Christmas is coming
And I'm sure you're scrambling for gift ideas. In an effort to be extremely helpful, here are two suggestions. First is this lovely Sumo Wrestler table. Suitable for any decor (in a house owned by a blind person) it features a glass top supported by a crouching wrestler (complete with extra large butt hanging out). Imagine the look on your mother's face when she unwraps this beauty.



Mom not a sports fan? Perhaps she likes movies. Show her your love with this homage to the most famous movie mother of all.


It's too bad my mom has a shower door and not a shower curtain.

Anybody want a kitty?
My mom has decided she doesn't want to keep Lily/Glory. She's a very sweet cat but very shy and she spends most of her time hiding under large pieces of furniture. My mom isn't the most patient of pet owners and keeps looking for her, rather than leaving her alone to come out when she's ready. So she wants to give her up.

I just don't have the heart to take her back to the Humane Society so we're going to try her here with Cipher But we're not too certain that will work out. Cipher's a pretty rambunctious cat -- not the best companion for a kitty that's afraid of an 84 year old woman. Plus we just adore Cipher and don't want her to be unhappy sharing her life with an upstart. Since we're naturally a bit concerned, I thought I'd ask if any of my friends would be interested in a little furball. So if anybody is in the market for a new pet, please let me know.

She's a really lovely animal. Small and charming. I've always found her to be rather affectionate -- she seems to love my lap. I think she'll be a great animal for someone who doesn't mind being patient with a shy little critter who just needs a good home and a loving owner. I feel responsible for her since I took my mom to adopt her and I also feel very protective of this cute little thing that completely endeared herself to me. All I want it to know that she's safe and loved.

But since I doubt anyone will raise their hands in the next 24-hours, I hope you'll at least wish us luck. We're going to pick her up tomorrow to introduce her to Cipher. I may never sleep again.

Little House...the XXX version
In order to get out of paying to have the entire Little House on the Prairie series watched and OK'd by the censors in Finland, the distribution company is releasing it as banned for under 18s. At last, we can find out what "Half Pint" was really up to in that hay loft.

Holy no hole, Batman!
Today I had my post-ulcer-diagnosis endoscopy which revealed (drum roll...) that my ulcer is gone!!! (I shall now pause for suitable huzzahs and handsprings.)

The meds have done their magic and my stomach is now intact. I get to cut back on the drugs to every-other day and have to stay off aspirin and Motrin indefinitely, but I'm doing great. I made it through the entire month of October without one episode of zarfing and I honestly haven't felt this good in ages. So, for now at least, I am no longer on the list of the walking wounded.

Ladies and gentlemen, the bitch is back!

Duck and cover
You know it's a weird day when you look out your front window and see this coming towards you.

An unbelievable night
I cried when I heard the news. I am so proud of every person who voted for Obama. For saying "enough is enough" and voting for change, for hope, and for our future. Never in my life have I ever seen such joy at the outcome of an election. There are tears, there is singing, there is dancing in the street. And, in our house, there is champagne.

Today was an odd day. I have never been so careful filling out a ballot in my life as I was this morning. I slowly clicked through to the name Obama and then just stared at it. I clicked, and stared again. I double-checked to make sure I voted right. I actually checked each line on my ballot before submitting it. Then I checked each line on the paper print-out. Then I went home and began to pace. I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than 5 minutes. I baked brownies (my new passion is baking). I surfed the web. I tried to read my book. I put it down again. I channel surfed on TV. I panicked. I hated that I had to do my radio show tonight because I wanted to stay home.

And I still don't feel like it's real. We made our first donation to Obama the day he announced his candidacy. We've been with him the entire time -- which is usually the kiss of death for our candidate of choice. And we've obsessed, and we've worried, and we've gotten more and more excited about the prospect of this man actually becoming our next president. And now it's real and yet it feels so unreal.

There are rare times in each life where they feel like they are actually part of history. For me I've had two of those. The candlelight vigil in San Francisco after Moscone and Milk were killed, and the AIDS quilt display on the mall in Washington. An now I've had a third moment. I was part of this tidal wave that voted for Obama. I took part in the election that captured the eyes of the world. I was inspired to stand up with everyone who hates where the Bush administration has taken us and did my part to help bring about a victory.

There is no possible way I can be eloquent enough to capture what today has meant for so many. And I know the web will be filled with poetic personal reflections, witty observations, and intelligent commentaries about the day. All I can say is that for the first time in a very, very long time, I am proud to be American.

Happy anniversary
In my continued family tree search I found that my paternal grandparents, Elizabeth and Lloyd, were married 92 years ago today. November 4, 1916.

My New York Times Debut
The NYT has a fascinating gallery of citizen photo-journalists capturing today's election. My photos can be found here and here. It's surprisingly compelling to see how American's have captured their own small parts of history in their snapshots. Everything from lines and actual ballots to more whimsical depictions of the day.

If you haven't voted yet (and why haven't you????) I urge you to take your camera along. (Be careful, though, in some places you're not allowed to photograph the actual polling place.) But there are plenty of opportunities for other types of pictures.

Too scared to sleep
No, not because I watched a scary movie or read some Edgar Allen Poe. I'm too scared to sleep because it's 12:06 am, which means election day is upon us. And I'm terrified. I have so much emotion invested in this one. So many people do. We've given our money, our time, and our passion to make sure that this time, the right guy is actually declared the winner.

There's just so much riding on it. And for those of us in California, it's not just a matter of making sure the right guy (and, therefore, the American people) wins, it's about ensuring marriage equality. It's about voting for fairness and not discrimination - about giving our friends, our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, the right to wear white, throw rice, register at Williams Sonoma and have the same kind of loving, lasting, legal marriage that those of us who "choose" to be heterosexual have.

And so I can't sleep. I'm already counting the hours until I can cast my vote (at a local retirement home where they serve cookies and juice to those of us exercising our democratic rights). And I'm wondering if it's too late to take up God so that I can actually pray that Mister Self-Proclaimed Maverick and Mrs. Scary Mom have a truly awful election day.

About those relatives....
Thanks to the kindness of strangers (or a way long-lost, very distant 15th cousin twice removed) my family tree search has had a breakthrough. It turns out that my great-great grandfather and her great-grandfather were brothers. She's done a fair amount of research and thanks to her contacting me and sharing that research I'm now back to one set of great-great-great grandparents.

Unfortunately that leads me to yet another dead end all the way around. I've searched and searched, in vain, for the next set of ancestors in all directions and haven't had any luck. But I have found a few mysteries. For example, who was Jeanette? According to one document she was the daughter of my grandparent -- but my mother never mentioned having a sister named Jeanette. I have her listed as having been born in Canada in 1911 and dying in Detroit in 1952. My mother was born in Michigan in 1924. But in the 1920 census there's no record of a Jeanette living with my grandparents...so what happened to her? She obviously didn't die young. In fact, the record shows she married and had 3 sons. Is she my mother's sister? Did I find a record for another Frederick & Violet Campbell (not my grandparents) that have led me down the wrong path?

It's a fascinating search, and wildly frustrating. Where do I go when every road leads nowhere? On one side I have a John Campbell coming over from Scotland in the early 1800s. Unfortunately every other man who came over from Scotland was named John Campbell and there's no telling which one was my g-g-g-grandfather. On three other sides I have families whose names nobody knows how to spell. For one family alone (my paternal grandmother's) I've found no fewer than 7 different spellings of a last name.

So I dig on. Frustrated, but fascinated. I just wish it were a bit easier...

KZSU goes international
One of my favorite sources of music at KZSU is the Francophonie Diffusion Network. They have a website where radio stations can obtain the latest singles from France and French-speaking countries.

This month I am interviewed in their "closer look at" feature on their website. Each month they focus on a different radio station around the world and KZSU is the latest feature. My English is a bit "quaint" as the contact there got rid of my colloquial speech, but it's a nice write up of the station and even includes my photo.

The curse of Halloween
The curse of Halloween is not headless horsemen or wayward ghosts....nope, it's mini-candy bars. You know you have to buy them, because the gremlins are coming and they don't want that bag of pearl barley you can't remember why you bought. They want candy.

So you buy candy....and then the candy calls you from the kitchen. Candy. Not something we usually have in our house. And now there are bags of Snickers, Milky Way, and Hershey's with almonds just sitting there. And you know I have no willpower. But if I give in I'll gain back all that pre-zarf weight, and I kinda like being skinny. (Well, skinny for me anyway.)

I can hear you being the voice of reason "why didn't you buy candy you hate, and then you won't be tempted." Yeah, not going to work. The only candy I hate is the candy that kids also hate. And I just can't bring myself to give kids those wierd suckers that only show up in bags of 300 for $5 around Halloween. Nope, for someone who is not really a kid-person, I still want to give them yummy candy because that's what's Halloween is about. When I was a kid, we hated the house that gave us raisins -- and we'd always toss out the Abba-Zabba (what the hell is Abba-Zabba anyway?) But we were big fans of anyone who gave us really good candy. And not just one each -- people who'd give us a handful were our best friends.

Back when I did AIDS work and got free condoms I also gave them out on Halloween. No, not to the 5-year olds. To the junior and high school kids who'd come around after 9, barely bothering with costumes, jonesing for some free M & Ms. Surprisingly enough, the condoms were quite popular (and yes, the got candy too). But now it's just candy....and it knows my name.

The "C" word...
On Friday I was at the Stanford Shopping Center where I passed by a store that already had a Christmas tree in their window. Good lord, it isn't even Halloween!

And yet, in spite of my annoyance at people jump-starting Christmas earlier every year I started my own shopping in August.

Yeah, I'm one of those damned people who gets there shopping done early. I'm always done by Thanksgiving...so shoot me. I think it comes from having worked in retail for so long. I hated being in stores between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The crowds. The insane lack of parking. The waiting in line forever. All to prepare for an event that everyone knows is coming but nobody seems ready for. So I got into the habit of shopping early.

I suppose it's easier now that there's this crazy thing called the Internet. Not having to go into a mall is a good thing. But I still try to get done before turkey day. Now it's more a case of not wanting all the Visa bills to come at one time. If I spread it out over a few months then it doesn't seem quite so painful. I know it's a stupid fake psych out, but hey...you do what works.

So I've already got a stash of gifts, but very few ideas for the majority of my family. I'm trying this year to shop with organizations that do some good in the world. My favorite is Serrv International which sells fair trade gifts and helps support artisans in developing countries. I highly recommend them. I've been a customer for years and have always been increased with their products and service. They have a wonderful selection of gifts, especially baskets and jewelry, from around the world. I have several of their African baskets in my home and they're really beautiful. Anyway, if you have lots of shopping to do, you might want to check them out. Since we all have to spend money, it helps to know you're spending money for a good cause.

....cat update....

So "Glory" (see below) is back to being "Lily" again. My mom can't really make up her mind. But the cat is doing well. She spent the day out in the open, mostly sleeping on mom's sofa. Unfortunately she still seems to prefer me to mom. When I went over this evening to check up on them I went to the sofa and sat next to Lily. She immediately woke up, walked over to me, curled into my lap, and went back to sleep again. She stayed there for almost 90 minutes. She really seems to have taken to me -- I just hope she's as affectionate with my mom and my sister.

Also, knowing how much trouble Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) can be in the middle of the night, I'm hoping she's not too annoyingly nocturnal. I can't imagine either mom or sister being as tolerant of feline insomnia as Husband and I are. If she's too much trouble I can easily picture mom wanting to give her up. If that happens I have a feeling she'll end up here. And, as adorable as Lily is, I don't know that we want another cat.

OK, I won't borrow trouble. But I am concerned.

Cipher's cousin
So yesterday I took my mom to the Humane Society and she adopted "Lily". (Although my mom has changed her name to "Glory.") She's a small, shy, white calico with a sweet disposition and an off-key meow. Apparently she spent the night under my mom's bed but she's slowly coming out to explore her new space. I helped get her and mom settled yesterday and went back today to see how they were getting along. My mom's not big on patience so she's a bit bothered that the cat is still hiding, but I told her to leave Glory alone and that she'll come out when she's ready.

Oh, and the cat seems to like me more than my mom. When I went into my mom's room, the kitty came right to me and curled up in my lap. I must have animal magnetism.

Support your local independent bookstore
My favorite is Kepler's in Menlo Park, an amazing place that I love to death. The only problem is that I can't ever get out of there without spending close to a hundred bucks. I had occasion to wander through today before having lunch with a dear friend (thanks, Foreigner, it was great!) and, once again, I walked out $80 lighter and several books heavier.

Being there, though, reminded me of the simple pleasure of wandering through a bookstore. Aside from the next book group selection, I had no specific books in mind. And yet I found 5 other books that intrigued or enticed me in some way. And the joy of finding new books is amplified when I think that I'm supporting a local, independent bookseller. Considering that I worked in chain bookstores throughout high school and college (B. Daltons, Waldenbooks, Brentanos) I suppose it seems odd that I'm such a champion of independents, but I love them. I love booksellers who actually read and love books. Who write recommendations that show they have the same warped affinity for words that I have. Who have those quirky titles you don't even know you want, and would never find if all you did was visit amazon.com (nothing against Amazon, I give them a lot of business too). But it's those tables full of wonderful new discoveries that get me every time. And that's what independents do better than anyone else -- they take the trouble to find unloved treasures. They give attention to local writers. They sell the books that you're not going to find on the "New Fiction" shelf at your local B & N.

So do yourself a favor and visit your favorite local independent bookstore. Drop some cash. Keep them in business. And make yourself SO happy.

Facing your fears
With Halloween fast approaching (and what are you giving out this year?) we seem to be surrounded by ghosts and other things that go the proverbial bump in the night. Last night, TCM had a Val Lewton film festival, including my favorites of his movies I Walked With a Zombie.

But all these TV specials on the paranormal and scary movie nights have got me thinking about fear. I know that I joke about being terrified by Celine Dion, but that's not what really scares me. Like most people, I have my share of phobias (not too crazy about heights. I'm OK in tall buildings, I just don't like heights I might fall from, like being on a ladder) and my share of things that just cause me stress (I hate going to parties where I only know 1 or 2 people).

I remember when The Blair Witch Project came out and everyone was saying how scary it was. I was a combination of bored and car sick. I think that's because scary movies really only work if they tap into some sort of fear that you have. I don't have a fear of being lost in the woods -- because when the fuck am I ever going to go into the woods? So the whole "trapped and hunted" thing just didn't get to me. But I give it points because it tried to have a scary premise, and didn't base its whole fame on "boo scares" (things jumping out at you unexpectedly) or on being just gross. I haven't seen many modern horror films because I really don't want to spend 90 minutes looking at exploding spleens.

It's interesting that some people are terrified by one thing that doesn't faze another. For instance, I have no problem speaking in public, being on stage, or generally making an ass out of myself publicly. And yet I know many people for whom this would be a pee-inducing fear. I'm also not afraid of spiders and snakes (aside from my hatred - not fear - of ants). But (and this is weird, I know) I find certain types of flowers (especially little ones) to be creepy. Don't ask me to explain it, I can't. It's not a fear, I just think they're gross. I don't want to touch or get near them. And dead flowers are the worst. Husband knows never to give me flowers because either they'll creep me out when they're still fresh, or I'll throw them out days before they wilt because I don't want dead flowers hanging around. Totally irrational, I know, but there it is.

I do, however, have certain legitimate fears. For example, I'm terrified that in the upcoming election McCain will win and we'll have 4 more years of incompetence, compounded by the Queen of the Idiots - Palin. I also fear that Prop 8 will pass and Californians will outlaw same-sex marriage. I am not, however, afraid of ghosts. I think I might have even seen one, once. Or maybe I just like to believe I did because I find the idea of ghosts to be kinda cool.

I'm not afraid of being chased into a dark basement by a serial killer (because who, in California, has a basement?) but I am afraid that I will never own my own home -- which is the one thing I've always wanted. I don't fear mummies, zombies, werewolves, vampires, or other undead demons, but I am afraid of not living up to my potential. When my first marriage broke up, and I found myself single (and, apparently, completely unattractive to the opposite sex) I was afraid of being lonely for the rest of my life. Not alone, because I was OK alone....but lonely. Since I'm not really close to my family I would often find myself by myself on my birthday or other occasions and it sucked. But then I met Husband and my life changed completely.

But I still have odd, irrational fears that, while completely unexplainable, are real to me. For example, because I feel we'll never be able to afford a house here, I have this terrible fear of ending up broke, living in a dilapidated Airstream on the edge of the Mojave Desert. No, really, I do. I have a fear that my brain will erode if I stop reading and learning all the time, so I find myself picking up books or watching documentaries on things that might not necessarily interest me just so I can do something more productive than watch I Love Lucy or read a cheesy romance novel. I worry that I'm not a good enough friend, that the people I love won't know how much they mean to me -- even though I try to tell them because I know how fragile life is and how important it is to tell people how you feel. I'm afraid that I don't do enough for the world at large, that I'm not making a big enough difference -- either monetarily or through volunteering. And I fear that the world is falling apart because more people aren't even trying -- that we'll lose our polar bears and our rain forests, that we'll keep killing each other in the name of religion, that we'll keep dying of starvation, AIDS, and genocide. That while the majority of solvent Americans are still counting their stock options and driving their Hummers, the rest of the world is in crisis and in need of us to open our hearts and our wallets.

But, after all this gloom, I find consolation where we started -- in old horror movies. Movies that aren't scary in the lest, but so much fun. Movies with the aforementioned zombies and mummies that demand a dark room and popcorn. The kind of good, escapist, pleasure that they don't seem to make anymore. You can keep your knife-wielding-psychotic-killers-in-a-sorority-house films. I'll take Boris Karloff anytime.

Feel free to share your fears. After all, I fessed up to little flowers.

CD Pick of the Week: Lila Downs
One of my top 3 of 2008 (so far). Lila Downs Shake Away.The delicious Mexican-American-Mixtec singer dishes up yet another seriously good release. There’s fire and fun in equal blends with a solid band and great material, everything from mystical folk-based tunes to political commentaries to covers of songs such as “Black Magic Woman.” Great guest stars. In English and Spanish. This one rocks, folks, and it’s fabulously good.

Meanwhile, back in Kosovo
What did we do before YouTube? This one cracked me up.

Ginger for President!
Need a laugh? Check out An Engineer's Guide to Voting. It'll make your day.

CD Pick of the Week: Chiwoniso
Check out Rebel Woman by Chiwoniso. This Zimbabwean/American artist is a delicious female vocalist & songwriter who is backed by mbira, guitars, percussion, horns and other wonderful sounds. Her voice is soulful, soaring, warm, lyrical and powerful and the music is fresh and captivating. Everything is so good. This one is delicious!

The cat's pajamas
Thanks to Husband I can share with you my favorite photo of Cipher, The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm. At the moment she's sleeping like a feline angel on the back of her favorite chair. In a few hours, she'll be making sure I don't get any sleep.

Song, Theme Song
With the new James Bond film set to open next month (the thickly-named Quantum of Solice), there's already hype and hoopla.

This article from the London Times about Bond movie theme songs provides some material for debate.

It's tot to be hard to write a Bond theme. There are so many expectations, and so many inescapable comparisons. I mean when you go to a Bond movie, you expect certain things from the time to sit down with your popcorn until the time the final credits run. It has to begin with an exciting pre-credits thrill. Then a catchy theme song illustrated with silhouettes of naked women dancing with guns. Then the real fun begins. Even in the more serious Bond movies (the first Daniel Craig outing was one of those films that demands to be called "gritty.), you go in knowing you'll have that opening to hold on to.

The really hard part for contemporary Bond-theme-composers is that you'll never live up to Goldfinger. I know some people might argue for Live and Let Die but to me, Goldfinger is the best Bond theme ever. You just can't beat Shirley Bassey defining "over the top" with that final note. It's got everything: a catchy sound, lots of drama, great kitsch value, a solid tie-in with the plot of the film, and just great music. The worst Bond theme is more debatable. But I vote for All Time High the hideously drippy theme from the equally drippy Octopussy.

Of course, you're hampered when the title of the movie doesn't lend itself to the title, or even the chorus, of the theme song. You really couldn't have a song called "Octopussy." (According to the article, the new film has the same problem. Nobody's gonna hum a song called "Quantum of Solace.") But considering how many films there are in the Bond franchise, there are impressively few clunkers. (One disagreement I have with the article is they put "For Your Eyes Only" in the bad category and I rather like it.)

So, what's your favorite and your least? Debate people, I need a drinkie.

CD Pick of the Week: Acquaragia Drom
People, get this one. Rom Kaffe by the Italian band Acquaragia Drom. This is feisty Italian gypsy music featuring vocals, strings, horns, clarinet, accordion, and more. It’s crazy and fun, like the weirdest circus to ever come to town. You’ll peek through the shutters of your window as they pass through the streets, playing their music. And before you know it, you’ll be part of the parade. I liked every track, each one leads to some sort of surprise. These guys must be fabulous in concert.

Get out of our politics
Yeah, Mormons, I'm talking to you. According to this San Francisco Chronicle article, out of state Mormons are being recruited for a telephone campaign in support of Prop 8.

First off, I'm just pissed that non-Californians are trying to dictate our state politics. But secondly...am I the only one who sees the irony in the Mormons (of all groups) trying to legally define what marriage is? This group was persecuted, exiled and, at times, killed for their non-traditional marriages. (Yes, I know that plural marriages was a long time ago and it is no longer part of the Mormon religion.) But the fact remains that, historically, one of the reasons why they ended up in Utah is because they got chased out of everywhere else because non-Mormons didn't like plural marriages.

And here they are, trying to inflict the same prejudice they experienced on another group.

People, don't vote for hatred. Don't discriminate against an entire section of society just because you don't "agree" with how they live. They're not asking for your approval, just looking for equality.

No on 8. Or don't you be coming back here...

Watch out for that pipe wrench!
In my ongoing attempt to embarrass myself in public, I will admit to liking the 80's A-Ha hit "Take on Me." And yeah, I like the video too. Which is why I found Take on Me: The Literal Video Version to be hilarious. (Thanks to Husband for pointing this out to me.)

In praise of Colma
One of the most pleasant film-surprises of the past year has been Colma: The Musical, a delightful independent movie filmed in, you guessed it, Colma. I recently saw it on the Sundance channel and Husband and I were both smitten.

It is a musical, with clever lyrics and delightfully inventive direction, not to mention some very strong performances. For me the stand-out was the incredibly talented H.P. Mendoza who stars as Rodel, a young gay man and aspiring writer with some serious family issues. Mr. Mendoza also wrote the screenplay and the music (don't you just hate people who can do everything?).

We finished watching it a few days ago and there are several scenes that really stick in my mind, including one beautiful number featuring couples waltzing in a graveyard and a solo number featuring Mendoza singing about his "happy place."

If you have the chance to rent, buy, or watch this one, I highly recommend it. It's especially captivating for those of us who grew up on the Peninsula and know exactly where (and what) Colma is.

Rooted
So I'm searching my family tree. It's fascinating, and harder work that you'd think. So far I've hit dead ends on both my mother's and my father's side of the family. On my mother's side I'm hampered by the fact that her maiden name is maddeningly common and that her mother's family has a last name that nobody knows how to spell (seriously, I've tried every spelling I can think of to no avail). On my father's side I can trace his maternal side to the first ones to come to the US from France, but on his father's side I can't get past my dad's grandfather. But I shall keep searching.

It's peculiar how interested I am in my family history, considering how I'm not the most familial of creatures. But I really want to know where I come from. Unfortunately my father is dead and my mother's memory isn't too sharp these days so I'm running out of people to ask for details. We have some of them written down from years ago, but nobody has done anything to document it. So I am. It's both intriguing and infuriating that each new discovery only raises more questions. For example, I found a census with my great-grandmother (on my mother's side) on it. It says she was born in Canada (but doesn't say where), that her mother was born in Ireland (doesn't say where) and her father was born in Scotland (again, doesn't say where). The big problem is that the men in my mom's family have names that are the Scottish equivalent of "John Smith." Do a search for my grandfather's name and you'll likely find a thousand men.

I'm working on Husband's family as well. In actual fact his family tree is more interesting than mine (including a great-great grandmother with the glorious name of Araminta), but here too I can only get so far. It's an exercise in patience and research (I love to research things, but I haven't much patience) and I know I'll eventually make breakthroughs (at least I hope I will). I have no visions of tracing either family back to William the Conquerer or Charlemagne, but it would be nice to have more information about who we come from.

Who says science is dull?
The Ig Nobel prizes have been awarded.

Stop presses! Fleas on dogs jump further than fleas that live on cats. String will always get tangled in knots. And something really weird about lap dancers and, well, why spoil the mystery?

Oh the horrors!
I have a very dear, living-too-far-away friend coming to stay with us in two weeks and since he's rarely here in the Bay Area there are a lot of people he'd love to see. I'm having a few of "the group" over for a brunchy-lunchy-type gathering and I'm already freaking out.

Now there are some people who are born entertainers. (By which I do not mean Groucho Marx.) I mean Martha-esque type entertaining. Many of my friends (including The Foreigner, Finny, and the Lurker) are wonderful cooks. I, on the other hand, am not.

I come by my lack of cooking talent through genetics. My mother is a notoriously bad cook. Not only can I not cook well, I don't even know where to start in terms of what to serve. I mean I realize that my friends love me anyway and certainly aren't coming over here for the food. They're coming for a reunion. But I have to serve them something. I can't just hand them a bag of chips and a Coke and say "enjoy!"

Which leaves me wandering aimlessly through recipe sites and cookbooks. And wondering why I missed getting the chef's gene. Some people (Finny, I'm talking about you.) seem to naturally be able to imagine how food will taste. "Hey," she'll say, "let's combine home-grown tomatoes with bacon and pine nuts." And voila! she's got a yummy salad/bread/main course that looks and tastes delicious. "Hey," I'll say, "I'll follow this recipe exactly and voila! it looks and tastes like doggy poopy."

So in addition to the fact that I really (REALLY!) need to clean the house, I have a week to figure out what to cook, how to cook, and what the hell this little shiny thingy is in my utensil drawer. It's gonna we a long week...

CD Pick of the Week: Ayombe!
Ayombe! The Heart of Colombia's Musica Vallenata. Totally fresh and fabulous. Four types of music: puya (feat. lots of accordion), Merengue (upbeat & catchy), son (slower) and paseo (light & lively). Great performances throughout, you can’t go wrong with any track. Everything is SO good! Great notes too.

A fascinating look into the past
Can be found at the wondrous Daily Scrapbook. It's a glorious wander through history courtesy of the website (and book) by Jessica Helfand. I want some of these for my own collection...

Celebrate freedom....read a banned book
According to the American Library Association September 29-October 6th is "Banned Books Week". They have suggestions on how to celebrate, which includes a list of the 100 most frequently challenged books of 1990-2000. I'm sure you've read at least one, because titles include the Harry Potter series, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, James and the Giant Peach, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.

And, as Sarah Palin has so frighteningly illustrated, people are still trying to dictate what we can read....so please don't take reading for granted.

When your past is on DVD
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Invasion Stanford. (I just wish I could give you the actual movie.) Turns out Husband was in a student film while a student at Stanford. He recently obtained a copy of the DVD and we started watching it last night. Actually, it's not a movie -- it's a 4-part sci-fi/comedy miniseries. Husband plays "Arthur" the apparently insane RA who has (in my opinion) the best lines in the script.

Wow....Husband at 19. With hair! Not just hair, a ponytail! It's the oddest thing seeing him on film. I mean it's one thing to see photos of someone you love before you knew them, but it's another to see them walking, talking, and being....well....a college student.

So far we've watched 2 parts and it's proven to be an amusing experience. Invasion Stanford has some clever moments, and it's VERY Stanford. It also has a spaceship that looks like the Satellite of Love from the old MST show. Plus aliens, an anti-road-reflector movement, and actual footage of KZSU. It's pretty funny...and, for me, highly surreal.

The coolest...
Last weekend Husband and I watched the classic '60s cop flick Bullitt. I hadn't seen it in years and I'm happy to say it seriously holds its coolness factor.

Was there ever any actor as cool as Steve McQueen? Those steely, ice-blue eyes. The strong, silent stare. That sexy macho-ness. In retrospect I think he had all of 10 minutes of dialogue in the movie, but it doesn't mater. His presence is magnetic. And the famous car chase just plain rocks.

I love seeing movies shot in San Francisco. It's always cool to be eating popcorn and say "hey, I've been to that cafe." Or "my best friend used to live a block from there." Well the classic chase in Bullitt is geographically impossible (from the Mission to the Marina to San Bruno Mountain) and they do pass the same little green VW bug three times, but it's just so damned cool you don't care. Tires squealing, hubcaps flying, bouncing over hills and screaming around corners.

So the plot manages to be both thin and hard to follow, it's still a great film made even better by the sexy Mr. McQueen and an uber-hip '60s score by the genius, Lalo Shiffrin.

Fictional favorites
The always-interesting Dark Party Review asked a few authors "What literary character do you find the most compelling? and, as usual, got some interesting answers.

For me, it's gotta be good old Sherlock Holmes. Sure the stories are flawed and cliched but there's just no forgetting Holmes once you read about him. The moods, the razor-sharp brain, even his rudeness are all quite distinctly him. He may not be the most likable character ever, but he's definitely compelling.

Runners up:
Pip (Great Expectations)
Jane Eyre
Don Quixote
Elizabeth Bennett
Winnie the Pooh

What is it with Target?
I don't usually shop at Target. But they have Nick & Nora jammies (which I love) at a good price and since I no longer fit into anything I own, I went to buy some jammies. That's it. Just a pair of pajamas. So why did I walk out 45-minutes and $175 later?

Target is one of those stores where every time you turn around you realized you need something. And because they sell everything, you end up spending FAR more than you intended. "Oh yeah, you tell yourself, we're nearly out of toothpaste." And into the cart it goes. Oh hey, they have sweats on sale and I don't fit into any of those either...so you pick up some sweats. And a new sports bra (in case I ever, in my life, feel like working out again). And a kitchy-cute candy holder for Halloween because it's coming up. And some new socks for Husband because he bought new shoes and his old socks are too thick. And....

...and so it goes. And all around you are similarly zombie'd out shoppers with their own weird assortment of items. Ten pounds of laundry detergent and two hideously ugly purses. A huge plastic storage container, three bags of Halloween candy, and some mouthwash. (Maybe the candy isn't for the neighborhood kids.) An enormous bag of dog food, some jeans, leopard-print slippers, and tampons.

So it's not just me. It's a Target thing. You go in for one item and come out with the most bizarre collection of things. And as you're loading them into your car, you're already thinking "what was I thinking?"

Congratulations on your ulcer
You know you've been sick for too long when the news that you have an ulcer brings out congratulations from your friends. I've been amused every since the diagnosis and the reaction from the people around me. They've stood by me for so long that, like me, they're just happy to have a name to put to the insane zarf-o-matic creature I'd become. Yesterday I went by KZSU and two of my fellow DJs were happy at the news. Mind you, I am too, I just think it's funny. I imagine if this had come out of nowhere the news that I had an ulcer would be greeted by the requisite sad faces and sympathy. But in my case, it's very nearly a party.

And frankly, I prefer it this way. I'm much happier with my congratulations card (thanks again, Mama D) than I would be with the long face. It's just so...me...that being told I have an ulcer is really cause for celebration.

Ugly as sin...
...but impressive. That's the California Condor. And I just saw one. On the onramp to 280, of all places, trying to kidnap some roadkill (yum) with an envious, but obviously overmatched crow watching from a few feet away. I'm not 100% certain it was a condor but it was huge, had that ugly red face, and definitely looked like the gargoyle pictured here. I gotta admit, I'm hoping it was a condor because if so it was a really cool unexpected sighting. If it wasn't a condor, I'm not sure what it was.

Alone time
When you're married it's always a bit odd to find yourself alone for a weekend. With Husband covering the Monterey Jazz Festial for his new blog I'm bachelor girl. this weekend.

I'm spending my time reading lots of trashy novels and, at the moment, watching football. (I'm rooting for Buffalo over Oakland because 1) I hate the Raiders and; 2) The Bills' quarterback is a Stanford grad who happens to be the brother of a friend.)

I really miss Husband, but being alone has its advantages. For example, the sofa is now a mess, covered with books, my laptop, a sweater, the remainder of the Sunday paper, two remote controls, the telephone, and a couple of magazines. The cat, while generally sweet-natured, is giving me the green look of death because I keep singing (badly) for no reason. (When I'm alone I'm Aretha Franklin.) And the house is generally a mess because there's no one here to trip over a pile of pillows, my slippers, and the part of the Sunday paper that isn't on the sofa.

Cat and I are getting along without Husband, in spite of the fact that I don't know how to play with her correctly and she pissed me off by pulling everything off of my nightstand at 5 am. But for two solo girls, it's quite harmonious. She's sleeping, I'm being lazy. I have to go down to KZSU today but just can't seem to get out of my sweats and into my car.

But it's odd. There's nobody to point out the good Sunday comics too. And my "wow, he looks just like his sister" comments while watching the game really don't seem to interest the cat. And last night, I was so desperate for entertainment, I actually watched 10 whole minutes of a really awful movie on the Hallmark Channel. (Don't worry, I recovered my sanity and switched over to a documentary on mummies.) And dinner....I have a hard time motivating myself to cook for two. Cooking for one just seems silly so I'm the Lean Cuisine Queen for the weekend. Although I'm was damned tempted to go out for Chinese but, again, just couldn't get out of the sweats. Boy I'm lazy.

Meanwhile, in Monterey
Husband's new venture, Jazz Observer is now up and running and full of wonderful (trust me, I'm not just saying this because I love the man), wonderful coverage of the Monterey Jazz Festival.

It sounds like last night provided some great highlights and today's first feature -- on the layout and feel of the Festival itself -- provides a tantalizing taste of what it's like to be there. (And will make you jealous that you aren't.)

Check it out, you'll be glad you did.

Sisters in Arms
Currently being read, Sisters in Arms: British Army Nurses Tell Their Story by Nicola Tyrer.

I'm a sucker for history, and I especially love history about women. Nursing in times of war has been a subject of interest to me since I first read Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth. (If you haven't read this yet, I highly recommend it.)

Anyway, the current book (I'm only on chapter 3) is already proving fascinating. It's amazing how deeply courageous the so-called "fairer sex" is under pressure. (Not to mention under bombardment.) I have nothing but admiration for these women, most of them from very privileged backgrounds, who rolled up their sleeves and did the work that had to be done under conditions of extreme hardship and danger. Some were captured by the Japanese and did their best to care for others throughout their captivity.

There's no great message here, just a vague disquiet sensation that I haven't done nearly enough with my life. I certainly haven't done enough for others. No, I'm not going to join the army or become a nurse. It's just rather inspiring to read about such courageous, selfless, heroic women.

The only inspiring thing I've done lately is....uh....oh shit, I really need to go do something inspiring, don't I?

Stop the music
Pet peeve time. I hate, with a passion bordering on loathing, when good music is used for bad commercials. It's not much better when the commercial doesn't suck, either.

My latest is the 70's anthem "Get Together" (by the Youngbloods) now being used for a Luvs diaper ad. Now it's not one of the great songs of all time, but it was one of those seminal flower children songs that deserves better than to be used as a background in which a bunch of creepy, animated, diaper-wearing freakbabies frolic in a creepy, animated world. It's the kind of song that brings to mind memories of road trips, open windows blowing your hair, good friends singing along to any song they know the words to. Stopping at that stop sign at the bottom of the mountain, the scent of hot sage filling the car, and the radio cranked up.

But no....it's now the soundtrack to a diaper ad. (And, for the record, those of us who choose not to have children do not find diaper ads cute! Everybody got that? Not cute!)

There are thousands of crappy, unemployed so-called musicians around the world, many of whom would be happy to compose something just for your product for a lot less than you'd have to pay for the rights for a classic song. So stop fucking with our good memories.

(Oh my freaking god, the ad is on now!!!) I must go lay down.

Welcome to the web, Jazz Observer
Husband has launched his new website. Jazz Observer, "A Fresh Perspective on Modern Music." Although it's up an running, the real goodies will start coming on Friday when he heads southwards for The Monterey Jazz Festival. His live blogs from the festival (run on his previous website and elsewhere on the web) are the next best thing to being there. They're so good they almost make up for having to do without him for three days.

Anyway, congratulations Husband and may Jazz Observer have a long and illustrious life. It's a true gift to Bay Area jazz fans.

Traumatized!
I love my cat, Cipher. (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm.) Not "put in little outfits" love, just really love. She brings joy, warmth, companionship, and love into my world every day. Have a bad day? Nothing like a purring cat curled up into your lap to turn things around. Need a laugh? Throw an empty toilet paper roll at her and watch her turn into a Keystone Cops comedy.

But today I saw her at her most difficult. I was supposed to take her to the vet for her annual booster shot. Didn't happen. I'm not sure who is more traumatized, me or Cipher (OK, I do know, it's me) but it was not pretty. She absolutely refused to go into her carrier. Refused in a "I can turn my limbs into concrete pillars or Silly Putty at will" kind of way. In a "I know I said I love you but these claws gotta go somewhere and who needs skin anyway" kind of way. A "look, I can eject hair the way a porcupine can eject quills so much for your black shirt" way.

She squirmed. She scratched. She did everything but pull a switchblade on me. And then she ran under the bed where I couldn't reach her and refused to come out. I called and cancelled the appointment.

That was an hour ago and now (here's the trauma bit) refuses to come near me. She walks warily in a huge circle around where I am, shooting guilt out of those big green eyes in such a way as to do my mom proud. She won't let me get within 10 feet of her and I am now so wracked with guilt that I'm practically moping. I know she's eventually condescend to forgive me. (At least I hope she will!) But for now I have never wanted to hear that purr in my lap more.

I need a drink. Is liquor OK with an ulcer?

What makes people...?
Do kinda crazy thing? Kind admirable, but kinda crazy.

Last night the KZSU DJ before me casually mentioned that this weekend he was doing the Alcatraz swim. Yup, he's going to jump into San Francisco Bay sans wetsuit and swim either to or from (or, god forbid, both!) Alcatraz. (Can you tell that I can't be bothered to look up the details of this swim?

And my friend Finny, is currently training for a half marathon and ran 11 miles last weekend. Oh yes, and lets not forget Mama D, who has been known to run a full marathon (!).

How....why?

Now granted I've been sick and can't do much of anything. (Last night I returned to KZSU for the first time in nearly two months and, upon returning home, went straight to bed.) But even when/if I was healthy I would never do anything like this. I am so not physically active. Never have been. I was the archetypical kid picked last for every sport in PE. (Is it still called PE?) I grew up before girls had their own soccer teams and before everyone was encouraged to become weekend warriors. Nobody in my family played sports. (The fact that my father died of a heart attack when I was 19 might indicate that some exercise would have been a nice thing.) So I didn't grow up being encouraged to work up a sweat.

And that's carried into adulthood. I've tried various exercise kicks at various times of my life in order to not be fat. But for me it's all about vanity, not about pushing myself to achieve anything other than a smaller ass. I've never wanted to train for a marathon, compete in the Ironman Triathalon, become an Olympic anything, or even run the Bay to Breakers.

So what is it that pushes some people to push themselves while others have to force themselves to move? Is it the old nature vs. nurture question? Am I a sloth because, as a child, I lived in a family of sloths? Had I been raised by people who went bike riding on weekends and coached soccer would I now be running with Finny? Or is it because I am, by nature, a lazy slob who really, really, really hates to work out and sees nothing pleasurable or enjoyable about it except for the fact that, when I do, I don't get embarrassed running out of breath walking up two flights of stairs?

OK, it's universal
Chicken soup is universal. It crosses cultural, ethnic, geographic, even political borders.

When you're sick, if you're lucky, people offer to bring you soup. The Lurker brought me some delicious soup with matzoh balls a few months ago, and just last night The Foreigner brought me some delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. After today's test (hereafter known as "The Procedure,") I really needed some comfort food and The Foreigner's soup was the perfect solution.

Ah, comfort food. What is there about certain foods that just make you feel better - either physically or psychologically? Sometimes, when you're feeling sick, you just need that certain something. Maybe your food is toast (there's always room for toast) or perhaps scrambled eggs. When you've had a lousy day is there anything better that homemade chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven? (Or pot stickers from your favorite Chinese place?) Logically I know that homemade chicken soup has no magical medicinal properties, yet I feel so much better having just had a bowl. Perhaps it's the extra comfort of knowing that it was made by someone I love who cares enough about me to bring me a care package. But whatever it is, I suddenly feel like a new woman.

Thanks, Ms. Foreigner, you're the best.

You gotta have faith
Tonight my book group meets to discuss Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. I haven't looked forward to a book discussion this much in ages. Why? Because Brideshead is a very important book for me. It is, in my opinion, the best book ever written about how depressing it is to be raised Catholic.

In all honesty, I think it must be the most depressing religion of them all. Its basic statement, the one told to us from when we were pups, is "Christ died for your sins." That's a serious burden to put on a small, impressionable child. I swear I grew up feeling like slime because our savior was crucified for the sole reason that I stole bubble gum from my brother. No kidding. Growing up Catholic one is washed in guilt from the first drop of Holy Water that falls onto our screaming bodies at baptism.

You fell guilty for everything. Bad thoughts. Growing breasts. Having a crush on The Monkees. Everything is sinful, everything is evil, everything is your fault. And Catholic parents know this and use it to their advantage. They don't use discipline, they use guilt. Whenever you did something bad you weren't punished so much as made to feel like shit because your parents were so disappointed in you. Disappointed is a Catholic mom's set expression. In the middle of a good fight with a sibling mom just walks by with that look .... the look...and suddently you're both silent because you feel so damned guilty for fighting and after all it was fights like that that killed Christ and I'm going to burn in hell for all eternity because I called him an idiot and I'll have to become a freakin' nun just to atone for all the evil my little 7-year old soul has done.

OK, back to the book....it's beautifully written, full of great characters, and a great story. But for me, the bottom line is that the Marchmain family is just like mine....only richer, more British, and better looking.

Tell me a story
In one sentence. Check out One Sentence Stories, which challenges both your creativity and your brevity.

Go team! You suck!
I gotta admit, I love Fall. That clear, pale light that makes you know the sun is shining but it's not hot out. The stores getting ready for Halloween (OK, not ready for Christmas yet, thank you very much). And football.

Much to the amusement and confusion of my family, I like football. And while watching the Niners/Seahawks game today, I realized how, at times, it can be a lot more enjoyable when your team is losing.

Now eventually, miraculously, unbelievably, the Niners won. But for awhile there, they were sucking, big time. And it was such fun to just get out all my pent-up frustration by yelling at the TV. "How can that not be offsides?? They looked like the fucking Rockettes?" "Nice of you to clear a space so the runner doesn't get bunched up....can somebody please tackle him?" It's great. It gives you a harmless outlet for your anger and angst and is, strangely, more satisfying than hating the other team.

Sure it's fun to rag on their lame passing game. But when your team is screwing up, it's intensely cathartic to just scream out your superiority. (Yes, even I with my weak health and newly-discovered ulcer can run better than our Running Backs.)

Now, on to Steelers vs. Browns. No clue who to root for, as I really don't care, but I still have some leftover piss to get out.

An exception...
I don't usually like insult humor. But this is hilarious. Triumph the Insult Dog vs. Star Wars geeks. Thanks to Husband for the laugh...

She limps! She eats!
My friend the ever-wonderful Finny just wrote about doing an 11 mile run in preparation for a mini-marathon she's running in 3 weeks. Yeah....right.

These days I get winded walking from the sofa to the kitchen. I know I have an excuse: I haven't eaten in 18 months. I've nibbled, I've zarfed. I've eaten, and I've zarfed. I've done nothing, and still I zarf. If I were a superhero I'd be BarfGirl, the worst superhero ever. To fight crime all I'd have to do is eat a cracker then point my super self at the evil-doer and I'd throw up all over their nasty shoes. They're not going to be making a cartoon of me anytime soon.

I envy people like Finny who have bodies that work. Mine hasn't since, oh, about 1980. But the past 18 months have been a cavalcade of awful. Even though I'm not in the hospital, I'm still sick. I'm still doing the zarf tango at unpredictable moments. Today I did get all crazy and wild and went out to breakfast with Husband. I had two or three bites of his scrambled egg and one half of a half of piece of toast. Oh yeah, and a glass of milk. I eat like I'm 80.

I move like it too. I'm not limping, but I am wobbling. Most of my food this week came in an IV bag. Now that I'm unhooked, i eat very little and it feels like very much. After today's tiny breakfast I swear it felt like I'd just come from an all-you-can-eat hot fudge sundae buffet. But I'm trying to eat when (and if) I can so that I can get some strength back. Honestly this weak-as-a-newborn-kitten feeling is getting old.

So Finny's exploits have inspired me. Not to run 11 miles (who the fuck am I kidding?) but to completely appreciate how good it'll feel when this is all over. I long for the day when I can do basic things like have dinner with my husband in public. Take a walk without having to sit down every 15 feet. Do laundry without having to take a nap afterwards.

Oh the joys of not zarfing! People, enjoy your health.

Paging nurse idiot
I forgot to tell you about the idiot nurse who nearly caused me to sue the hospital on Wednesday night.

1. Instead of coming into my room for the usual "hi, the shift is changing and I'm your new nurse" at 11:30 pm, she came in at 1, when the lights were off and I was trying to sleep, for the soul purpose of introducing herself.

2. When I rang for pain meds she came in and then forgot me for nearly 90 minutes.

3. She then came back in, 20 minutes after giving me the meds (turned the lights back on) and said "I just need to do something" then stood at the monitor in my room and typed for about 5 minutes, leaving without a word, with the lights on and door open. (Up I get to close door, turn off lights.)

4. She comes back in 30 minutes later and says (Her: lights on and door open) "I've lost a piece of paper, have I left it in here?" (Me: Close door, turn off lights.)

5. 10 minutes late she comes back in (lights & door) looking for the same piece of paper. (Me: close door, turn off lights.)

6. Two other nurses come in a few minutes apart looking for the missing paper. They at least turn off the lights and close the door.

7. Nurse and supervisor come in (lights & door) and both look for it. I get up and close the door, leaving the lights on because admitting defeat is easier than being blinded every 5 minutes.

8. She comes in, not looking for anything, asking if I need more meds. I do. She goes away. I never see her again...until she comes back in at 6 and says "I found the paper in my pocket." Oh good, can I have my night back please?

She's the only nurse I've ever had who pissed me off. Every other nurse there was amazing; kind, caring, gentle, considerate, compassionate, all that good stuff. She was a disaster.

She's back...and she's got a hole in her stomach
Yeah, it's an ulcer.

I'm fresh out of the hospital and freshly diagnosed with a (apparently rather large) ulcer. The last time they did an endoscopy they noticed I had lesions but no actual hole. After Wednesday's endoscopy they found the culprit. They're not sure it's causing all my problems, but it's definitely causing some of them. I need to have another test on Tuesday where I drink something nasty and they x-ray me and follow the path. There's a chance that the ulcer is preventing food from going where it needs to go. I think that might be right considering I've zarfed up everything I've eaten today. But thank god I'm home.

I hate hospitals. Fine places full of noble, caring, hard-working people. And completely non-conducive to healing. Aside from the lovely drugs that kept me from noticing the pain in my back and tummy, the entire week was awful. I'm not exaggerating when I say I had no sleep for two of the nights I was there. Between them coming in every hour to check on my condition, getting blood drawn at between 4 and 5 every morning, and regular comings in for my vital signs -- it was nearly impossible to sleep. Add in lots of noises from the corridor, alarms going off, an uncomfortable bed, my usual pain, and missing Husband and Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm), I just never slept.

Yesterday when I got home at about 4 I took a bath and jumped into bed....and woke up at 9:30 last night. I got up for a while, went back to sleep an hour later and slept until nearly 11 this morning. I haven't slept that long in ages! But god did I need it. I'm still really week after having not eaten for a week, but at least I'm rested.

Anyway, not much to report. But I am relieved that, at last, there is something to fight against. I'm on drugs, might need an operation if the food isn't going to the right place, but damned glad to be home.

Thanks to everyone who called to find out what the heck happened to me. I love you all.

Catching up
Well, Labor Day Weekend has come (yay!) and gone (boo!) and I didn't do much of anything. I'm having a hard time recovering my strength after my last bout of the Creeping Zarfs ... mostly because I just don't eat enough. But I really don't have much energy these days. Luckily Husband the Wonderful took great care of me. We did get out into the sunshine yesterday with a short walk by the bay. It was glorious and SO nice to get out of the house.

It looks like tonight is the return of At the Cafe Bohemian. I asked for someone to sub for me, but nobody's stepped up so I guess I'm on the air. To be perfectly honest, I'm worried that I won't have enough energy to do the full show. If you listen, be prepared for lots of 10 minute songs in the last hour.

Today is also Cipher's (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) birthday. Two years ago today we brought her home from the Peninsula Humane Society. And yeah, it was love at first sight. Thanks for all the love, play, and sleepless nights, cat. We love you.

In other news, Husband and I watched Zodiac this weekend. The 2006 version with Robert Downey, Jr. It was....um....long. It would have been quite good had it been about 45 minutes shorter. But interesting. As someone who lived in the Bay Area during the Zodiac murders (even if I was only a kid) it was interesting to revisit the sort of the hysteria it caused. I remember the SF Chronicle carrying the front page story. The curfews. I remember the adults discussing it and warning my older siblings to be careful. Fascinating how one lunatic with a gun and a secret code can terrorize an entire region.

Heat
It's hot. Not Tucson in August hot, but hot enough to be uncomfortable. I know people have this view that California is always sunshine and surf. But I'm a Northern California native, used to fog and mild temps. This minor heatwave (it's currently 83 in the house) has both me and Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) curled like two lumps of warm dough.

I don't do heat well. Of course I don't do cold well either, but cold is easier. A hot bath, a cozy sweater, some cocoa....there are always ways to warm up. But when you're hot, there's very little you can do. Because we get all of seven hot days a year, we don't run to AC. We have fans...but they're hardly the same. So you lay around in as little clothing as possible, in the direct line of the fan, sipping ice water and wondering if you can possibly sit through some atrocious movie because at least the theatre has air conditioning.

Poor Cipher, in her fur coat, probably has it worse. Last night she was too hot even for her nightly play session with Husband. At the moment, she's looking at me like "hey, you're god, do something." I wish I could, kitty. I'm on the floor, because it's cooler down here and because lying down is easier on my back. She's a few feet away, looking like she wish she could melt. I'm exactly the same....too hot to move, too lethargic to do much of anything but wish it were winter.

What is there about heat that just sucks the energy out of you? From the moment I got up this morning all I've wanted to do is, well, nothing. Water and lots of it. That's it. No appetite. No desire to do any of the hundred things I should do. When I got up to feed the cat a few minutes ago I saw someone jogging past the house. Who are these people? How in the world do they have either the energy or the desire to run when it's so hot out? OK, maybe to earn a milkshake at the end of it, but that's the only reason.

Oh, and this weekend marks the hallmark of culture in our sleepy little town. It's the annual Art & Wine Festival. They block off all of downtown and the place gets invaded by thousands of people wandering around looking at painted driftwood birds, customized mail boxes, and all the tedium of craftiness. Plus the nutritional gift that is Funnel Cakes, frequently bad live entertainment, plus booze. And when it's hot, the booze really flows. It's amazing how much beer people can down at these things. Husband and I rarely go to this thing -- mostly because we really don't like ugly things that pretend to be "art," but sometimes the people watching is amazing.

Have you ever marveled at the sheer unlimited number of hideously ugly t-shirts there are in America?

We'll always have....oh pass a tissue
Oh, the perfection that is Casablanca. Is there a more perfect movie? Rick and Ilsa. The problems of two little people not amounting to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Victor leading the house band in a rousing version of the French national anthem. And all the wonderful, amazing, unforgettable characters...Karl and Sascha, the "what watch?" couple, the young Bulgarians trying to win at Roulette and, of course, loyal and lovely Sam.

It's on right now, just winding down. Ilsa and Victor are just getting on that airplane and, once again, I'm a sentimental fool. I must have seen Casablanca 50 times and I still love it. I love the end when Louis orders the rounding up of "the usual suspects." I love Rick, leaning in the doorway of a French train as he realizes Ilsa isn't joining him in his exile. I love Sam singing "Knock on Wood."

Yeah, it's corny and so famous that it's almost a cliche of itself. But for sheer wonderful moviemaking, can it be beat? If you haven't seen it in ages, I urge you to do so again. It just might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Life, the universe, and peanut butter
Sometimes the world comes down to a spoonful of peanut butter.

As loyal friends and bored readers know, I've had shit-all to contribute to the blog world for about two weeks now but "I zarfed." And "Hey, I zarfed!" Followed by "I zarfed. Then I went to ER." Thrilling, isn't it? No wonder I have all of three readers.

But today's posting isn't about that. It's about how a spoonful of peanut butter can change your day. I may do an informercial about it. You see, I'm still not eating much, but I am forcing myself to eat when I can. If I wait until I want to eat rather than when I can eat, I'll just fade away....like the Cheshire cat. So today's goal is "pack it in" well, in moderation, of course.

So I had this spoonful of PB and, in the words of The Old Book, "it was good." It was one of those "being sick teaches you to appreciate the little things in life" moments. Hardly a glorious sunset or the first bloom of spring, but a "wow, this tastes so good" kind of thing. Where you're just damned glad that you can have something as mundane as peanut butter and not have it necessitate a trip to ER. (Well, not yet, anyway.)

I've been pretty damned sick for about two weeks now and let me tell you, I'm really fucking sick of being sick. So I'm working as hard as possible to not be. And a little super chunk Skippy may not seem like climbing Everest to the rest of you, but to me it's huge. And it feels it. It's like that one spoonful psychologically symbolizes my saying "screw it, I'm willing myself to get better." Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. But I'm trying.

It's been hard, watching all these buff, healthy, strong, amazing Olympians the past few weeks while I lie winded and shaking after a marathon trek to get more apple juice. I envy all of them those bodies that aren't letting them down (damn them!). And yet with all the inspiring performances, the athletes haven't given me the "I can be like that" vibe. But give me a bite of peanut butter and suddenly I'm a movie of the week in the making.

Maybe London will put peanut butter eating on the medal stand -- I'd be a shoe-in.

By the way, sorry to be so unbearably dull lately. I'll try to stop writing about how miserable I am.

I want my own parking space
At the emergency room. Yup, back we went. Thursday night. 8 days between ER visits...I can't recall if that's a new record or not.

My wonderful friend the incredible Finny has spent the past week waxing lyrical about her home grown goodies and her farm share crop, her general gourmetitude (complete with fabu recipes). Meanwhile, I've had Husband forcing me to eat Cup of Soup and take spoonfuls of Jell-O. (They lied, there isn't always room for Jell-O.) Oh where or where has my appetite gone, oh where, or where can it be?

In other news, this is the closing weekend of the Olympics and after watching 900 hours of coverage, and in the absence of anything of actual importance to say, i have these observations, questions, and peeves.

- How come male beach volleyball players can compete perfectly well in shorts and tank tops but female players need a bikini for full range of motion? Come on folks, talk about sexism! Either give the ladies shorts or put the guys in Speedos.

- Who decides that we need to see every frickin' point of every frickin' volleyball game by every frickin' country, but we can't spare 10 minutes of screen time for archery, shooting, judo, fencing, modern pentathalon, or various other "obscure" sports.

- The same question applies to men's basketball. We can see men's basketball 47 months a year -- we get to see archery once every four years and I think it got like 15 minutes at 3 am.

- Is anyone else sick of hearing Rhapsody in Blue in those creepily animated United Airlines commercials? The Gershwin estate has a lot to answer for.

- Bob Costas is worth every penny NBC is paying him. And the more tired he gets, the funnier he is.

- Years ago it seems Olympic coverage was padded with endless athlete profiles featuring every hardluck shot-puter whose deaf grandmother fled a locust hoard and started a roadside fruit stand in Ethiopia. Now they've gone completely the other direction and haven't bothered really to tell us about anyone. A middle ground would be nice. I don't need all the sob stories, but it would be nice to be able to recognize someone other than Michael Phelps.

- The Chinese divers are robots. Only explanation.

- Why is rhythmic gymnastics a sport and yet they're getting rid of softball. That just sucks. And BMX racing? That's what suburban kids do outside of the local Subway sandwich shop -- it's not a sport.

- Who knew there were so many things you could do on the water? Kayaking. Canoeing. Skulls. Various numbers of participants. Flat and fizzy water. The 500 meter mixed 9-men, 3-women Perrier Swan Boat obstacle course was especially interesting.

- Which brings me to the only Olympic sport I can compete in. I could be a coxswain. I could sit in a boat and yell at people while they row their guts out.

Back to bed....Cup of Soup, anyone?

Would you like fries with your bowling ball?
I'm in the "forcing myself to eat because every time I stand up I get dizzy and develop the kind of shakes that makes the neighbors think I'm on methadone" phase of recovery. Yesterday's dietary toll: one half cup dry cereal, one cup of less-than-stellar matzoh ball soup, one cup of juice. Call Jenny Craig. Yeah, that's it.

Today I daringly added milk to the cereal and had a real, old-fashioned, all-American bowl of Cheerios for breakfast.

And can I tell you that it feels like I just ate a bowling ball? No, really. I had less than a cup of cereal and about 1/4 cup of 2% milk and here I am still feeling it sitting like concrete in my not-used-to-food-at-all tummy.

I know that I have to eat. I know that my biggest problem right now is that I have absolutely no strength and feel like I'm going to faint if I do more than one thing per standing up trip. (I can get juice OR I can answer the phone. I can't do both.) But the problem is that I just have no appetite and when I do eat a little it feels like I've gorged on half a wildebeest with fries.

Oh dear, and now I need to go lay down (lie down? I never learned the rules on that one) because I am, you guessed it, too weak to be sitting up any longer.

Damn, damn, damn
Today we cancelled our grand tour. Damn.

I was so sick this weekend that the concept of being well enough to count on two weeks of good health seems impossible. The last day to cancel was upon us, and I just couldn't commit. I dreaded the thought of being offshore of some exotic port and being too sick to leave the cabin. Between my bad back and my unpredictable ability to actually eat for two whole days in a row, it just seemed like a bad idea.

The bottom line is that I wasn't looking forward to it. I was actually kind of dreading it because I kept thinking "what if I get this sick in Turkey?"

Well, at least we no longer need to stress about what we're going to do with the cat.

Damn, damn, damn.

That darned cat!
So Husband and I have to finalize payment for our Grand Tour this week....and how lame are we that we're still upset about the prospect of leaving Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Disagree tm) for two weeks?

No, really, we are. Every time we think about our trip and look in those sweet green eyes we just melt. As Husband just said "we're gonna be tied to this house for the next 15 years without ever taking another vacation."

The problem is that she loves us. When she realizes that we're in a different room than she, she immediately gives out with a "where are you" meow and comes to find us. It's completely endearing....and heartbreaking when we think of her meowing in an empty house for two weeks.

Yes, we could put her in kitty boarding but:
a) we hate the thought of her being in a cage for that long
b) it's bad enough for her to misplace her people, without having to lose her familiar, cozy home
c) we've heard enough horror stories about cats getting sick from other cats in the boarding facility

My sister has volunteered to come in every day to feed her and clean her box, but that's only 15 minutes of human contact a day; not nearly enough for a cat as social and loving as Cipher.

Sigh....what are we gonna do?

Words as art
LOVE this! It's Wordie where you enter words (whatever strikes your fancy) and it turns it into art.

I made a short list of world music artists and created the above. Too cool!

Meanwhile, back in ER
Yeah, me. For the record, Wednesday morning at 6 am is the perfect time to go to Peninsula Hospital's ER. We walked right in, the doctor arrive as I was still tying up my ever-so-fetching-the-opening-goes-in-the-back gown, and we were home by 8:30.

I was up all last night with my patented mixture of excruciating back pain and nearly non-stop vomiting. (I'm hoping it's just a coincidence that I spent yesterday with my mother.) Luckily tomorrow I have an appointment with my wonderful massage therapist, Michael from PUSH Therapy and he's really helped me. And if he can't, the ER doc gave me a small prescription of Delaudin (or however it's spelled) which I will dole out like gold for those night, like last night, when I'm in pretty bad shape.

Anyway, once again the amazing folks at the ER made me feel better. And once again the amazing Husband puts his own life on hold to stay by my side, hold my had, pick up prescriptions, bring me juice, and remind me that in spite of all the pain and illness crap I deal with, I'm still the luckiest woman I know.

The great mother-daughter insanity continues
Please someone tell me that eventually you get over having a crazy mother.

Most of my Fabulous Female Friends have, or had, good relationships with their mothers. Me? Not so much. It might have something to do with the fact that I was raised in the 20th century by a 19th century woman. Unlike my other friends, whose parents took it for granted that college was in their future, my mother expressly did not want me to go to college. (Why bother to go to college when all you can hope for is marriage and motherhood?)

Literally since I've been able to think for myself I've thought "how do I be the exact opposite of what they want me to be?" And it hasn't been easy. Oh sure, sometimes, there are wonderful "don't let this happen to you" role models. When faced with a difficult decision, just ask "what would X do?" and then do the opposite. But most of the time it's uncharted water and when faced with extended periods of time with my mother, her unguarded mouth, and extremely weird viewpoint, I find myself desperately in need of some tequila, a hot bath, and a big ego boost. ("You really haven't done much with your life, have you?")

The one great consolation in all of this is that many of the aforementioned FFFs are raising equally fabulous daughters....who they are teaching to be strong, brave, proud, and ready for anything. The only problem is I'm secretly jealous of all these kids for having such amazing moms.

Hip deep in archers, fencers, and rowers
Yeah, Husband and I are total Olympic gluttons. We'll watch all 97 hours of coverage a day. (Oh the wonders of TiVo!) We especially like those sports you never see or hear of outside of the Olympics. We couldn't care less about basketball (Kobe who?), beach volleyball (why do the men get to wear shorts and tank tops but the women have to compete in two-piece bathing suits?), or soccer. Nope, we love the obscure sports. Give us more archery, fencing, or shooting.

Sure we'll watch the A-list sports (except for the above mentioned, we fast-forward through those). But we like swimming and track. But the "little" sports are just more interesting. Unfortunately, they get very little coverage. A network will show all 2-hours of a basketball game, but give you 10 minutes worth of shooting (basically the round that decides the winner), if they show them at all. It's annoying, but there it is. If it weren't for the US women's Epee team taking all three medals, I doubt we'd have seen any of that -- and all they showed was the gold medal round.

I know it's hard to compete with Michael Phelps, but it's sad that Olympians who work just as hard at their sport as he does get no love from the networks. Still, I'm loving having something to watch at 3 am other than informercials. Being able to turn on the TV and see Eventing Dressage (that involved horsies, for those who have no clue what I'm talking about) or women's skulls (which has nothing to do with anatomy) just makes me so happy.

And I love rooting for the underdog. The US will take home a passel of medals...I'm a sucker for the one swimmer from Tunisia or the first equestrian team from Israel. I'll cheer for them every time.

In other news, wish me luck....for the second week in a row I'll be doing kitten duty alone. It's freakishly hard on my back -- you wouldn't think taking care of kittens would be so physical, but it is. So no doubt tonight will find me in a Vicodin heap on my back and forcing poor Husband to take care of dinner. But it's worth it. I love taking care of the little guys until they're old enough to go to loving homes. Horray for kittens!

Missing culture
I just finished watching a fascinating documentary on PBS entitled A Yiddish World Remembered. It looked at Jewish life in Eastern Europe before WWII, featuring the memories of eyewitnesses about life in both small villages and large cities.

In spite of the poverty faced by most and tragedy and hardship faced by all two things struck me about these wonderful old people: how proud they were of their culture and how fondly they remembered their long-ago communities and rituals. Old eyes would light up at the memory of mother's latkes and and the preparations for Sabbath. Each had some wonderful memory to hold on to of being Jewish. And it struck me, once again, how much I wish I had a culture.

I'm a typical American mutt, a mix of French, Basque, Scots, a bit of Irish and (rumor has it) a tiny tiny bit of Native Canadian. But I have no culture. I was raised Catholic but no longer believe. And anyway, Catholics don't really have a culture, just guilt (which, unfortunately, I've kept). I'm not enough of any one national culture to have grown up with Scots folk dancing or Basque ... uh ... whatever it is that Basques do (besides herd sheep). I don't look forward every year to any kind of annual festival that celebrates my identity and I don't belong to any community besides where I live and my family of wonderful friends.

And sometimes I do feel like I'm missing out.

I've mentioned before how much I envy those of my friends who have a culture, or who have cultural traditions that they celebrate. I have no such touchstones in my life. Oh I have memories, sure. But nothing that I can share with people outside of my family. Once when I was in college I introduced two people who were friends of mine but who had never met. They both had Irish last names and within minutes where trading stories of step dancing classes, fiddle lessons, and debating whose mom made the best soda bread. People from different cultures can have similar discussions. At a Greek Festival once a Japanese friend and a Greek friend started commiserating at having their parents insist on traditional dress for certain occasions. All I could contribute was a story about how my mother would always try to get me into a dress for Easter.

There is a certain sense of rootlessness I feel at times. Sure we celebrate Christmas and Thanksgiving, but neither has a sense of continuation about it, though I do hang on tightly to what few rituals I do have regarding these occasions. For instance, I insist on a real tree. I always have to watch White Christmas while trimming the tree. And I don't consider Thanksgiving complete without the traditional food.

But sometimes I wish I had traditional dress or ancient dances, remembered prayers or a larger community with whom to celebrate occasions. Husband has no culture either so we share this desire. Although raised in the African American community, he feels to desire to start celebrating Kwanzaa or start wearing dashikis in public. I guess he and I are just destined to remain rootless mutts.

Sometimes there's just nothing to say...

Ta-da!
Behold the finished (well, nearly finished) music office! It's our new favorite room in the house and turned out better than we could have hoped. The photos are a bit dark, but the room is just plain gorgeous. The orange walls really set off our new furniture; especially the gorgeous CD case and new table. We splurged on a hideously expensive and equally hideously comfortable glider chair, and the new stereo arrives later this week. All we need to do is hang the art, get rid of a stack of empty boxes, and start wearing out the chair. I'll never see Husband again...

The music room
Finally! The painting is done. Behold our beautiful "Desert Orange" music room, complete with gorgeous new CD cabinet that handy Husband put together (with a little hindrance from the cat) last night. The new bookcases are stained and drying in the garage and we should be able to move everything in this weekend. At last!

Of course I was less than useful, having been sick last week and again on Wednesday. But we're done with the majority of the work and really looking forward to getting our books and Husband's music out of boxes and accessible once again.

More from the "you gotta be kidding" department
Just what every brainwashed child needs Armor of God jammies. (No, it's not a joke, alas.)

In a similar theme, check out this little item I know people think Apple is a religion, but this is carrying it a bit far.