbre's feet

2008-07-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

Today, on cell-phone related errands, I decided to check out the famed Taqueria Cancun, which wins all the "Best" awards in the city's alt-weeklies.

NO GOOD!

It's grubby, cramped and you have to wait a couple of minutes for your taco. There were half-eaten baskets of food everywhere, during lunch hour, when clean-up should have been a snappy. Or at least some sort of well-positioned depository area.

I pretty much always order one carne asada super taco. The meat was pre-chopped and then cooked. There was no guacamole, but a slice of avocado. No salsa, but diced onion. Too-spicy salsa came in one of those little plastic teacups and the taco was soaked in thin sour cream. There was no free tap water -- I had to buy a bottle. Worst of all, the tortilla itself was greasy, and it was a real mess to finish off. Ick ick ick.

NOW -- LA CUMBRE:

This is my kinda place. I used to eat here a few times a week when I worked on Valencia Street. This is where I take visiting friends.

You see it made right in front of you, if you get the right girl, she'll heap it on. You get real guacamole, a choice of mild or spicy salsa and just enough sour cream. There is a whole cart of complimentary goodies -- several assorted salsas, fresh cilantro, jalapenos, chopped onions and limes. There is a water cooler! A classy alternative to lukewarm tap water. The tortilla is not fried in grease, but just warmed in some big warming thing. Best of all, the meat is cooked, THEN chopped, which means it has just a little pink, is just a little charred, with some juices, so it actually tastes like meat.

The place is in on the calmer Valencia street, clean, airy, with high ceilings, big beautiful Mexican paintings and there is hardly ever a line. It's also cheaper, with a bigger menu. There are also many stupid advertisements made on Word docs., which really endear me to the place.

Stay away from Cancun and its prize-festooned walls. They are not worthy. Do not indulge them. La Cumbre is the one deserving of your business, refined palate and hungry stomach.

Ro-DAY-o at Salinas

2008-07-20T13:43:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's actually pronounced roe-DAY-o, not ROH-dee-yo. You get embarrassed with either mispronunciation though.

Last Friday, David and I took the sturdy little Volvo and drove down to Salinas to watch the California State Rodeo. The drive down, away from foggy, damp San Francisco and the Ikea infested Bay Area was hot and lovely. Route 101 and the Salinas Valley still has much of Steinbeck's magic. The first beautiful, unforgettable lines of East of Eden can take you right there:

The Salinas Valley is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of maountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer -- and what trees and seasons smelled like -- how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kep the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding -- unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of the west and a love of the east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

So beautiful. Book recommended to anyone with the slightest interest in Northern California.

ANYWAYS, David and I had the California Rodeo marked on our calendar for the better part of the year. Though I come from cattle-breeding background and David is a Native Son of the Golden West (for reals), we'd never been to a rodeo -- though you can bet we were excited.

We arrived to find it a distinctly local affair, happily comprised of genuine enthusiasts in cowboy culture, livestock, horses, ranching etc. There were no ironic hipsters or curious city slickers. Everyone was delighted to be decked head-to-toe in their cowboy hats, Wranglers and city boots. I was grateful to have worn all denim, topped with a bandanna and big earrings.

The place was mostly staffed by the students of North Salinas High School, selling overpriced junk food in fundraising efforts for their clubs (noted: football team got the lucrative car-park monopoly with $10 per car, the nerdy boy scouts got the wimpy cotton candy gig with $2 per stick). I spent about $40 on food and beer -- mmmm super nachos and garlic fries!

And for the event itself? Super fun. I cannot imagine what it must feel like to ride an enormous, powerfully pissed off animal. The cowboys bodies were whipped around like rag dolls, while they hung with all their might. Credit was given for keeping your knees and heels in, spurring while the horse bucked. Commentators called it "poetry in motion" and I soon began to see that, as impossible as it may sound. There were several other mini-events, such as calf-roping, Miss Rodeo and the hilarious "mutton busting" in which little cowkids, beginner rodeoers hung on for dear life on fat sheep.

There was bullfighting, which consisted clowns of provoking the bull and attempting to leap over it -- very different from the dramatic, elaborate and horrifying spectactle I saw in tiny Mallorquin town two years ago. This contest resulted in the event's only injury, a broken leg. The stadium stood up, cheered, applauded and stamped the boots, while the clown was taken off in an ambulance, pumping his fists in the air.

And of course, the Americana. I love it. There were pageants, constant salutes to our soliders overseas, doves released at the end of the anthem, free flags, fried food, everything. I suppose it can be a a little unnerving how homogenous and self-selecting American communities are becoming -- this powerful speck of red state was only an hour and half an hour outside of big blue balls San Francisco. Is this a new kind of tourism? Yeep.

Here we went; for $20, you can take a digital picture with your family on a stuffed bull.

Cowkids; Horse-ridden satiny pageant about the story of California.

Me and David (bandanna and Wranglers not pictured); milk prices as gas prices.

David gets a feel for it.

Dating Men vs. Women - How dated?

2008-07-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Just watched It Happened One Night. AMAZING. It's hard to believe this was made in 1932. Sure, there's that old-movie drawl, but the dialogue is so fresh, the plot dynamic and the chemistry (!) is so tangible. Hardly dated! It's a surely, surely sexy movie.

Summary: Claudette Colbert plays spoiled, restless Ellie Andrews who is on the run from her millionaire father to meet her fiancee. On the way she meets dashing, raggedy newsman Peter Warner, played by Clark Gable. There are road-trip high-jinks which culminate in their falling in love.

Sexism and gender roles were on my mind when I was watching this film, especially since I've been watching Mad Men. Mad Men takes place in the late 50s/early 60s and takes special interest in gender roles. Set in a all-male ad agency, some outrageous things are said of the female secretaries: "you're expected to be a combination of a mother and a waitress", "show your legs more, hon", "seeing her think, it was like watching a dog play the piano." etc, etc, etc. There is also the "wife" character, who is miserable and struggles with her chosen life. Men also tire their bacon-making duties and relentless dick-measuring. Mad Men puts this all together beautifully, and it makes me marvel at how far the war of the sexes has come.

HOWEVER, a wrench was thrown last night. When I watch old movies, I like to train my eye to little relics -- sexist, racist cracks that would not be acceptable now. The only really bad incident was when Ellie calls the black candy-seller "boy", yet as far as sexism goes, there was not much. They are wonderful, multi-dimensional characters in a time I tend to think of as cardboard and quaint. Though Ellie was hapless, you would hardly think she's a ditz. Peter, though charismatic, doesn't really have his shit together. Peter's lines are often waaay more gushingly romantic than anything she utters. ("where you, me the ocean and the moon are all one ... where the stars hang so low you could reach up and stir them around"). There is also quite a bit of skin, as they have a few bedtime scenes, undressing on either sides of a makeshift curtain before they go to bed. But, rest assured, views of Claudette Colbert's lissome body in soft silk lingerie are matched by Clark Gable's barrel chest (which reportedly made undershirt sales drop for good.) There tiny switcheroos throughout: Ellie's often seen borrowing his clothes, Peter cooks her breakfast. Even Mad Men tends to show women in stages of undress far more than men.

So, what to make of this? 30s not so sexist, 50s more sexist, 00s not so sexist? Is it cyclical? Not an evolutionary trajectory?

I was happy to find my favorite scene (subtitled!) easily on YouTube. I think I like Clark Gable more in this movie than Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind, where he's a more polished, dastardly version of Peter Warne.

Cooking nerd post

2008-07-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

After a lot of traveling, I'm happy to be home and cooking in my own kitchen again. I snatched up some Gourmets and Martha Stewart Livings at the Hudson News to treat myself with new culinary endeavors.

Saturday, I had Ben, Philip and Dani over for dinner: standard salad, zucchini soup, pasta with vodka sauce and It's-It for dessert. This was good, because I had made the recipes before, so there were no real napkin-wringing catastrophes. I would have served the zucchini soup in a smaller portion and insisted on fresh-ground pepper, and used a liiittle less crushed-red peppers in the vodka sauce.

Sunday, I had a potluck in the park. I had experimented with meatballs the night before (ok, there was one catastrophe) so, I decided to whip them up into a sloppy joe mix -- which was extra tasty, since they already had spices for Italian meatballs. Served with mini challah rolls (toasted and kept warm in a fresh kitchen towel) they were a mega-hit.

Last night, for Charley and Paul, I managed to experiment, recipe-free for the first time. Well, with home-style stuff I've known forever. Wild rice with julienned carrots, raisins, cumin and cinammon. Roast chicken turned out extra-good this time, with extra basting. Then lentils with ginger and onions turned out to be a surprisingly good mix.

Back in the Bay Area

2008-07-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone,

I'm back! For real! My manners have been terrible. Sorry.

In Bay Area spirit, here's an excellent clip of pre-turtleneck Steve Jobs, as a lounge lizard unveiling his brave little Macintosh. It's 1984 -- the year I was born. Definitely an egomaniacal ringmaster, but you cannot help but delight in his own sheer glee at the wild reception of the crowds. The little slideshow is also total Bay Area geek humor.

2008-07-07T09:54:00.000-07:00

NOTICE:

REAL RETURN TO DAY-TO-DAY GROOVE IS WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON.

2 lovely friends visiting, and am properly distracted -- slippery schedule and all.

Almost There

2008-06-28T17:24:00.000-07:00

My passed out self on the train in France.

In Berlin now. Tomorrow is our last full day here. There will be 2 days of grueling travel before I arrive Wednesday afternoon, der 1st of der July. I promise then, to write at least one decent blog post about it all, probably with excerpts from my emails to my bf.

I love him more than you, blog -- too bad.
------

But, here's a bit from Personal History, by Katharine Graham, CEO, Publisher, Owner of the Washington Post.

"I agreed with a charming message I got from George McGovern after he had been defeated for the presidency. He recalled making some bitter remarks abotu a couple of our columnists at a dinner party, but wrote me:

I have regretted that outburst and I have also established that the maximum time I can carry a grudge is about three months. This not is simply to saythat I have now forgotten all campaign grudges. It is just too diffcult trying to remember which people I'm supposed to shun."

She was born into a wealthy family, married a terribly smart man, who eventually took over her father's little Washington Post. After a horrible descent into manic depression, he committed suicide. One month later, she walked into work and took over position as Publisher. The Post is a strictly Washington paper (not like the NYT, which is definitely national), and some of most fascinating parts of the book are her accounts of relationships with the White House, its presidents and rising politicians. Being committed to truthful journalism, she has gotten into many, many fights with them, not at the very least, Watergate.

soooo far away!

2008-06-22T17:21:00.000-07:00

i am nine hours away from san francisco -- in paris.

i'm also all muddled re: blogging, because i have to write about:

- duddy kravitz book
- joyce carol oates book
- katharine graham book
- a dirty shame, margot and the wedding, sex and the city.
- paris.

so, now with that list, i've committed myself. it's do or die. either i write about these things, or this blog will cease to exist.

i'll give myself a break though, i only go online verrrryyy late at night, after many hours of european walking.

photo: went to visit my grandmother's birthplace and childhood home, Senlis, which is just outside Paris. this is the extraordinarily gothic cathedral at senlis. absolutely DRIPPING with the most incredible gargoyles. really beautiful. far more interesting than notre dame. too bad i couldn't get good close-ups.

(wtf blogger and font sizes. sorry guys.)

Passeio 1: Consolacao/Augusta

2008-06-10T14:40:00.000-07:00

Went for a two-hour walk down two major streets that connect the uptown and downtown of older Sao Paulo. Augusta and Consolacao are parallel and I weaved between the two until I ended up in the posh Cidade Jardim area, where I met my mother for lunch (Arab food).

Sao Paulo is not a city done by foot. I spent much of my childhood and adolescence in cars and in tiny-block-radiuses of cloistered neighborhoods. I always wanted to walk around the, but I was always a little scared of being outdoors without serious purpose, because it was so unadvisable, since crime (especially kidnapping) was so terrible. But, since 2003 it's gotten better and I've come to really know the joys of a walkable city (San Francisco), so I, without telling anyone, just took a cab, far, far downtown and just got off and walked home. It was incredibly refreshing to see the city from the street level, instead of from inside tinted windows.

A middle school on Consolacao. A tall, wise Jesuit teaches shrimpy little indians (Native Brazilians?!) to read, with a little mission in the background. This would not fly in the US.

Lower Augusta, approaching uptown. I love the architecture of these high-rises that all exploded in the 60s-70s. White and heavy on geometric patterns, be they in tiling detail or wrought-iron window cages. They also always have small balconies. In taller buildings, the balconies give the edifice an anatomical appearance, like long, ridged tracheae. The image is fitting for the dense pollution, but sometimes creeps me out.

The plants find their place.

I got all woostery.

Bum-proofing.

NA NAITCH!!!!

2008-06-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

Drinking water and Tic Tacs in Brasil are marketed towards nightlife culture. WTF?!

Bottled water is only for diamond-studded VIPs here.

The Tic Tacs are especially bizarre, but taps into the make-out(or "staying") thing we love so much. It says "deciding your night!" the green means "kiss" the red means "diss". Haha.

The Point of It All

2008-06-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

Finally, a picture of me and Sofia (graduating from Graded). It was a beautiful ceremony -- way more elaborate and put-together than mine, a long 5 years ago. We had one puny flower arrangement, while they have a red carpet linee with 5 feet bouquets. Also followed by a swank reception in a hotel. Us in 2003 could barely get prom together. Saw a bunch of old teachers, which was nice, especially since many of them were excited to hear that I've been teaching too.

Congrats little Sofia. I'm proud of you every day, and this was a really good one.

Normal Childbirth

2008-05-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went to the Iguatemi to watch Indiana Jones with Bira. The movie was incredibly cheesy and not recommended without a severely goofy mindset. However, what struck me was this Public Service Announcement (PSA) that came on before the movie trailers, with the gorgeous Fernanda Lima advocating natural childbirth.

In Brazil, caesarians are inordinately popular and encouraged by doctors, because they're super-schedulable, meaning they can squeeze more births in one day (and more $$), as opposed to supposedly drawn-out, unpredictable natural processes. Not to mention, women here are often (wrongly) convinced of the caesarian's "cosmetic advantages" -- a neat belly scar instead of all sorts of tugging and tearing down there.

This was at the MOVIES. I know Brazil is PSA crazy, but this is a little nuts.

I am here, today, to tell of you my experience

in the births of Joao and Francisco

and to give my testimony

of how normal childbirth may be faced

as a natural experience

in any woman's life.

It was a dream

what happened naturally as a normal birth.

Know that the recovery is faster

the risk of infection is less

and the mother participates actively in the birth.

Normal birth. Let life happen naturally.

(Fernanda Lima did not charge for this appearance)

Just to let you know

2008-05-25T20:15:00.000-07:00

My brain, right now, is not really blog-friendly.

I couldn't finish my Stephen King book Lisey's Story because it was too big and I couldn't read it by the time I had to return it to the library. I left San Francisco last Tuesday for Sao Paulo, where I am now.

The first few days involved reconnoitering with family, over lush rice-and-bean meals at my farm. The oranges are coming again, and their color is beautiful this year and I have been eating about 5 tangerines a day. It's winter, but the weather (unseasonably, of course) is warmer than California and the air is incredibly dry. This also means that the city air quality (especially after some metro strikes) is like this:

I did read one book, during long bouts of tub-soaking, at the farm. Dreams From My Father by Barack Obama. I'm not going to write an official review, because I'm Obama-ed out. Everything you've heard about it, is true. It's a fantastic book. One tiny note: while most people like the "Kenya" part, my favorite was "Chicago", where he was forced to earth organizing a run-down neighborhood in the South Side. His frustration is tangible, you can see his ethos developing on the page, and you can draw a clear connection to his political presence now. It's cool.

Bay 2 Breakers 2008

2008-05-18T22:42:00.001-07:00

Me in Muni brown by Alamo Square; The gang and the "Muni Gone Wild" float (baby of Greg); David, Elliot and Ben, our amazing guests, through the lens of my sunglasses.

More photos can be seen in my Facebook album, HERE.

Introducing Mzz Geld...

2008-05-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

Yep. I finally figured something out and got a good, nay, GREAT job. In August I'm going to be an assistant teacher in a 3rd grade classroom at San Francisco Day School. A private hippie school in the heart of San Francisco. It'll be the real California thing!

I start in August, so the summer is MINE! Brazil, Europe back to California!

Because I love them, here's another sad song in black and white -- "Is That All There Is?" by Peggy Lee

a social life

2008-05-05T08:54:00.000-07:00

Good Morning.

It's been a week since I've written. I'm still reading Lisey's Story, so no book reviews just yet. What happens is, I've been watching The Wire or reading USWeekly, the Economist or doing crosswords. It's also a really big, fat hardcover that's impossible to take anywhere. Excuses, excuses.

Actually, I've also been partying a lot. I've gotten job offers recently (to be revealed later this week) and have been celebrating very, very, very seriously.

THURSDAY:

David and I went to the famous Magnolia Pub & Brewery. Living around the corner from Haight-Ashbury means everything in the vicinity is somewhat famous, but this was actually a delightful dinner. For some reason, I insisted David order for me, which was slightly perverse (offending tender feminist sensibilities), but kinda fun as I had a total surprise of a meal. It was a codfish bean thing that was delicious.

I later met up with Julia and Daniela, where we started the night on a rather misguided foray downtown. Dead downtown. It was so lame. So we headed quickly back to the safe, lively Mission, where Daniela directed us to a tranny bar near her house, Esta Noche. It was kind of empty too, with a few questionable characters, but we got bonafide perfomances and many drinks. The whole night ended across the street at the Pork Store Diner, with chatting and french fries.

FRIDAY:

David and I pulled together a crazy shabbat dinner. With our small kitchen and personalities, it was a really big to-do. There was salad, risotto and a crazy Argentinian meat thing. We're not experimenting with recipes as much next time. David did do a really sweet job with table arrangements and still have about a month's worth of booze left over. Yikes. Our lovely guests were: Daniela, Julia, Philip, Charley, Derek, Cecilia and later, Hilary and her Hawaiian friend. It ended very nicely, with David and I passing out with food and dishes all over the place.

SATURDAY:

Homa called me at 11am, while I was still in bed, to join Barby and Christine Gallati to watch the Kentucky Derby out in Bay Meadows. We got dressed up and got stuck in traffic for a long time, because everyone was going to the beach. So we just went to Palo Alto for brunch. Lots of great girl talk. Later, I joined David as his date for his High School reunion at Crystal Springs.

At first, this was crazy awkward. I was really, really random and a total outsider. I could see the girls' eyes visibly widen when David introduced his girlfriend. I can imagine that most people leave their significant others at home, so they can relive old High School romances for a few hours. I might have been a little bit of a buzzkill. But, thankfully, it's also a big drunk-fest, so things quickly got silly as everyone just goofed around and told inside jokes to infinity. I've gotten to know a handful of David's high school friends already, so I wasn't totally lost. The actual building his school is in was INCREDIBLE. It used to be the home of a rail baron. Think Daniel Plainview of There Will Be Blood. Marble walls, imported carved ceilings, balconies, gargoyles everywhere, sprawling lawns. The food was also delish, delish. I won't be going to any more reunions in the future, though.

Later, I stopped by to return to my people in the city at another party. I wasn't there for long and my hearing aid started falling apart, so at that point I decided to call it a night.

The photos here are from Thursday night. Forgot about my camera on the other nights.

to be faithful is to act as if time didn't exist

2008-05-04T01:46:00.000-07:00

A random photo of the TV during a movie. Watched masuclin et feminin (by Godard) at Dani's house, with Kasia and spaghetti a la bolognese. Nice, ne?

Me and David walking down the avenue...

2008-04-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a hefty fiction novel now, so there won't be any reviews anytime soon. In the meantime, I will ply you with pictures! As promised!

These were sent to me, in a lovely surprise email from Ali Conti. She stopped in SF on the way to Mongolia, where she is being a brainy Fulbright scholar on Mongolian textiles. She's so wild and creative and sweet. It's unbelievable how she managed to send me these photos: the main powerline has fallen in her town, which will take four weeks to get reinstalled -- luckily, the postoffice has a generator, so she can still use the internet. It seems she will be going to city soon, where it would be a bit easier.

This was at a potluck at Pete, Ruby and Philip's house way last year. October? My hair was pretty long.

- - -

OK, there is some to say, but I haven't done much anecdotal stuff here. David and I had a lovely, lovely weekend. Friday night, after long naps, we strolled all the way down Haight until we found a Thai restaurant. Yellow curry, scallops and white wine. Coconut, cilantro, spicy spinach flavors. Walked home happily fed and a little drunk, talking about non-profit endeavors in Sao Paulo and Vespas.

Saturday was incredibly warm and sunny. Set up our table in our backyard and had a delicious, leisurely breakfast while we laughed at articles in the Chronicle. Set off to Golden Gate Park, with a little tourist gawking on the way. Lolled around reading magazines, drinking Martinelli's and laying low from the San Francisco wind, trying to strictly soak up sun. Ice cream cones on the way back home. After David's spinach sauce pasta, we went back out to outdoor table and chatted in candlelight about field sports (I was good at hurdles) and addictions, while he smoked a cigar. We finished the evening with There Will Be Blood, which was awesome. David had already seen it twice. Did you know? The music was scored by the lead guitarist in Radiohead. For real.

Sunday, mega-breakfast at Pork Store on 16th with Derek, David's high school friend. Then walked all the way up Mission, to help Greg paint his float for Bay to Breakers. Everyone was lazy and it went rather slowly and sloppily. A taco was had for a late afternoon snack.

I just ate a bunch of meatballs, spinach sauce and potato chips. I've had about 5 cups of delicious grapefruit juice and I'm watching The Wire, my current HBO baby. David will be waking in about 20 minutes to go to work.

It was a wonderful, relaxing weekend, with lots of walking in the sun.

Obama Reads!

2008-04-23T10:47:00.001-07:00

I'm not going to talk about politics here, but this may be my favorite photo I've seen of Obama. The lighting (though it may be otherwise, post PA) suggests a sort of calm and peace, and there something about reading the paper -- a paper -- that is so old-fashioned and leisurely. People only read papers on weekends, on long breakfasts. It's a very private, nearly escapist act, which I can imagine gives some sort of tiny relief. On the other hand, I could also see the focus as he scans, studies a huge pile of dailies. As staged as it may be, comfort, a strange intimacy and dead-on normalcy still comes across.

(photo credit: Jae C. Hong/AP)

Old Orwell

2008-04-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

Down and Out in Paris and London

George Orwell

I read this while I was in New York, and it took about two days to read it. I've never been really enchanted by Orwell, having only read Animal Farm and 1984 . They are good, clever stories, but are determined to NOT inspire. I had heard long ago that his journalism was incredible, especially the pieces from the Spanish Civil war, where he had fought with the Republicans (against Franco). I was actually directed to Down and Out by the Anthony Bourdain book, and the connection -- the madness of restaurant life -- is really obvious, because the beginning of Orwell's book is about his time as a plongeur (a diver, or busboy) in a famous French hotel. The second part of the book, in London, he's a tramp, and describes life on the street and in several "spikes", where tramps were allowed to sleep for free for limited amounts of time. His descriptions of filth and hunger in both cities are clear and horrifying. He describes the friends he makes with great tenderness. Ever the political scientist, there are a few passages dedicated to the dignity of work and the fear of lower classes. Sandwiched between gripping writing, I didn't even skim through this stuff -- it's good.

To really simplify, I would call it a cross between Joan Didion and Upton Sinclair. It has a political agenda, but the precision and texture of the best non-fiction writing. I gave Julia a copy of this book (she's a champion for people) and I hope she likes it.

- - -

On another note, whoo! Crazy week. Job interviews, parties, 3 minutes of a Rilo Kiley concert. The bad thing was, I either fell asleep or spaced out to a serious degree at these things. I need to manage that a bit better.

- - -

For some reason, my image uploader isn't working so well. Hence, fewer posts. I'm making a serious effort to show more personal photos here. Watch for them!

My First Mystery Novel & Notes on New York

2008-04-15T17:14:00.000-07:00

Just got back from New York sojourn late last night. Didn't idle much on the internet as I was on the road a lot. Flew into NYC, flew up to Syracuse, drove to Ithaca, drove to Rhinebeck (Bard College), drove to White Plains (Beth & Steve), drove to the New York City.

It was a total family monopolization trip, with hardly a full day in each place. There were many, many people I wanted to see and spend time with, but it was just impossible, so I kind of did all my traveling in secret.

But what did we DO? I went to about 5 malls, ate 10 cheeseburgers, went to a Broadway show. It sounds cheesy, but meu, I got GREAT stuff, ate so very well (we did have oystas!) and the show Spring Awakening was very cool. 19th Century sexual repression, very obscene scenes, Duncan Sheik score, Bill T. Jones choreography. The leading man was also a dish.

A picture of me and Zach (Camila's friend) at the Oyster Bar in the bowels of Grand Central Station:

I also read TWO BOOKS IN ONE WEEK. I can't remember the last time I read books at a delightful pace. I spent about two hours in the hotel bathtubs every night.

The Park Branch of SF Public Library is made up of about 85% mystery books -- Janet Evanovich, Clive Cussler, etc. So I decided to take sampling of the local tastes. I don't think I've read mystery stuff since I was a kid -- my grandparents had beautiful old editions of the Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys books, I lived and died by Tintin and loved the Usborne Puzzle Adventure Books, which had built-in, plot-related puzzles. Oooh, it was great when you could read the books for the 200th time and know all the answers.

Anyways, I picked up The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie. I've never read her stuff and I was looking for a thrill. It was a Modern Library edition and looked like a beautiful classic, but it was only OK. I doubt I'll remember it. I really did get fooled, which was cool -- the murder turned out to be the most obvious suspect, after spending the whole book red-herringing on other characters. Two things I liked most: 1) the lightweight portrayal of English wartime society, as they nobly cling to affectations while forgoing sugar rations. Cute. 2) The introduction, which spoke of Agatha Christie's life and the mystery novel as a genre. The nerdier, academic, Modern-Library style intro part made it a bit more meaningful, as the story was kind of flat and kind of just went through the motions.

Delayed flight, the Olympic Torch, my friends' posts and my slideshows

2008-04-07T23:17:00.000-07:00

Stuck at SFO, because someone had a "medical incident" that caused my plane to land in Salt Lake City. Hope it's not too bad. I'll be boarding in about an hour -- ever thoughtful JetBlue has put out sugary snacks and drinks. The pilots are waiting next to me, quietly reading their books. One is titled How to Win Friends and Influence People. He's about 40, salt-and-pepper hair, ruddy brown complexion, wire-glasses. Patiently munching on snacks. Mr. Pilot should read my Agatha Christie book. It's great.

- - -

In the meantime, the news of the Olympic Torch Relay mounts. As some of you know, my beloved will be carrying the flame in the name of sportsmanship, unity and individual triumph. I'm not THAT worried for him, but, man, when I saw the NYT photo of the activist being mightily restrained from a lady in a wheelchair, I got a little nervous.

It's just plain ugly, disrespectful and short sighted. I'm really happy that the Relay has given a space for protest-- I doubt that the issues, from Darfur, to Tibet, to their human rights record would have gotten as much attention otherwise. Attack the Olympic Steering Committee for choosing Beijing, attack the Chinese government for all its done, but don't touch the torchbearers! No matter today's overwhelming globalization, no matter the declining significance of "world events" the greatest sporting event on our humble globe, still means something to some people.

I'm a little press-sensitive (I've had some bad exposure before, blegh) and have been telling David he can decline interviews, but he's happy as a pig in shit, taking them left and right (they've been calling all day). He wants to be mayor one day.

Here's one of his bits:

Footage from London and Paris showing protesters tackling torchbearers and storming the relay routes concerned David Drabkin, but not enough to make the 23-year-old salesman of organic produce want to walk away from what he said was a childhood dream of being an Olympic torchbearer.

The Haight-Ashbury resident broke his leg in February and is hoping to leave his crutches at home Wednesday. But he will definitely be limping, and that, he said, makes him easy target for protesters looking to snuff out the flame.

"I'll be easily identifiable," Drabkin said. "But I think it can defend myself if I have to. If I really stare a protester in the eye, and we really look at each other, I can't imagine them trying to tackle me and take my flame. I hope it would be more civilized than that."

- - -

Also, this weekend was eventful. You can consult the blogs of Dani and Ruby
for anecdotes and photos. I will try a little harder to do similar things in the future.

- - -

I've put up slideshows! I love birds: my family has used them as a decorating motif (ooh!) for generations. Nothing adds movement, color and grace like the Audubon Birds. I should research them a bit more. I'll get back to you on that. The other slideshow, the illustrations are just old favorites from when I was a kid. They really capture the imagination --

- John R. Neill for Frank L. Baum's Oz stories,

- Quentin Blake for Roald Dahl's The Twits

- creepy old Maurice Sendak

- Clement Hurd for Margaret Wise Brown's The Runaway Bunny

- The Amazing Beatrix Potter for Two Bad Mice

Oh! I love them so much!

Third People Book and Announcement

2008-04-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

Kitchen Confidential

Anthony Bourdain

I've been interested in food writing since I picked up Ruth Reichl's memoirs, and more so after buying the FANTASTIC Best American Food Writing 2007 at Ithaca's Friends of the Library booksale. I'd read an essay of Bourdain's, seen on him TV once or twice, and found him very attractive. He swears a lot, only wears black, and smokes incessantly. He's proud of his hard-core restaurant background and shows it off -- he's pretty much styled himself as a rock star of the dining world. This book, his first big one (he'd written some weak mafia novels), really hammers the rougery point home.

It's broken up in to readable essays, from his first life-changing oyster as a kid, to his worst moments in heroin addiction while tumbling from kitchen to kitchen, to running his beloved restaurant Les Halles. This book was written a while ago, and the pace makes me think he still wrote the whole thing on drugs -- luckily he's got the gift of clear writing, which he most likely honed in his privileged past at private school and Vassar. However, even luckier, he has a strong voice, which in turn, was probably honed in the restaurant abyss. He makes such biting fun of people with such ease and good nature, he reminds you of your most hilarious friend.

Yes, an abyss. It's a world unto itself, with a different calendar, schedule. The hardest work is when everyone is partying, celebrating. It's a place where craft is what will get you through, not art. You need to know how to make something exactly the same 200 times, to the split second. Chefs can concoct different things a few times a week, but you still need to know how it all works and comes together. Restaurant business is hard, hard, repetitive work. BUT! With advantage of perpetual chaos.

It's not boring at all. Most people who work in the restaurants are those who can't stand slow, peaceful lives. There's constant chaos and it's usually staffed by felons and society's swath of misfits. One practical joke: having an overweight sous-chef hide naked in the refrigerator covered in saran wrap and dripped with blood. After reporting his absence to the restaurant manager, and after discovering the blue, bloody naked man, he is so traumatized he quits right away. There are several hilarious stories like these, but I can't remember them, I've already returned my book.

Beyond insights into restaurant life, there are some cooking tips. Diss the garlic press -- only roast and spread the cloves. Get a squeegee bottle to decorate your food with sauces to make it fancy. Fresh, fresh, fresh ingredients. And PRACTICE cooking. Taste what you eat. Butter is heaven. No fish on Monday or Tuesday.

The worst food writing is stuff that is only descriptive: oaky smells, raspberry finishes, bla bla bla. That just doesn't come across to me and is totally boring. There has to be information! A story! Excitement! I don't really want to be in your mouth, saliva and taste buds. I want to be within the mini-galaxy -- circumstance, clothes, romance, burned fingers, dates, drugs, anything human -- that gravitates about the sumptuous meal. This is what makes Bourdain's book so good, and why I'm ordering his travel show on Netflix.

ANNOUNCEMENT:

I have a theme! This will be mainly a book-review blog.

Next book: The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie. I've never read her before, and I'm not too familiar with the detective genre. Plus! It's fiction. A big adventure, for sure.

Second people book

2008-03-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

Stephen King

Again, I haven't read any of his books. I became interested in him after he (controversially) won the National Book Foundation's medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. Everyone was like the "WTF?! Stephen King!? He writes popular, mainstreamy stuff!" But, he was suddenly taken as an accomplished writer, who actually loved writing and despite it all, was never in it for the $$$$. I recently read his introduction to the Best American Short Stories 2007 (which was also published in the NYT), in which he said that most short stories have been done to death in MFA circles, incestuous fiction-publishing institutions and are bo-ring. RESPECT! In another interview by an incestuous institution (Paris Review) he was funny, frank and insightful. He sounded like a functional human being, unlike many "serious" writers I know.

I have however, not gotten around to The Stand (his #1). I think I will try out Lisey's Story though, as it's not a horror piece and was critically acclaimed (I know, barfy, but safe. I am welcome to suggestions though.)

So, after all this flirting, I checked out "On Writing" (I'm a real citizen now. Post extolling the public library TK) and read it very quickly. For a how-to book on writing, it's very digestible. The first and last bits are autobiographical, asserting it was his life and loves, not a particular talent, that made him a writer. He had a goofy taste in horror movies from day one, a few vivid memories (ear-drum puncturing as a 5-year old), falling in love with his wife Tabitha, serious drug problems, and the weird anecdotes that inspired his most popular books. Carrie, for instance, was prompted during a janitorial stint at a high school, when he found himself mystified by a metal box in the girl's room. His buddy informed him they were for "pussy plugs." I haven't read the book, but apparently it is very menstrual. The tampons made him his first big moneybags and he didn't have to work as a janitor anymore.

The middle bit of the book is the technical part -- how to get your shit together and be a better writer. He uses an extended toolbox analogy, refers to Strunk and White, disses passive voice, pushes show-don't-tell. If you've taken a writing class, you've heard it before and it can drag on a bit. But, I appreciate the objectification of the writing process. For instance, he believes that the first draft of a book should be written in 3 months (!!). You HAVE to punch in every day and write so many words. You have to read constantly. Writing requires discipline and a structured approach, whether you are high on inspiration or not -- its that 10% inspiration/90% perspiration ratio.

Cliche, but to some degree, I appreciated it being spelled out for me. He must understand how crazy writers must get. For me, writing is torture. I take it way too seriously. I remember writing a short piece in college, obsessing about symbols and universal significance, and all sorts of bullshit, instead of telling a good tale. Funnily enough, most of my stories played with the power of fear. They are pretty weird pieces, and to some degree artificial, as I vividly remember trying to figure out how my story should develop, in seamless technical motion. The last one I worked on (I have abandoned fiction) was about a bus hijacking in sugar-cane fields, where the protagonist was a the town albino. It was kind of fun, but I was constantly making shit up and trying to make it seem real, and it was exhausting. I mean, adventure/suspense stories? Really? Me? I guess I just like stuff that feels real.

Anyways, a writer who is very conflicted and risking pretension would like this book, it cuts it all down to size.

How good shame can sound

2008-03-27T09:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, David and I were playing "guess this song", which involves me trying to find the randomest YouTube clip possible and his figuring it out in the first second. It's impressive! I can't recognize songs until I hear a few lyrics and that's only if I've looked them up and memorized them.

Anyways, I came across "House of The Rising Sun". I have the Rolling Stones version on my iTunes (?) but YouTube only really had videos from the Animals (and a few loser covers). I don't really know the Animals (though maybe I've heard of them?), but I was totally bewitched by the performance on the video, especially by the lead singer. It's in fuzzy black-and-white, they are all in the requisite tapered suits and neat hair and the drum in their center is stenciled appropriately. The lead singer's voice is deep and his delivery is haunting. He's a shorty, with a little-boy face. but you feel he went the bad way a long time ago. It's a song of absolute degeneracy presented in a spic-and-span 60s band. I thought, something terrible must have happened, if he isn't famous now.

But, boringly, disappointingly enough, Wikipedia tells me he's still alive and headlining minor retrospective hippie acts. He didn't become famous because of mismanagement, apparently. However, the song below is said to be the first folk-rock hit and influenced a ton of people, blah, blah, blah.

Just try to imagine his career ending curled in a corner of a dilapidated whorehouse. It'll all sound much better.

Re-introduction to reading & people book 1

2008-03-25T17:47:00.000-07:00

I've been returning to the realm of reading for pleasure. The reading that you do in the tub, while constantly refilling with hot water as it chills. The reading that makes you take the slow route on the bus. A sunny spot. Tuning out. Hours into the night. When I was little, I was the incomprehensibly anti-social girl who once seriously considered the possibility that she had read every book in the world, except for "Arabian Nights".

I thought college had killed that part of me. Not so much the endless boring things in course syllabi, whose topic sentences I mastered, but more the show-offy shit of my English major, writing-novels-secretly peers. Lots of name dropping, totem poles of creative heroes. As someone who's always had an artistic bent, I tried really, really hard to find some writers to commit to, that I could live and die by. But, I suppose, in the long run, I just didn't see the sense in following them, aspiring to something similar. It got boring really quickly. Pretension came so easily. Except for one or two, my Cornell-nerd-classmates were much better at ricocheting ideas off each other, trying to outdo each other, rather than doing something that was completely their own and different. The way they spoke, critiqued, wrote had endless inflections of people they knew. Exciting things were few and far part. Not to mention, they were also burnt out from school, with the creative energy of a festering sponge.

Also, I got totally stuffed with short stories. They are dense and require close reading for their full appreciation. You can't just read them, sigh, and put it back on the shelf. You have to read them 30 times, like a poem. Except it's a whole story. GAH. So, for a long time, I didn't have the stomach for fiction. Hemingway, who I used to love, repulsed me. I couldn't get through Anna Karenina (which is totally embarrassing).

So, I've been gaining my appetite back, slowly. I comforted myself with magazines for a long time, reading only the most informative, digestible non-fiction articles. The Economist and US Weekly were great tonics, and I will hang on to them for a while. I've finally moved onto books, and funnily enough, I've just realized they are all biographies of some sort. It probably has something to do with my general identity/career crisis, feelings of displacement, etc.

And God! These books were just so plain old enjoyable! I read every word, with deep interest, over sustained periods of time! A miracle!

Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay
by Nancy Mitford

I'd never read a word of her poetry, but always liked her name. I knew a girl called Millay who had been named after her. The book was lying around the farm, and though doubtful about reading about only one person, I started it, because it said there would be lots of sex. Vincent (as she was called) born in Maine, to a single mother, who had also been raised by a single mother -- which is very remarkable for the 19th century. With two other sisters in the mix, they were a strong, educated, if impoverished female household, from which Vincent emerged as a poetic genius. She was published pretty early on, and got enough attention to get a full ride to Vassar. She did the Greenwich Village/Paris thing and styled herself to be a real muse of Jazz Age. She was a bisexual sex freak, had all sorts of dependencies and an open marriage with a studly, loyal husband. The "girl poet" was beautiful in an unconventional way, and was terribly vain and egotistical -- utterly convinced of her own genius. It seems to me, she was first hipster? So cool, aloof and enamored of her place in time.

I did not particularly endear myself to her poetry, which is pretty formal for a modernizing time, but there are two simple ones that stuck:

I am waylaid by Beauty: Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage beauty, suffer me to pass,
That I am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!

and the famous, emblematic one:

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

(apologies: this has turned out to be a monster post, so I've decided to serialize it, there are two more commentaries on books upcoming)

Beiked Podado

2008-03-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

Last night, I fondly remembered one of Brasil's more ingenious enterprises--a fast-food business called "Baked Potato". It's basically steaming hot potato, with any combination of toppings and a nice big soda. It comes with a little flag that bears the Baked Potato logo, which, in red and blue squiggles, suggests British Airways in the earlier 90s. Surely to businessfy a spud with shit on it. HILARIOUS!!!

Here are the things you can put on your potato:
Olive oil, butter, broccoli, shrimp, camembert, mushrooms, cheddar ("all the delicacy of one of the finest English cheeses") and chicken.

Mind-shattering.

Parts of a Whole: Teaching Portuguese in Brazil

2008-03-10T01:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had a long-ish, nutty conversation on MSN (!!) with Pots (nee Ricardo Taveira). It started as usual, with him detailing recent exploits with ladies and segued, as usual, to how change could be effected in Brasil. It's a real think job. Like most South American countries, it does not have a tradition of democracy (it didn't fight for it like the Americans did) and individual empowerment isn't valued. It's a cozy, content, conformist behemoth of a country. We contemplated an Obama-style injection of political hope and excitement, but then remembered underdog Lula's rise to power and got very depressed. All in all, I tend to argue that the media has the power, while he thinks we need a benevolent dictator--it's top-down either way.

BUT.

I do not mean to go on about that. During this conversation, for the first time, in a long time, I remembered my Portuguese teachers, and realized what REMARKABLE people they are.

Growing up, I hated them. Because of my hearing loss, Portuguese was a real struggle for me. My parents decided English should be my first language and my fluency in Portuguese has come and come and gone ever since. At the British School (where I studied for 12 years) speaking Portuguese was forbidden outside of Portuguese lessons, and was punished often with detentions. They were trying to improve the general quality of English speaking amongst native Brasilians, or something. The American School, Graded, didn't care that much. In any case, both schools had classes that were all taught in English, as in any school in the US and England, except for Portuguese, Historia and Geografia, which were required for graduation by Brazilian standards. Portuguese was always treated as a foreign, secondary language, mostly because of wan, whiny ex-pats, that made up about 20% of the student body. As a result, many of the Brazilian students have an absurdly weak control over their own language. With me, it was also VERY difficult for Portuguese to stick, especially since I didn't speak it at home (another deaf sister, American mother).

Most Portuguese teachers couldn't stand me, couldn't understand why, after living in Brasil my whole life, I couldn't speak the damn language. The worst ones attributed it to some sort of gringo superiority, colonialism, whatever. I often got accused of using my hearing loss as an excuse. No fun.

I truly love the language with all my heart. It articulates a large part of my consciousness. I just hated those hour-long lessons.

Now, five years since my last class. I can think about it a bit differently.

Unlike the rest of the imported teachers, the Portuguese teachers came from outside the bubble--a Brasil few knew. Most of us were cloistered in our small international communities and networks of prominent families, and never really felt the need for progress. Maybe we saw it, driving by favelas, giving change at stoplights, but we never felt the need for it. We were held above the bad things in Brasil with kid gloves. We took off for American universities as soon as we graduated and sometimes didn't come back. We read the New York Times more often than the Estadao. Any one could say we didn't give a fuck about this country. Anyone could say we were fucking with it.

And there they were, trying to teach us Portuguese.

No wonder they were always a little bitter. We were kids that would grow up to be incredibly educated and have access to resources like no other Brazilian citizen. Maybe that's what was the reason. Pots told me that it was Jaime Sant'anna's. He had a reputation for being a curmudgeonly intellectual, who felt that teaching us was the only way he could hope for change. Cleber, who had a ridiculously deep voice, only bought clothes from non-profits and was passionate about his small farm from which he commuted every day. Dona Cris, who looked like a witch, was the only teacher to ever kick me out of class (for passing notes) and made me cry, twice. Truthfully, I never really got to know them, as I struggled with them every day--anomaly against anomaly, I guess. I'm not even sure they cared that much. But I'd like to think they did.

One day, I want have a big, long conversation with them in solid Portuguese and ask them why. What were they thinking?

Captions and Bullets

2008-03-05T00:06:00.001-08:00

I hope that I will stop writing these silly bullet pointed posts. I swear, there are things that I think about with great interest and focus. I do contemplate. I have thought of writing about closed captioning more often. It's starting to get to me.

OK, HERE I GO:
I sit at home, with nothing to do, without any Netflix, and I wish I could download a TV show or a movie. But I can't. Nothing is captioned. When I watch the talking heads on CNN on primary night, I want to laugh at things the same time everyone else does, instead of 3 minutes later, as I read the captions. I want to be able to go to the cinema anytime I want, instead of waiting for things to come out on DVD. I live in San Francisco, I have started reading Wired, almost everyone I know is in a technology start-up and there seems to be NOTHING IN SIGHT. How difficult can it be to develop cheap speech-to-text technology? I know most people don't mind captions, when I ask for them in movie sessions. Some people even appreciate being able to catch the nuances in screen writing. Someone, out there, can you hear me? Please. Please. Please. GIVE ME MY CAPTIONS!

BUT, I STILL NEED MY BULLET POINTS:
- I need a book to read. Preferably non-fiction, gripping. Biographies OK.
- I may or may not be dating the 2008 Olympic Torchbearer for the Americas. He is awaiting the answer from Beijing.
- I got my High School with Julia on at MSTRKRFT concert: stage-mounting, arm-flailing, woo-hooing, backstage-harrasing. She was the best though, with a grand tally of 4 free beers. I got half a bottle of water. Look how fun we are!

photo by Misha Vladimirskiy

my fingers smell like ham

2008-02-25T21:17:00.001-08:00

I just made little brie & proscuitto snack with salad, and my fingers smell like ham. Since David's not home yet, I still get to eat shit all day and not feel bad. I ate potstickers and an ice-cream sandwich for lunch.

David's out of the hospital and is staying at his grandmother's for the next few days, as there's more room for him to exercise. He's walking plenty on his little walkie, but the hardest part for him is actually sitting up, so he's either zipping around or lying angrily in bed. But he's doing fine. About 5 weeks until he's back in shape, ready for work.

I've been applying for jobs like CRAZY. I have to thank Daniela for giving me motivation--she kindly sends me endless interesting job postings and they just pile up on my list. I'm still torn between a marketing/pr/ad or teaching. I am still taking the many-pronged approach. Tomorrow is job agency day! I get to go downtown like a real grown up

I had an incredibly satisfying yoga class, even though it was packed and I flanked by very beefy, grunty males. Now I need to shower.

This is for you Dani,

this is bliss

2008-02-20T23:54:00.000-08:00

1) song makes me SO HAPPY.

2) doing the dishes!

3) the most ridiculous dance routine ever

4) they are hot!!

5) they are my best friends

THANK YOU JULIA for TEACHING ME HOW!!

whoo!

2008-02-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

Ok.
It's been wild. Since coming back to the US a week ago, the following has happened:

1) Went to Vegas for the weekend with the gang.

2) Had this insane interview which involved a few hours of going door-to-door selling AT & T services.

3) David got into a bad accident on his Vespa, snapping his femur.

Something is up, man.

But! Excellent material! I will try my best to post on them. In the meantime, here's a photo from one of the happier topics:

From Carnaval to Las Vegas

2008-02-08T15:47:00.000-08:00

Hello, everyone.

I am in Las Vegas now, in a suite the size of my apartment, and very sniffly (why do I have to get sick nooow????) Anyways, seriously, this place is huge. And covered with mirrors. And very cheap. I'm a little embarrassed now to have told my parents about the mirrors bit. Hah.

I wanted to write a little bit about Carnaval. I didn't really go anywhere, but we did go to Tiete one night. Tiete is the small town near the farm where my dad grew up. I love that city. It's about 25,000 people and Gabriel Garcia Marquez would be good at describing it. My grandparents, os americanos have lived there for 50 years and have PO BOX number 2. Number one is the Mayor. Anyways, the Carnaval in Tiete is a small affair, on the street next to the jardim (central park). While the escolas de samba in Rio might have been full of buff, beautiful, young people (who had been dieting, working out like crazy for months before the show) the Tiete Carnaval was full of oldish, chubby people and LOTS of transvestites. You would guess that they aren't very prominent in small country towns, but you really couldn't do without them on Carnaval. They are the traditional musas (the parade is incredibly structured), in which they wear the tiniest, sparkliest bikinis and samba for all they're worth in the highest heels e-ver. And man, those butt implants were no joke. I wish I could upload the video. I will figure out how to do it one day.

The next day, I helped my grandparents pick out cows for the award season and name them!

Those photos will be on my facebook.

Notes, for the sake of posting

2008-02-02T13:01:00.000-08:00

1) I went out with Gabi, Fe, De for dinner at Forneria-- I ate my sandwich with a fork and knife. That's the sort of place it was. Brazilians never eat with their fingers.

2) It's somewhat annoying that I had to mail in my vote two weeks ago, as so much shit is going down right now. I don't think I would have changed my vote (Obama) but, it's almost as if I'm not allowed to have an opinion anymore.

3) HOW TO SPOT A LIAR: I am a lipreader, and use endless other visual cues when I am talking with someone. Lying is the easiest thing to spot. See how their face breaks apart. For instance, when someone is honest, the eyes smile with the mouth. When they are lying, the eyes can retreat, while the mouth does the work. The eyes can be intense, while the mouth runs off a rambling story.

4) Dear, dear commenter from long ago. THANK YOU! LOOK! I am writing more on this blog !

Ok, going to see Juno now.

haha carnaval, post 1

2008-01-30T21:11:00.000-08:00

My Sao Paulo & Motoboys

2008-01-27T19:40:00.001-08:00

Sao Paulo, for its millions and millions, is an extremely private city. Social circles are tight and people exist between their homes, offices, schools, gyms, neighborhood malls and restaurants. The upper class lives tidily unto themselves, and never mingle with the vast others. We get around everywhere in cars and observe everything outside from out bullet-proofed withins. I don't know if this makes me less of a Paulistana, though I have lived here my whole life.

Anyways, Miss Car-bound has recently become fascinated with motoboys in this city. At any stoplight, you'll see twenty of them, lined up between the lanes, in black rubber suits, beat-up bikes filled with stickers, blasting nasty fumes, before taking off to complete their delivery. To us in cars, they are a menace, driving like maniacs, kicking off mirrors, picking fights with whoever gets in their way. You do not want to mess with them. They are like mean, mean cowboys. Oh, romantic me, I love them.

And, yay! The Vejinha (Sao Paulo's local newsweekly) did a story on them this weekend because of their strike last week. It was against increasing insurance dues, restricting routes and mandating them to use regulation helmets and reflector stripes. Because there are at least 250,000 of them, and only 150,000 organized, it will be impossible to get anything done, but it still got them a little attention.

Beyond the numbers, article was surprisingly sensitive. One motoboy said "Minha mae e minha mulher pedem todo dia para eu sair dessa profissao. Mas nao tem jeito. Ser motoboy vicia." / "My mother and my wife ask me every day to leave this work. But, there is no way. Being a motoboy is addictive." I can sort of imagine it-- the thrill of sewing in the traffic, trying to get to the place on time, traversing huge swaths of polluted concrete. There is also huge subculture, from a tremendous amount of solidarity between them, especially in the us-versus-them way, which really hits the spot in a town like Sao Paulo.

The authors, Duarte and Veiga, also described this provisional measure, in which the motoboys were asked to travel down the Marginais (two main riverside arteries) in designated lanes, as opposed to between the cars. The result was terrible. The accidents (normally 250 a day, citywide) doubled and traffic was worse. I like to think that this is because the steady, fatty cars need to pace down their lanes, and the speedy little bikes need to dart around them, in an some weird balance of movement.

Of course, in the bigger scheme of things, it really is a terrible symptom of a grossly urban city in a country that can barely keep up with itself. They are a problem that needs to be controlled. Recently, a law was passed that forbade two people to ride a bike at the same time, as it is a common means of assault. The shitty motorbike is the perfect getaway vehicle. Real old-school outlaw stuff.

I Wish I Had Written This

2008-01-25T10:09:00.002-08:00

This is an article in Wired Magazine about hearing aids. It totally made my day, I never hear about other deaf people, or hearing aids, and I see this awesome little piece. I think I'm going to start writing more about being deaf and shizz.

ESG

PS - I'm also going to start making this site prettier, to motivate me.

WHY HEARING AIDS SUCK

When your eyes start to go, you have some satisfying remedies. Glasses — a centuries-old technology that costs a couple hundred bucks and is often covered by health insurance — or contacts, which are constantly improving. But if your hearing starts to fade, get ready for sticker shock and frustration. Hearing aids can cost more than $3,000 apiece, they don't do a good job of correcting the problem, and insurance companies rarely pay for them.

Welcome to the screwy world of ear gear. Because these devices are highly specialized, manufacturers build most of the parts from scratch — their products benefit from neither economies of scale nor third-party innovations. And as a result, there has been little progress in improving three critical components: the microphone, the microprocessor, and the battery.

The woes start with the microphone. Typical hearing aid mics pick up sound from all directions. The resulting cacophony is exhausting for the user, who must concentrate to isolate relevant input. High-end hearing aids add a directional microphone trained in front of the listener, but that increases cost and, critically, bulk.

The microphone feeds a processor, which amplifies certain areas of the audio spectrum according to the user's particular type of hearing loss. But inevitably, some signals recirculate between mic and speaker, producing feedback — the bane of many wearers (imagine a mosquito inside your ear canal). Digital tech is an improvement over earlier analog designs, but the software remains underdeveloped. The algorithms aren't very effective, and features like noise reduction and feedback cancellation are offered only in high-end models.
Then there's the battery, which sacrifices strength — and thus longevity — to fit in a tight spot. Space-saving zinc-air power cells, for example, use air to activate a zinc anode. But once their protective tab is removed, they start making power and don't stop. So the battery drains even if the device is not in use.

And the insurers? Where are they? Perversely, they don't pay because the problem is so ubiquitous. Thirty million Americans suffer from hearing loss, so insurers typically restrict coverage to people who are deaf or nearly deaf. Those with moderate loss — that is, most of the 30 million — are tagged for the full retail cost of their devices. Alas, that means many people who need a hearing aid never get one; they can't afford it.

The news for hearing aid users isn't all bad. Increased demand from aging technophilic boomers is expected to spur both innovation and acceptance: Researchers are looking to consumer electronics to sex up what has been a medical-device backwater. And now that everyone walks around wearing a Bluetooth headset, the stigma of having a device clamped to your ear is receding. This should drive more adoption, innovation, and (maybe) lower prices.

Christmus is coming

2007-12-21T05:52:00.000-08:00

Last night, I spent a nice long time at big Sofia's house talking about whatever (boyfriends) and drinking wine. She drank tea and ate pineapple--she's a particular eater. She puts great thought into what she consumes. When we go to restaurants, I always wish I had gotten what she's ordered. Which is usually something light and very tasty, when I get the big old heavy pasta.

My parents started to call me like crazy, probably waking up with a jolt, freaking out about where I was, so I decided to go home. The ride home was a little scary. The rain was so torrential, I was half expecting the cab driver to pull out some oars and pull the string for the motor. Could barely see ahead of me. I gave him a big tip. Brave man.

Going to help little Sofia with her college essays.

AGAIN!

2007-12-18T03:14:00.001-08:00

Julia D., of New York City, sometime of San Francisco, has a blog going, and it's gotten me all eager to start again.
But, I don't want to write. It makes the whole thing a drag. I will have photos!

I'm in Sao Paulo now, doing looooads of Xmas shopping and sitting in traffic.

You will get a photo of traffic!

xo
erin

2007-10-28T22:20:00.000-07:00

It feels very late here and I'm sitting in the dark, listening to Caetano and Gal's "Domingo." It's an excellent album--I play it about once a day. My last post was months ago, and the reason I am writing now is because I should. David has a job with terrible hours, meaning he goes to bed as early as I can get him to (7-8) leaving me lying awake in the dark for a few hours. I have met up with a friend for drinks, I have watched DVDs all night, but not tonight. So, here I am working on an old self-made promise to keep my writing muscle healthy.

Last week, on a similar blinking-awake night, I read all my old papers and realized I'm not as bad as I thought I was. At Cornell, I wrote a column for two years and in the very last semeseter, I got very sick of it and started writing badly. It eventually caught up with me (embarrassing story) and I'm still getting over it. Anyways, in order for this all to work, I have decided that each post will have a TOPIC and be about 500 words, at the very least. This entry is an exception.

I have noticed that when I get nervous and muddled about what to write about, I tend to write about writing, which is pathetic and boring. Even to Serious Writers.

So, let me go forth!

This weekend, I went to the Exotic Erotic Ball. David and I bought tickets several weeks ago, hearing that this was a San Francisco institution we could not miss. We're not really the kinky crazy type, but we love to have a good story to tell. It rolled around this weekend, and we met up with Greg and his date Rebecca at his apartment downtown. They had Billy Joel blaring and had clearly happied themselves in several ways before we go there. David and I were handed a glass of wine and we all undressed for the group photo. I was wearing tights and a tanktop--sexy but very conservative. Everyone else was pretty comfortable, except for Rebecca who wasn't really ready to drop her hands from her see-through top.

When we finally go to the Cow Palace (an old show center) we checked in and milled around for a bit. There were plenty of sexy, colorful Halloween costumes. Lots of boobs hanging out, lots of penises. But, you know at this point people are pretty nonchalant about it, especially when beer is going for $8 a pop. The weird thing was the amount of cameras there. Lots of people taking pictures. Lots of regular, middle-aged men, taking photos. Yes. That sort of thing. It was OK, because I was relatively covered up. The party would have definitely benefited from lowering ladies' ticket rates and selling them at the door, not online.

It was a fun night, but it was a little too far. The bus rides were the better part of the night.

I'm all sleepy now and don't feel like putting a thoughtful conclusion.

But I'm very happy to have written something.

Night.

The Very First Post

2007-08-07T12:20:00.000-07:00

This is my post-college effort to maintain writing, though I swore it off for at least 30 years in May. I will write 800 word things as regularly as I can. They will be well-thought out and stylish. It is also a way for my family and friends to keep in touch with my life, as I am recently transplanted in San Francisco and they live in Sao Paulo. That's about 20 hours of travelling.

The first post comes soon!

xo
Erin