Musical Updates
KZSU has announced its Fall Schedule and I'm still on Tuesday nights, with a bit of a time change. You can listen to my show, At the Cafe Bohemian, from 5:50-8 pm. Tune in and listen to what the rest of the world sounds like.
If you have iTunes you can listen that way as well. Go to iTunes -> Radio -> Colleges & Universities -> KZSU.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Don't Call it Frisco
I'm very proud of my San Francisco roots. My great-grandparents came to SF in the 1870s. My grandmother lived through the 1906 earthquake and I remember her stories of what it was like. My father was born and raised in an area of the city then known as "Butchertown." It wasn't because it was a rough neighborhood (although, sadly, it is now). It referred to the large proportion of butcher shops in the area. It was predominately French. So much so that the neighborhood church had Sunday masses in French.
The SF Bay Area is a mecca for people who want to work in high tech or are searching for a more diverse community. Those of us who are born and raised her are something of a rare breed. One place where I worked I was on a team of 12 and I was the only one who was from here. Everyone else had relocated from another part of the US or another country.
I adore the SF Giants and am a Niners fan (even though they suck). I have great memories of raiding SF when I was in high school. We'd borrow a car and drive around the city. Dancing under the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts. Picnics at Land's End. One memorable night we stole a whole bunch of orange cones, blocked off the top of Lombard Street and drove up. Yes, we drove UP Lombard Street.
San Francisco is my city. And I hate it when people call it Frisco. Nearly as bad is when they call it San Fran. Would it kill you to add the other two syllables? Calling it SF is acceptable. Here it's merely called "the City." If you say "there's this great Basque restaurant up in the City" nobody would ask "what city?"
But people (mostly sports announcers who, in spite of their annoying-ness, still qualify as people) insist on Frisco or San Fran. No. Bad announcers! No cookie!
I'm not sure if other cities have this problem. Most of them don't get abbreviated the way SF does. Husband is a Philadelphia native and he's fine with "Philly." Other cities seem to have nicknames rather than abbreviations. And people seem to be OK with them. Folks in New Orleans don't get peeved when you refer to it as "the Crescent City." Detroit is proud of their "Motown" label. Chicagoians use "the windy city" themselves. (By the way, did you know that doesn't refer to the wind? It's because politicians from that city were very long-winded while pleading their case to host the World's Fair back in the 1880s.) But they don't have annoying shortening of their names that pisses off the locals.
So please, don't call it Frisco.
I'm very proud of my San Francisco roots. My great-grandparents came to SF in the 1870s. My grandmother lived through the 1906 earthquake and I remember her stories of what it was like. My father was born and raised in an area of the city then known as "Butchertown." It wasn't because it was a rough neighborhood (although, sadly, it is now). It referred to the large proportion of butcher shops in the area. It was predominately French. So much so that the neighborhood church had Sunday masses in French.
The SF Bay Area is a mecca for people who want to work in high tech or are searching for a more diverse community. Those of us who are born and raised her are something of a rare breed. One place where I worked I was on a team of 12 and I was the only one who was from here. Everyone else had relocated from another part of the US or another country.
I adore the SF Giants and am a Niners fan (even though they suck). I have great memories of raiding SF when I was in high school. We'd borrow a car and drive around the city. Dancing under the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts. Picnics at Land's End. One memorable night we stole a whole bunch of orange cones, blocked off the top of Lombard Street and drove up. Yes, we drove UP Lombard Street.
San Francisco is my city. And I hate it when people call it Frisco. Nearly as bad is when they call it San Fran. Would it kill you to add the other two syllables? Calling it SF is acceptable. Here it's merely called "the City." If you say "there's this great Basque restaurant up in the City" nobody would ask "what city?"
But people (mostly sports announcers who, in spite of their annoying-ness, still qualify as people) insist on Frisco or San Fran. No. Bad announcers! No cookie!
I'm not sure if other cities have this problem. Most of them don't get abbreviated the way SF does. Husband is a Philadelphia native and he's fine with "Philly." Other cities seem to have nicknames rather than abbreviations. And people seem to be OK with them. Folks in New Orleans don't get peeved when you refer to it as "the Crescent City." Detroit is proud of their "Motown" label. Chicagoians use "the windy city" themselves. (By the way, did you know that doesn't refer to the wind? It's because politicians from that city were very long-winded while pleading their case to host the World's Fair back in the 1880s.) But they don't have annoying shortening of their names that pisses off the locals.
So please, don't call it Frisco.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Ballad of Queenie and Skeeter
Champion Victoria of India Star was a purebred Pembroke Welsh Corgi with an impeccable pedigree. One of her grandmothers won Best of Breed at Crufts and a littermate took the group at Westminster.
Ch. Victoria (known to all as Queenie) was, in spite of her breeding, a dog of the people. Much to the dismay of her owners. Her owners had no such pedigree, just the pretention.
Mr. and Mrs. Donald Wright were two of the biggest snobs on the planet. They were British and you’d think they’d invented the concept. They weren’t Lord and Lady Wright. They weren’t titled. But they acted like it. They were known about Silver Creek as “the always Wrights.”
They drove a succession of wildly unsuitable Jaguars that they insisted you pronounce in the English way of jag-you-are. They name-dropped English institutions with hilarious regularity. The finals at Wimbledon. Royal watching at Ascot. Phrases like “in my Oxford days” and “you can’t get real marmalade here can you” would be greeted with varying degrees of patience amusement or eye rolls.
Their greatest wish was to make others feel inferior, but they never once succeeded. And Queenie was no help in this matter.
Anyone who was unlucky enough to get stopped long enough heard all about Ch. Victoria of India Star. Her breeder had sold corgis to a “someone high up in the English royal family” but of course they couldn’t say whom. Queenie herself had won several Best of Shows and could have gone to Westminster, if the Wrights had been so inclined. But they showed her only until she got her Champion status and then retired her. Their intention was to breed her, but before they could, fate intervened.
Fate in the guise of a sweet but ugly mutt named Skeeter.
Skeeter was sort of a dirty water brown and looked as if he’d been put together by a committee. Eddie Collins, who lived next door to the Wrights, adopted him from a local shelter because; as he explained “something that ugly has to have some redeeming qualities.” And he was right. Skeeter was loyal, loving, and smart. He knew dozens of tricks and was devoted to his owner. Every kid in town knew and loved Skeeter. Eddie would keep his pockets full of dog treats and whenever a kid came by he’d hand over a few snacks so we could all feed Skeeter and get lots of lovely dog licks all over our faces.
Eddie couldn’t have been more different than his neighbors. He was a Marine. (Of course he was a Marine in WWII but I remember him saying there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.) He was friendly to everyone and seemed to be on a first name basis with the entire town. He was a hard working plumber and proud of it. And he no pretentions at all. He loved a cold beer at the end of the day. Loved Monday Night Football. Loved Maybelle Reiter, who owned the Sunny Day Hair Salon. (And she loved him back.)
And loved sitting on the lawn, endlessly throwing the ball for Skeeter. Which is how the trouble started.
Champion Victoria of India Star should have been the pampered diva princess of her parent’s dreams. Instead, she liked nothing better than to roll in something deliciously stinky. She liked to knock over garbage cans and see if there was anything to eat inside. And she loved to burrow under the fence between the two yards and chase balls with Skeeter.
Skeeter was the love of her life. Her warm brown eyes positively glowed when his ugly shape ambled out into the yard. They would great each other rapturously, eagerly butt-sniffing and alternately rolling around and nosing each other.
And Eddie, well aware that Queenie was on the lam, would nevertheless make sure he threw the ball for her too. In his opinion, Queenie was a deprived animal. No ball chasing. No running in the sprinklers on a hot day. No getting dirty and being hosed off in the front yard.
Queenie was on a strict diet of homemade dog food and holistic treats. So of course she went nuts when Eddie shared his beef jerky and cheese puffs with her.
Usually Eddie was good about lifting Queenie back over the fence before the always Wrights knew she was gone. But one time Donald Wright came looking for her and nearly had a stroke. There was his Queenie, his Champion, eating cheese puffs and getting artificial orange dust all over her muzzle. Worse, she was sitting next to that….that mutt as if they were equals!
There was what Mr. Wright would have called “a scene” and Eddie called a “freak out.” Mr. Wright shouting, climbing over the fence to retrieve his precious girl and take her away from such ruffians. Eddie laughing and telling the man to calm down. Mr. Wright making vague mentions of the police. Eddie making distinct mentions of various places where Mr. Wright could put his police.
For a few days afterwards, Queenie was not left in the yard. She was taken for nice, decorous walks on her nice, decorous leash. The Wrights were careful to always turn her right down the block, away from Eddie’s place. And Skeeter, ever the romantic, would run hopefully along the fence line, no doubt calling to her in his best doggy Don Juan way.
And, as love will, it prevailed. One muggy summer night when the Wrights were watching Masterpiece Theatre (“My dear, the only thing worth watching on American telly!”) Queenie nosed open the screen door and made her escape. Within minutes she had bellied under the fence and was reunited with her Skeeter.
Later, when Queenie was safely delivered of a litter of scraggy dogs with short Corgi legs. The Wrights decided that she wasn’t the dog for them. We always wondered whether they sold or gave her to Eddie, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Queenie and Skeeter were together.
And from them on, we kids had two dogs to give treats to.
Champion Victoria of India Star was a purebred Pembroke Welsh Corgi with an impeccable pedigree. One of her grandmothers won Best of Breed at Crufts and a littermate took the group at Westminster.
Ch. Victoria (known to all as Queenie) was, in spite of her breeding, a dog of the people. Much to the dismay of her owners. Her owners had no such pedigree, just the pretention.
Mr. and Mrs. Donald Wright were two of the biggest snobs on the planet. They were British and you’d think they’d invented the concept. They weren’t Lord and Lady Wright. They weren’t titled. But they acted like it. They were known about Silver Creek as “the always Wrights.”
They drove a succession of wildly unsuitable Jaguars that they insisted you pronounce in the English way of jag-you-are. They name-dropped English institutions with hilarious regularity. The finals at Wimbledon. Royal watching at Ascot. Phrases like “in my Oxford days” and “you can’t get real marmalade here can you” would be greeted with varying degrees of patience amusement or eye rolls.
Their greatest wish was to make others feel inferior, but they never once succeeded. And Queenie was no help in this matter.
Anyone who was unlucky enough to get stopped long enough heard all about Ch. Victoria of India Star. Her breeder had sold corgis to a “someone high up in the English royal family” but of course they couldn’t say whom. Queenie herself had won several Best of Shows and could have gone to Westminster, if the Wrights had been so inclined. But they showed her only until she got her Champion status and then retired her. Their intention was to breed her, but before they could, fate intervened.
Fate in the guise of a sweet but ugly mutt named Skeeter.
Skeeter was sort of a dirty water brown and looked as if he’d been put together by a committee. Eddie Collins, who lived next door to the Wrights, adopted him from a local shelter because; as he explained “something that ugly has to have some redeeming qualities.” And he was right. Skeeter was loyal, loving, and smart. He knew dozens of tricks and was devoted to his owner. Every kid in town knew and loved Skeeter. Eddie would keep his pockets full of dog treats and whenever a kid came by he’d hand over a few snacks so we could all feed Skeeter and get lots of lovely dog licks all over our faces.
Eddie couldn’t have been more different than his neighbors. He was a Marine. (Of course he was a Marine in WWII but I remember him saying there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.) He was friendly to everyone and seemed to be on a first name basis with the entire town. He was a hard working plumber and proud of it. And he no pretentions at all. He loved a cold beer at the end of the day. Loved Monday Night Football. Loved Maybelle Reiter, who owned the Sunny Day Hair Salon. (And she loved him back.)
And loved sitting on the lawn, endlessly throwing the ball for Skeeter. Which is how the trouble started.
Champion Victoria of India Star should have been the pampered diva princess of her parent’s dreams. Instead, she liked nothing better than to roll in something deliciously stinky. She liked to knock over garbage cans and see if there was anything to eat inside. And she loved to burrow under the fence between the two yards and chase balls with Skeeter.
Skeeter was the love of her life. Her warm brown eyes positively glowed when his ugly shape ambled out into the yard. They would great each other rapturously, eagerly butt-sniffing and alternately rolling around and nosing each other.
And Eddie, well aware that Queenie was on the lam, would nevertheless make sure he threw the ball for her too. In his opinion, Queenie was a deprived animal. No ball chasing. No running in the sprinklers on a hot day. No getting dirty and being hosed off in the front yard.
Queenie was on a strict diet of homemade dog food and holistic treats. So of course she went nuts when Eddie shared his beef jerky and cheese puffs with her.
Usually Eddie was good about lifting Queenie back over the fence before the always Wrights knew she was gone. But one time Donald Wright came looking for her and nearly had a stroke. There was his Queenie, his Champion, eating cheese puffs and getting artificial orange dust all over her muzzle. Worse, she was sitting next to that….that mutt as if they were equals!
There was what Mr. Wright would have called “a scene” and Eddie called a “freak out.” Mr. Wright shouting, climbing over the fence to retrieve his precious girl and take her away from such ruffians. Eddie laughing and telling the man to calm down. Mr. Wright making vague mentions of the police. Eddie making distinct mentions of various places where Mr. Wright could put his police.
For a few days afterwards, Queenie was not left in the yard. She was taken for nice, decorous walks on her nice, decorous leash. The Wrights were careful to always turn her right down the block, away from Eddie’s place. And Skeeter, ever the romantic, would run hopefully along the fence line, no doubt calling to her in his best doggy Don Juan way.
And, as love will, it prevailed. One muggy summer night when the Wrights were watching Masterpiece Theatre (“My dear, the only thing worth watching on American telly!”) Queenie nosed open the screen door and made her escape. Within minutes she had bellied under the fence and was reunited with her Skeeter.
Later, when Queenie was safely delivered of a litter of scraggy dogs with short Corgi legs. The Wrights decided that she wasn’t the dog for them. We always wondered whether they sold or gave her to Eddie, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Queenie and Skeeter were together.
And from them on, we kids had two dogs to give treats to.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Another Planet
My mother's mind is now another planet. And sometimes that planet goes out of orbit.
Dementia is a horrible process. I went through it with my best friend. He had AIDS-related dementia. The day I walked in and he had no idea who I was, I felt little bits of my heart break inside of me.
Mom has senior dementia. At times it just manifests itself as having absolutely no memory. At times it's worse. Last weekend she took me on a tour of the home I grew up in because she thought I'd never been there before. She also talked about her kids like I wasn't one of them.
Saturday night the switch flipped and she turned aggressive, paranoid, and violent. I wasn't there. My poor nephew and his girlfriend were on grandma watch and went from being fine to asking who they were and what they were doing in her home. She accused them of trying to rob her. She said she hated them. She threw things. Worried she might hurt herself or someone else, they called 911. That made it worse. My mother, my nice mild-mannered mother, bit a cop. (Somehow I always thought if a mom bit a cop it would be Husband's mother. The ex-hippie and still political activist. I can see her biting a cop as he tries to drag her away from a protest.) But my mom? Nope. Too much a scaredy cat to cross authority.
Apparently it took a cop and two EMTs to get her to the ambulance. And once at the hospital she calmed down a bit and then went off again. She ripped out her IV and her ID tag and yelled at the nurses. They sedated her and she was able to go home a few hours later.
The siblings and I are working out when we can all meet up to have "the talk." We've come to realize she needs more care than she has now. My exceptional big sister lives with her, but I don't thinks it's just a matter of making sure she has company. She's getting worse. Unfortunately my mother's insurance doesn't cover in-home care. We've looked into care agencies and they charge $25 an hour. I'm not sure even with all of us chipping in we can afford that. Nobody wants to put her into senior care but we may have no choice.
It's tragic, because there are times when she's her. When she knows us. When she loves puttering around the home she's live in for close on 60 years. Where she was so happy with my father. And when she's her, she'll hate not being at home. She'll hate being someplace strange, surrounded by strange people. Of course we'll all visit and make sure she has as much family time as possible, but there will be times when her kids aren't there.
I am staying detached. Partly because I am and partly because I know from sad experience that in times like this, someone has to be. When I was Steve's primary caregiver I had to force myself to stay detached. If I let on how much it hurt, I wouldn't have been able to sign the papers to have him put into an AIDS hospice. So I put my feelings in a hurt locker and carried on.
This is easier. I've never felt exceptionally close to my mom, not like my siblings. I know it's much harder for them than for I. While they do what they can for mom, I'll do what I can for them. I'll go to the family conference, I'll give an opinion, I'll check my budget to see how much I can chip in for care. If necessary, I'll give up my volunteering and go back to work to be able to contribute more. But my job, as I see it now, is to whatever hard work I can. I'm OK with signing papers and being the one who makes the hard call. If my siblings will let me.
But they won't. Because to them I'll always be 9 years old. I will always be the baby of the family and incapable of being a responsible adult.
And for now we take care of mom as best we can. And hope her planet doesn't spin out of orbit while we're on duty.
My mother's mind is now another planet. And sometimes that planet goes out of orbit.
Dementia is a horrible process. I went through it with my best friend. He had AIDS-related dementia. The day I walked in and he had no idea who I was, I felt little bits of my heart break inside of me.
Mom has senior dementia. At times it just manifests itself as having absolutely no memory. At times it's worse. Last weekend she took me on a tour of the home I grew up in because she thought I'd never been there before. She also talked about her kids like I wasn't one of them.
Saturday night the switch flipped and she turned aggressive, paranoid, and violent. I wasn't there. My poor nephew and his girlfriend were on grandma watch and went from being fine to asking who they were and what they were doing in her home. She accused them of trying to rob her. She said she hated them. She threw things. Worried she might hurt herself or someone else, they called 911. That made it worse. My mother, my nice mild-mannered mother, bit a cop. (Somehow I always thought if a mom bit a cop it would be Husband's mother. The ex-hippie and still political activist. I can see her biting a cop as he tries to drag her away from a protest.) But my mom? Nope. Too much a scaredy cat to cross authority.
Apparently it took a cop and two EMTs to get her to the ambulance. And once at the hospital she calmed down a bit and then went off again. She ripped out her IV and her ID tag and yelled at the nurses. They sedated her and she was able to go home a few hours later.
The siblings and I are working out when we can all meet up to have "the talk." We've come to realize she needs more care than she has now. My exceptional big sister lives with her, but I don't thinks it's just a matter of making sure she has company. She's getting worse. Unfortunately my mother's insurance doesn't cover in-home care. We've looked into care agencies and they charge $25 an hour. I'm not sure even with all of us chipping in we can afford that. Nobody wants to put her into senior care but we may have no choice.
It's tragic, because there are times when she's her. When she knows us. When she loves puttering around the home she's live in for close on 60 years. Where she was so happy with my father. And when she's her, she'll hate not being at home. She'll hate being someplace strange, surrounded by strange people. Of course we'll all visit and make sure she has as much family time as possible, but there will be times when her kids aren't there.
I am staying detached. Partly because I am and partly because I know from sad experience that in times like this, someone has to be. When I was Steve's primary caregiver I had to force myself to stay detached. If I let on how much it hurt, I wouldn't have been able to sign the papers to have him put into an AIDS hospice. So I put my feelings in a hurt locker and carried on.
This is easier. I've never felt exceptionally close to my mom, not like my siblings. I know it's much harder for them than for I. While they do what they can for mom, I'll do what I can for them. I'll go to the family conference, I'll give an opinion, I'll check my budget to see how much I can chip in for care. If necessary, I'll give up my volunteering and go back to work to be able to contribute more. But my job, as I see it now, is to whatever hard work I can. I'm OK with signing papers and being the one who makes the hard call. If my siblings will let me.
But they won't. Because to them I'll always be 9 years old. I will always be the baby of the family and incapable of being a responsible adult.
And for now we take care of mom as best we can. And hope her planet doesn't spin out of orbit while we're on duty.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Lazy on a Saturday
When Husband is out of town I lose all desire to leave the house. Not out of misery at being a bachelor girl for the weekend. I do get to spend time alone here during the week. But there's something special about having a weekend alone. Don't get me wrong, I miss him big time. (But I'm loving his coverage of the Monterey Jazz Festival. Check it out at Jazz Observer.)
I'm watching movies he would have no desire to see. Taking lot, hot baths. Eating junk food. Having a great time. Sure I can do all this while he's here, but there's an illicit pleasure in doing it while he's gone. Like I'm doing something wrong.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) misses him more than me. When Husband is gone she follows me around like "I let one of you out of my sight, I'm not letting the other one leave." She's currently sleeping on his side of the bed. And last night, at her usual play time, she brought me her favorite toy. It's a stick with little crinkly bits on it. The problem is she only wants to play with Husband. Apparently I don't do it right. I did my best, but she gave me a pityingly patient look that said "you loser" and would not bite. Then she did the cat equivalent of looking at her watch to figure out when Husband was going to be home. I find it amusing that I spend most of my week playing with cats who can't get enough of my attention yet my own cat refuses to play with me.
So while Husband is gone Cipher will have to put up with a second-rate player. And I'm indulging in an orgy of the British show Top Gear. I'm going to have popcorn for dinner. Cipher will have tuna (her favorite). And Husband will have a full day and night of amazing music.
When Husband is out of town I lose all desire to leave the house. Not out of misery at being a bachelor girl for the weekend. I do get to spend time alone here during the week. But there's something special about having a weekend alone. Don't get me wrong, I miss him big time. (But I'm loving his coverage of the Monterey Jazz Festival. Check it out at Jazz Observer.)
I'm watching movies he would have no desire to see. Taking lot, hot baths. Eating junk food. Having a great time. Sure I can do all this while he's here, but there's an illicit pleasure in doing it while he's gone. Like I'm doing something wrong.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) misses him more than me. When Husband is gone she follows me around like "I let one of you out of my sight, I'm not letting the other one leave." She's currently sleeping on his side of the bed. And last night, at her usual play time, she brought me her favorite toy. It's a stick with little crinkly bits on it. The problem is she only wants to play with Husband. Apparently I don't do it right. I did my best, but she gave me a pityingly patient look that said "you loser" and would not bite. Then she did the cat equivalent of looking at her watch to figure out when Husband was going to be home. I find it amusing that I spend most of my week playing with cats who can't get enough of my attention yet my own cat refuses to play with me.
So while Husband is gone Cipher will have to put up with a second-rate player. And I'm indulging in an orgy of the British show Top Gear. I'm going to have popcorn for dinner. Cipher will have tuna (her favorite). And Husband will have a full day and night of amazing music.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Kitten update
It's been a while since I've updated you about things at the nursery.
We're in quarantine due to a possible positive test for feline leukemia and ringworm. The second leukemia test was negative, which is a good thing, but we're still keeping an eye out. Luckily the litter in question is thriving. Getting fat and happy and playing like crazy.
Because of the quarantine there are no litters in or out, so we've got the same full house we've had for the past two weeks. Everybody is doing great. Some should have been moved to adoption last week so they're huge and far more active than a little cage can hold. Their close to breaking out and we have to be extra careful about securing the cages because they can break out.
We're coming to the end of the season. Last year the nursery closed the first week in October. We'll probably shut down once this quarantine is over and the litters are moved to foster or adoption. And we've already broken our record for kittens. Last year we had 62. This year we had 86.
I'm going to miss the nursery when it shuts down. I'll go back to doing cats four days a week, but there's nothing like working with the kittens.
Next year we'll be in the shelter's new building with a separate nursery for the kittens, not just a small out-building. We'll be able to have more kennels and can save more kittens. I can't wait.
Husband, if you're reading this, thank you for making it possible for me to do what I love.
It's been a while since I've updated you about things at the nursery.
We're in quarantine due to a possible positive test for feline leukemia and ringworm. The second leukemia test was negative, which is a good thing, but we're still keeping an eye out. Luckily the litter in question is thriving. Getting fat and happy and playing like crazy.
Because of the quarantine there are no litters in or out, so we've got the same full house we've had for the past two weeks. Everybody is doing great. Some should have been moved to adoption last week so they're huge and far more active than a little cage can hold. Their close to breaking out and we have to be extra careful about securing the cages because they can break out.
We're coming to the end of the season. Last year the nursery closed the first week in October. We'll probably shut down once this quarantine is over and the litters are moved to foster or adoption. And we've already broken our record for kittens. Last year we had 62. This year we had 86.
I'm going to miss the nursery when it shuts down. I'll go back to doing cats four days a week, but there's nothing like working with the kittens.
Next year we'll be in the shelter's new building with a separate nursery for the kittens, not just a small out-building. We'll be able to have more kennels and can save more kittens. I can't wait.
Husband, if you're reading this, thank you for making it possible for me to do what I love.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Stupid f$#&@^g design
After 30+ hours I finally got some sleep (thank you Ambien)!.
Now, here's my crankypants rant for the day.
How hard is it to design a clock radio? My old faithful one died, mostly due to a certain cat (who shall remain nameless) knocking it off the nightstand in a repeated attempt to get fed at 3 am.
So I bought a new one. All I wanted was a clock radio. You chose a station, you set the time, the alarm goes on and off.
Well this one does all that. But it does it badly.
My biggest complaint is that the alarm on/off button is directly behind the volume knob. What idiot puts the most used feature on a product directly behind the least used feature? How often do you change the volume of your clock radio? How often do you turn it on and off? Plus the volume is controlled my a wheel so unless you reach around it, you're liable to turn the volume up to mach 2 in your sleepy stupor. And if you aren't careful while turning the alarm on at night, you might accidentally hit the wheel and turn the volume down to nothing so that you don't wake up.
Don't people think any more? This seems to be to be completely illogical. It's just annoying enough that, after about a month, I'm on the lookout for a new clock radio.
After 30+ hours I finally got some sleep (thank you Ambien)!.
Now, here's my crankypants rant for the day.
How hard is it to design a clock radio? My old faithful one died, mostly due to a certain cat (who shall remain nameless) knocking it off the nightstand in a repeated attempt to get fed at 3 am.
So I bought a new one. All I wanted was a clock radio. You chose a station, you set the time, the alarm goes on and off.
Well this one does all that. But it does it badly.
My biggest complaint is that the alarm on/off button is directly behind the volume knob. What idiot puts the most used feature on a product directly behind the least used feature? How often do you change the volume of your clock radio? How often do you turn it on and off? Plus the volume is controlled my a wheel so unless you reach around it, you're liable to turn the volume up to mach 2 in your sleepy stupor. And if you aren't careful while turning the alarm on at night, you might accidentally hit the wheel and turn the volume down to nothing so that you don't wake up.
Don't people think any more? This seems to be to be completely illogical. It's just annoying enough that, after about a month, I'm on the lookout for a new clock radio.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Things that are right with the world today...
It's the first full Sunday of the NFL season. Go Niners!
Yesterday the coolest in-laws on the planet (mine!) participated in the pro-Islamic demonstration in NYC. I am so proud of them for being on the side of tolerance, education, and kindness.
The Sunday paper was full of stories from this week's explosion disaster. Lots of generosity and charity. Focusing on how many people are giving of their time and money, how much appreciation shown to first responders, and how the community is pulling together.
Positive updates from the shelter on happy reunions between displaced pets and frantic pet owners. Plus outpourings of kindness from people offering their homes as foster to pets without a home until their owners get back on their feet.
Husband is on the radio today (if he ever gets out of a horrific traffic jam on the freeway!), playing jazz from 1-3.
Had dinner last night with a good friend. Someone I knew in high school that I've recently reconnected with thanks to Facebook. I swear he and Husband were separated at birth. So funny to see how much they have in common.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is sleeping in a sunbeam.
Have I mentioned it's football season?
It's the first full Sunday of the NFL season. Go Niners!
Yesterday the coolest in-laws on the planet (mine!) participated in the pro-Islamic demonstration in NYC. I am so proud of them for being on the side of tolerance, education, and kindness.
The Sunday paper was full of stories from this week's explosion disaster. Lots of generosity and charity. Focusing on how many people are giving of their time and money, how much appreciation shown to first responders, and how the community is pulling together.
Positive updates from the shelter on happy reunions between displaced pets and frantic pet owners. Plus outpourings of kindness from people offering their homes as foster to pets without a home until their owners get back on their feet.
Husband is on the radio today (if he ever gets out of a horrific traffic jam on the freeway!), playing jazz from 1-3.
Had dinner last night with a good friend. Someone I knew in high school that I've recently reconnected with thanks to Facebook. I swear he and Husband were separated at birth. So funny to see how much they have in common.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is sleeping in a sunbeam.
Have I mentioned it's football season?
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Oh...my
We were WAY too close that that explosion/fire yesterday. Our town borders San Bruno, where it all happened. From our back yard we could see a huge plume of black smoke and could smell the fire. Sirens going off all over town. People standing in the street to look and wonder.
It's one of those events that makes you realize how lucky you are, and how quickly it can all be taken away.
The Bay Area has mobilized, as it does in times of trial. People lined up to donate food and clothes. Blood banks booked solid. The shelter was busy taking care of displaced animals, injured wildlife, and frantic pet owners. THere had already been a half-dozen tear-filled reunions between pets and people. Sadly, more coming in all day. Our overflow was taken by shelters in neighboring counties. Kennels lined up in hallways and offices. We've moved some of our adoptable animals to other locations so we can keep people's pets in-house. Our amazing volunteers have stepped up to put in extra hours feeding and caring. Others have opened their homes as foster houses.
I hugged Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) a bit tighter today and thought how devastated I'd be if anything happened to her.
As long as I had her and Husband, I'd be OK. But far too many of our friends and neighbors have lost it all.
I can still smell residual smoke in the air. i can tell by my coughing that my allergies and bronchitis (have I mentioned I have bronchitis?) have been affected. There was a light dust of ash this morning. The backyard cats were more skittish than usual.
We watched the news last night until the anchors ran out of things to say. After hours of non-stop coverage of a disaster having some yobbo say "this is obviously a serious situation" is actually darkly funny. My brother is a local fire chief so I knew he was in the thick of things. He and his guys are all fine, thankfully. And thankfully far fewer fatalities than there could have been.
Today was a bit unreal. People were more considerate of each other. Drivers a bit nicer. I noticed more people talking on the streets, comparing notes, checking in. All my shelter friends greeted each other with "everyone you know OK?" and took the time to reassure or commiserate.
That's the only good thing about bad things.
Hug your loves a bit closer for me.
We were WAY too close that that explosion/fire yesterday. Our town borders San Bruno, where it all happened. From our back yard we could see a huge plume of black smoke and could smell the fire. Sirens going off all over town. People standing in the street to look and wonder.
It's one of those events that makes you realize how lucky you are, and how quickly it can all be taken away.
The Bay Area has mobilized, as it does in times of trial. People lined up to donate food and clothes. Blood banks booked solid. The shelter was busy taking care of displaced animals, injured wildlife, and frantic pet owners. THere had already been a half-dozen tear-filled reunions between pets and people. Sadly, more coming in all day. Our overflow was taken by shelters in neighboring counties. Kennels lined up in hallways and offices. We've moved some of our adoptable animals to other locations so we can keep people's pets in-house. Our amazing volunteers have stepped up to put in extra hours feeding and caring. Others have opened their homes as foster houses.
I hugged Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) a bit tighter today and thought how devastated I'd be if anything happened to her.
As long as I had her and Husband, I'd be OK. But far too many of our friends and neighbors have lost it all.
I can still smell residual smoke in the air. i can tell by my coughing that my allergies and bronchitis (have I mentioned I have bronchitis?) have been affected. There was a light dust of ash this morning. The backyard cats were more skittish than usual.
We watched the news last night until the anchors ran out of things to say. After hours of non-stop coverage of a disaster having some yobbo say "this is obviously a serious situation" is actually darkly funny. My brother is a local fire chief so I knew he was in the thick of things. He and his guys are all fine, thankfully. And thankfully far fewer fatalities than there could have been.
Today was a bit unreal. People were more considerate of each other. Drivers a bit nicer. I noticed more people talking on the streets, comparing notes, checking in. All my shelter friends greeted each other with "everyone you know OK?" and took the time to reassure or commiserate.
That's the only good thing about bad things.
Hug your loves a bit closer for me.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
4-Chord Wonders
Catching up on cool things around the Inter webs...
The amazing Axis of Awesome with the Four Chord Song. I'm not cool enough to get all the references, but it is hilarious. (NSFW.)
Catching up on cool things around the Inter webs...
The amazing Axis of Awesome with the Four Chord Song. I'm not cool enough to get all the references, but it is hilarious. (NSFW.)
Death and the Plants
I can't grow anything. Gray hair, yes. Plants, no. If I try, it will die a sad and tragic death.
I have friends (Finny, this means you) who can grow anything. They get the idea "I'd like to own a peach orchard" and trees magically start blooming in their back yards. Perfect rounds of ripe fruit, glistening with dew like in the pages of a Japanese catalog, will hang tantalizingly from the branches. And animated bluebirds will chirp happily and land on her fingers.
I will buy a plant and it will die in the car on the way home.
The only thing I have ever successfully managed to not murder is cactus. Which is strangely appropriate.
We have a couple of wildly phallic cacti in our front yard that I am just childish enough to giggle about when I see them. There are a few on the kitchen counter above the sink. But other than that our indoor greenery consists of a bamboo tree that I tried to prune and turned into a bamboo stalk. And the other plant is something else. No clue what it is. It's been here since the Hoover administration so it's origin is shrouded in the mists of time.
The house we rent comes with a gardener, so we fortunately never have to deal with mowing the lawn or pruning the roses. There are a few bare spots in the dirt which I've tried to fill with various bits of greenery or ground cover only to end up with brown, striggly plants that looks crisp enough to break with an actual "snap."
Now being a thoroughly modern woman, I do have excuses. First off, the neighborhood cats look upon our house as home base so they feel perfectly justified in digging up, peeing on, and generally killing off anything in the yard. That's one of the reasons why I put cactus out front. When I tried planting basil we decided we didn't actually want to use it because there was cat poo all over the planter. The freaky thing is that we've actually seen the cats sleeping in the planters with the cactus. It doesn't seem to bother them.
The other excuse is that we don't actually have soil in our yard. We have concrete. At one point the ground cover in our front yard died completely and it made our yard look like we lived in the sole crack house on the block. So I finally got fed up and decided to replant. I couldn't dig it up. The mix of ancient dirt and natural clay was so rock-hard that I actually had to sit there with a hammer and chisel (no, I am not kidding) and break up clods. Took me fucking forever. Several months, actually. I was never once able to use a shovel, a trowel, or any other normal gardening implement. Nope. Me and stone tools.
Once I got it all broken up I dutifully added fresh soil and fertilizer and various other nutrients before planting the new ground cover. And it's the one and only thing (thankfully) that has ever stuck around. Huzzah! We don't look abandoned! But knowing what's required does not inspire me to do it all round the house. I'm just not that interested.
So hats off to all of you who toil and sweat in the yard and then sit back with the butter running off your chin as you eat your fresh corn. Your hard work deserves all the yummy and beautiful things you grow. But for me, well I don't actually enjoy feeling like I'm on a Georgia chain gang. So I'll just buy my crops and envy you your freshness.
I can't grow anything. Gray hair, yes. Plants, no. If I try, it will die a sad and tragic death.
I have friends (Finny, this means you) who can grow anything. They get the idea "I'd like to own a peach orchard" and trees magically start blooming in their back yards. Perfect rounds of ripe fruit, glistening with dew like in the pages of a Japanese catalog, will hang tantalizingly from the branches. And animated bluebirds will chirp happily and land on her fingers.
I will buy a plant and it will die in the car on the way home.
The only thing I have ever successfully managed to not murder is cactus. Which is strangely appropriate.
We have a couple of wildly phallic cacti in our front yard that I am just childish enough to giggle about when I see them. There are a few on the kitchen counter above the sink. But other than that our indoor greenery consists of a bamboo tree that I tried to prune and turned into a bamboo stalk. And the other plant is something else. No clue what it is. It's been here since the Hoover administration so it's origin is shrouded in the mists of time.
The house we rent comes with a gardener, so we fortunately never have to deal with mowing the lawn or pruning the roses. There are a few bare spots in the dirt which I've tried to fill with various bits of greenery or ground cover only to end up with brown, striggly plants that looks crisp enough to break with an actual "snap."
Now being a thoroughly modern woman, I do have excuses. First off, the neighborhood cats look upon our house as home base so they feel perfectly justified in digging up, peeing on, and generally killing off anything in the yard. That's one of the reasons why I put cactus out front. When I tried planting basil we decided we didn't actually want to use it because there was cat poo all over the planter. The freaky thing is that we've actually seen the cats sleeping in the planters with the cactus. It doesn't seem to bother them.
The other excuse is that we don't actually have soil in our yard. We have concrete. At one point the ground cover in our front yard died completely and it made our yard look like we lived in the sole crack house on the block. So I finally got fed up and decided to replant. I couldn't dig it up. The mix of ancient dirt and natural clay was so rock-hard that I actually had to sit there with a hammer and chisel (no, I am not kidding) and break up clods. Took me fucking forever. Several months, actually. I was never once able to use a shovel, a trowel, or any other normal gardening implement. Nope. Me and stone tools.
Once I got it all broken up I dutifully added fresh soil and fertilizer and various other nutrients before planting the new ground cover. And it's the one and only thing (thankfully) that has ever stuck around. Huzzah! We don't look abandoned! But knowing what's required does not inspire me to do it all round the house. I'm just not that interested.
So hats off to all of you who toil and sweat in the yard and then sit back with the butter running off your chin as you eat your fresh corn. Your hard work deserves all the yummy and beautiful things you grow. But for me, well I don't actually enjoy feeling like I'm on a Georgia chain gang. So I'll just buy my crops and envy you your freshness.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Naming
I've commented before on the oddness of names. They fascinate me. The labels we carry into life. For good or for bad they help define our personalities. The can affect how people perceive us even before we've met them. And yet so many parents seem to think only of the sound and not of the burden a bad name can create.
One of my fellow volunteers just showed me photos of her new granddaughter. Not doing babies I commented non-commitally about the wrinkled pink creature she was oohing over. And, of course, I asked what her name is.
Luella.
Really? It's 2010 and you've named your daughter after Miss Iowa 1934?
Luella has two older brothers. Spencer and Morgan. Typical 21st century Hollywood-wannabe "cool" name. They'll fit right in with all the Madisons and Codys in their school. And given their names, you'd think Luella would have ended up as Brittany or Shea. But no, she's a Luella.
Now those of you who know me will be surprised I didn't immediately blurt out "god lord, why?" when I heard the name. Luckily, I didn't have to. As soon as grandma told me her name she instantly added "horrible, isn't it?" Well, yeah. I gotta be honest. I think it's horrible. No offense to any Luellas out there. But really, in today's society, it's a name that doesn't need to be given to anyone.
I asked grandma if Luella was a family name. She said no, with a laugh. And she says she and her husband honestly expect her daughter and son-in-law to either change it or start calling her by her middle name.
Which is, matching with Spencer and Morgan, Clio.
I've commented before on the oddness of names. They fascinate me. The labels we carry into life. For good or for bad they help define our personalities. The can affect how people perceive us even before we've met them. And yet so many parents seem to think only of the sound and not of the burden a bad name can create.
One of my fellow volunteers just showed me photos of her new granddaughter. Not doing babies I commented non-commitally about the wrinkled pink creature she was oohing over. And, of course, I asked what her name is.
Luella.
Really? It's 2010 and you've named your daughter after Miss Iowa 1934?
Luella has two older brothers. Spencer and Morgan. Typical 21st century Hollywood-wannabe "cool" name. They'll fit right in with all the Madisons and Codys in their school. And given their names, you'd think Luella would have ended up as Brittany or Shea. But no, she's a Luella.
Now those of you who know me will be surprised I didn't immediately blurt out "god lord, why?" when I heard the name. Luckily, I didn't have to. As soon as grandma told me her name she instantly added "horrible, isn't it?" Well, yeah. I gotta be honest. I think it's horrible. No offense to any Luellas out there. But really, in today's society, it's a name that doesn't need to be given to anyone.
I asked grandma if Luella was a family name. She said no, with a laugh. And she says she and her husband honestly expect her daughter and son-in-law to either change it or start calling her by her middle name.
Which is, matching with Spencer and Morgan, Clio.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Radio, Radio
If it's Tuesday it must be radio night.
Join me from 6-9 pm (Pacific) on KZSU for At the Cafe Bohemian. Not sure what I'm going to play tonight. I might do a "women of the world" focus.
If it's Tuesday it must be radio night.
Join me from 6-9 pm (Pacific) on KZSU for At the Cafe Bohemian. Not sure what I'm going to play tonight. I might do a "women of the world" focus.
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Art and Whine
Every Labor Day weekend our town hosts an Art & Wine Festival. It's huge. One of the largest in the Bay Area. And, oh joy!, it's about three blocks from where we live.
We celebrate this occasion by staying as far away as possible from downtown. We go without food because getting to the grocery store would be a nightmare. We plan our away trips with care as we know there will be no parking in front of our house when we get back. And even though we are three whole blocks from fun central, we get groups of loud drunk people walking in front of our house and freaking out the cats.
All the neighborhood feral cats have been hiding in the relative sanctuary of our back yard all weekend. It looks like a cat apocalypse out there. Bodies everywhere. (Peacefully sleeping, of course, not dead.) But at least a half dozen of them sprawled like the Battle of Gettysburg on the concrete, under the bushes, by the chairs. There are a few in the front yard, but the sidewalks are too full of people with too much wine in them and too little taste. People carrying handmade wicker bird cages and ugly ceramic flower pots. People wearing hand-painted baseball caps with dandelions on them. People eating funnel cakes and sporting farmer's tans.
Luckily it's over. It's only a two day event and tomorrow our street will go back to being relatively quiet. There will be far fewer people in an alcoholic stupor parking in our driveway. But the neighborhood cats will still be here. Just less freaked out.
Every Labor Day weekend our town hosts an Art & Wine Festival. It's huge. One of the largest in the Bay Area. And, oh joy!, it's about three blocks from where we live.
We celebrate this occasion by staying as far away as possible from downtown. We go without food because getting to the grocery store would be a nightmare. We plan our away trips with care as we know there will be no parking in front of our house when we get back. And even though we are three whole blocks from fun central, we get groups of loud drunk people walking in front of our house and freaking out the cats.
All the neighborhood feral cats have been hiding in the relative sanctuary of our back yard all weekend. It looks like a cat apocalypse out there. Bodies everywhere. (Peacefully sleeping, of course, not dead.) But at least a half dozen of them sprawled like the Battle of Gettysburg on the concrete, under the bushes, by the chairs. There are a few in the front yard, but the sidewalks are too full of people with too much wine in them and too little taste. People carrying handmade wicker bird cages and ugly ceramic flower pots. People wearing hand-painted baseball caps with dandelions on them. People eating funnel cakes and sporting farmer's tans.
Luckily it's over. It's only a two day event and tomorrow our street will go back to being relatively quiet. There will be far fewer people in an alcoholic stupor parking in our driveway. But the neighborhood cats will still be here. Just less freaked out.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Silver Creek Series
As mentioned earlier, not much happened in Silver Creek in the summertime. A high school musical. Band concerts at the park. Fireworks. But the big social event of the season was the Garcia vs. Fire Department softball game.
It started when I was in 4th grade. Mr. Garcia, who owned a local insurance business was best friends with Chief Nettles, who was then chief of the fire department. After years of mini golf games, pub trivia nights, and one memorable donkey baseball event they decided on full on softball.
If you were a friend or relation of the Garcia family, you were a Garcia Giant. If you were an employee or family member of the Silver Creek Fire Department, you were a Hydrant.
Since Jessie Garcia was one of my dearest friends, I was always on the Garcia team and was considered something of a secret weapon. You see, don’t tell anyone, but I could hit anything you threw at me. Fast balls. Sliders. Curves. Didn’t matter, I’d smack ‘em out. I could be counted on for at least a single and usually a double or triple every at bat..
That was the good news. The bad was that I couldn’t field to save my life. I’d see a ball coming at me and all I could focus on was the word “Spaulding” coming ever closer to my forehead. Twice games were stopped while the EMTs (on the Fire Dept Team) checked me our for possible concussions. Once asking me who was president. When I refused to say “Reagan” he passed me as being OK. After twice being bonked out of left field they took me out of the game, debated the merit of the designated hitter, and put me in from time to time.
After a hotly contested game there were hot dogs and lemonade, beer and bratworst, and lots of lying on who played better.
To this day I still swear you can read “Spaulding” on the top of my head . Husband says it isn’t obvious if I comb my hair right.
As mentioned earlier, not much happened in Silver Creek in the summertime. A high school musical. Band concerts at the park. Fireworks. But the big social event of the season was the Garcia vs. Fire Department softball game.
It started when I was in 4th grade. Mr. Garcia, who owned a local insurance business was best friends with Chief Nettles, who was then chief of the fire department. After years of mini golf games, pub trivia nights, and one memorable donkey baseball event they decided on full on softball.
If you were a friend or relation of the Garcia family, you were a Garcia Giant. If you were an employee or family member of the Silver Creek Fire Department, you were a Hydrant.
Since Jessie Garcia was one of my dearest friends, I was always on the Garcia team and was considered something of a secret weapon. You see, don’t tell anyone, but I could hit anything you threw at me. Fast balls. Sliders. Curves. Didn’t matter, I’d smack ‘em out. I could be counted on for at least a single and usually a double or triple every at bat..
That was the good news. The bad was that I couldn’t field to save my life. I’d see a ball coming at me and all I could focus on was the word “Spaulding” coming ever closer to my forehead. Twice games were stopped while the EMTs (on the Fire Dept Team) checked me our for possible concussions. Once asking me who was president. When I refused to say “Reagan” he passed me as being OK. After twice being bonked out of left field they took me out of the game, debated the merit of the designated hitter, and put me in from time to time.
After a hotly contested game there were hot dogs and lemonade, beer and bratworst, and lots of lying on who played better.
To this day I still swear you can read “Spaulding” on the top of my head . Husband says it isn’t obvious if I comb my hair right.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Meeker
There's a kat named Meeker that isn't in the adoption area. He's in the feral room, having only recently been caught in a busy office park area. Meeker isn't at all happy to be inside. He's an outdoor cat and lets you know it. Chances are he might go back there,, as there's a volunteer with a horse barn in use of a mouser. Meeker might suit very well. But until then he's got to learn some basic people skills, like "do not maim the nice volunteers."
Meeker (what an inappropriate name!) should be approached with a whip and a chair. As it is, I do pull out my leather gloves when dealing with him. We just need to get him used to people. He'll never be a lap cat, and that's OK. But he can't keep jumping with claws out at anyone within walking distance. While cleaning the cage of the cat below him, Meeker calmly lifted a paw out and slammed it down upon my unsuspecting head. Blood ensued.
This is not a house cat in the making. This is a cat that wants to be on the hunt. And as soon as the vets finish treating his broken foot and worms, he'll be healthy enough to go "home." And this wooded barn area with lots of squirrels and nobody trying to play "here kitty, kitty" with him seems like the perfect solution.
But until then, Meeker is a mean old Tom who has earned my wariness. And caused me two band-aids.
There's a kat named Meeker that isn't in the adoption area. He's in the feral room, having only recently been caught in a busy office park area. Meeker isn't at all happy to be inside. He's an outdoor cat and lets you know it. Chances are he might go back there,, as there's a volunteer with a horse barn in use of a mouser. Meeker might suit very well. But until then he's got to learn some basic people skills, like "do not maim the nice volunteers."
Meeker (what an inappropriate name!) should be approached with a whip and a chair. As it is, I do pull out my leather gloves when dealing with him. We just need to get him used to people. He'll never be a lap cat, and that's OK. But he can't keep jumping with claws out at anyone within walking distance. While cleaning the cage of the cat below him, Meeker calmly lifted a paw out and slammed it down upon my unsuspecting head. Blood ensued.
This is not a house cat in the making. This is a cat that wants to be on the hunt. And as soon as the vets finish treating his broken foot and worms, he'll be healthy enough to go "home." And this wooded barn area with lots of squirrels and nobody trying to play "here kitty, kitty" with him seems like the perfect solution.
But until then, Meeker is a mean old Tom who has earned my wariness. And caused me two band-aids.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Burning up the Airwaves
Back tonight, by popular demand (OK, my Husband asking if me I was doing my show tonight) it's the return of At the Cafe Bohemian. Tune in from 6-9 pm (Pacific) via the wonders of the internet,
Back tonight, by popular demand (OK, my Husband asking if me I was doing my show tonight) it's the return of At the Cafe Bohemian. Tune in from 6-9 pm (Pacific) via the wonders of the internet,
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Musica
Often when making small talk with people you've just met the subject of music comes up. Which means the invariable question of "what kind of music do you listen to?" or the alternative "who are your favorite artists?"
Being a world music DJ means that my favorite artists are those that most people outside of the US have never even heard of.
"Such as?" you ask. Well, such as Sanseverino a French singer/songwriter/guitarist influenced by Django Reinhardt but with a modern pop/jazz sound. Great fun and delicious music. Henri Dikongue from Cameroon. Acoustic guitar and warm, light, sweet vocals. Lesser known than most international African artists, but so wonderful. Omara Portuondo best known for her vocals with the Buena Vista Social club. This Cuban singer is probably in her 70s by now but that only makes her style more sophisticated and her voice richer.
Of those three, Omara Portuondo is probably the best known, simply because of her BVSC work. Within their own countries, the other two are well known and extremely popular.
The problem is that when I talk about the music I love, I get the impression that people think I'm a snob. I'm not. And I'm certainly not throwing out potentially obscure names to seem "in the know." It's just that I like music that you're not going to hear when you turn on the radio.
But, for the record, my favorite US artist of the past decade is Garth Brooks. So yes, I do like some popular artists. But honestly, I'd prefer to listen to Paris Combo. (Or Ken Hirai. Or Robert Mirabal. Or Tarras. Or....)
Often when making small talk with people you've just met the subject of music comes up. Which means the invariable question of "what kind of music do you listen to?" or the alternative "who are your favorite artists?"
Being a world music DJ means that my favorite artists are those that most people outside of the US have never even heard of.
"Such as?" you ask. Well, such as Sanseverino a French singer/songwriter/guitarist influenced by Django Reinhardt but with a modern pop/jazz sound. Great fun and delicious music. Henri Dikongue from Cameroon. Acoustic guitar and warm, light, sweet vocals. Lesser known than most international African artists, but so wonderful. Omara Portuondo best known for her vocals with the Buena Vista Social club. This Cuban singer is probably in her 70s by now but that only makes her style more sophisticated and her voice richer.
Of those three, Omara Portuondo is probably the best known, simply because of her BVSC work. Within their own countries, the other two are well known and extremely popular.
The problem is that when I talk about the music I love, I get the impression that people think I'm a snob. I'm not. And I'm certainly not throwing out potentially obscure names to seem "in the know." It's just that I like music that you're not going to hear when you turn on the radio.
But, for the record, my favorite US artist of the past decade is Garth Brooks. So yes, I do like some popular artists. But honestly, I'd prefer to listen to Paris Combo. (Or Ken Hirai. Or Robert Mirabal. Or Tarras. Or....)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
People in the Heat
They do weird things. They lose all concern with how they look. With the exception of high school kids who insist on wearing wool ski caps (!) because they look hip. Yeah, shorts and a sweaty face is so hot.
Everyone else, though, doesn't care. Women who wouldn't dream of usually being seen in shorts put them on, damn the strerch marks, and go to the grocery store. Unfortunately we're required at the shelter to wear long pants and closed toe shoes so no shorts and flip-flops for me. I look positively Muslim in my jeans and heavy cotton volunteer t-shirt. Everyone else out today had tank tops and cargo shorts. Old ladies in muu-muus. Old guys in Bermuda shorts. Wonderfully ugly hula shirts.
See the other side effect of not being used to living in this heat is not having the wardrobe for it. I own exactly one pair of shorts and they don't fit. I'll wear them inside, but not outside. And since I have a dress code where I "work" I'm dressing today exactly the way I did last winter. (OK, minus the sweatshirt.) But the rest of the Bay Area looks really, really funny.
I've seen more flabby white legs today than I can count. I've seen clothing that hasn't been out of the closet in five years. Tank tops featuring bands that broke up a decade ago. Shorts that don't fit the wearer because they last time they wore them they were 15 pounds lighter. (The wearer, not the shorts.)
At the moment I'm wearing light PJ bottoms and one of Husband's t-shirts. It's 86 in here but is supposed to cool down tonight and be much cooler tomorrow. But I'll be wearing tomorrow what I wore today. Volunteering is a great way to not worry about what you're going to wear...
They do weird things. They lose all concern with how they look. With the exception of high school kids who insist on wearing wool ski caps (!) because they look hip. Yeah, shorts and a sweaty face is so hot.
Everyone else, though, doesn't care. Women who wouldn't dream of usually being seen in shorts put them on, damn the strerch marks, and go to the grocery store. Unfortunately we're required at the shelter to wear long pants and closed toe shoes so no shorts and flip-flops for me. I look positively Muslim in my jeans and heavy cotton volunteer t-shirt. Everyone else out today had tank tops and cargo shorts. Old ladies in muu-muus. Old guys in Bermuda shorts. Wonderfully ugly hula shirts.
See the other side effect of not being used to living in this heat is not having the wardrobe for it. I own exactly one pair of shorts and they don't fit. I'll wear them inside, but not outside. And since I have a dress code where I "work" I'm dressing today exactly the way I did last winter. (OK, minus the sweatshirt.) But the rest of the Bay Area looks really, really funny.
I've seen more flabby white legs today than I can count. I've seen clothing that hasn't been out of the closet in five years. Tank tops featuring bands that broke up a decade ago. Shorts that don't fit the wearer because they last time they wore them they were 15 pounds lighter. (The wearer, not the shorts.)
At the moment I'm wearing light PJ bottoms and one of Husband's t-shirts. It's 86 in here but is supposed to cool down tonight and be much cooler tomorrow. But I'll be wearing tomorrow what I wore today. Volunteering is a great way to not worry about what you're going to wear...
Can We Get Just a Little Sympathy?
The Bay Area is sweltering under a heat wave and nobody feels sorry for us.
My Facebook friends are all posting statuses like "we're melting" or "I can't sleep, it's 90 at 1 am." And our friends in the hotter climes are chiming in with things like "try it with 90% humidity" or "welcome to our world." Here's the thing, if you live in Arizona or Florida you expect this heat. You're prepared for it. We're not. Yes, you regularly have temps into the triple digits. But it's been like that for two months and you lived there knowing that. Here it's different. Our climate changes daily. On Saturday morning it was so chilly that our heater (which we keep set at 65) went off. Last night at 2 am it was 90 in our house.
When you live next to the San Francisco Bay you don't expect it to be 101 degrees. Our house doesn't have air conditioning. We have three fans. The kitten nursery doesn't have AC. It has two fans. It was so hot we actually had to "condemn" the nursery and move the kittens into a cooler spot. Yesterday it was 98 in the nursery, too hot for struggling kittens.
Friends who live in Orlando were laughing at us for feeling the heat. But they go from their air conditioned house to their air conditioned car to their air conditioned businesses. Most of us our here don't have AC in our houses. Who needs it when you're only going to run it for 10 days a year? Well we do. At least for those 10 days. People around here are all exhausted because nobody's slept in three days. Those of us who don't have the luxury of AC where we work are getting headache and heat stroke. We're sweating, cranky, and making sure we don't get dehydrated. I've consumed so much water the past three days that I'm practically floating.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) has managed to extend herself into the largest land mass possible to take most advantage of her proximity to the quietest fan. It's quite impressive, really. In the winter she can curl herself into a tiny ball to conserve heat. In the summer she extends herself out into about two cat lengths. It's like feline origami.
It's a bit cooler today, but not by much. Currently it's 84 in the house. Tomorrow, according to the SF paper, will be 20 degrees cooler. 20 degrees! That's how unusual this heat is.
So yes, it's hotter where you are. It'll be hotter next week. You'll be sweating for another month. But gee, can we get just a little sympathy please?
The Bay Area is sweltering under a heat wave and nobody feels sorry for us.
My Facebook friends are all posting statuses like "we're melting" or "I can't sleep, it's 90 at 1 am." And our friends in the hotter climes are chiming in with things like "try it with 90% humidity" or "welcome to our world." Here's the thing, if you live in Arizona or Florida you expect this heat. You're prepared for it. We're not. Yes, you regularly have temps into the triple digits. But it's been like that for two months and you lived there knowing that. Here it's different. Our climate changes daily. On Saturday morning it was so chilly that our heater (which we keep set at 65) went off. Last night at 2 am it was 90 in our house.
When you live next to the San Francisco Bay you don't expect it to be 101 degrees. Our house doesn't have air conditioning. We have three fans. The kitten nursery doesn't have AC. It has two fans. It was so hot we actually had to "condemn" the nursery and move the kittens into a cooler spot. Yesterday it was 98 in the nursery, too hot for struggling kittens.
Friends who live in Orlando were laughing at us for feeling the heat. But they go from their air conditioned house to their air conditioned car to their air conditioned businesses. Most of us our here don't have AC in our houses. Who needs it when you're only going to run it for 10 days a year? Well we do. At least for those 10 days. People around here are all exhausted because nobody's slept in three days. Those of us who don't have the luxury of AC where we work are getting headache and heat stroke. We're sweating, cranky, and making sure we don't get dehydrated. I've consumed so much water the past three days that I'm practically floating.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) has managed to extend herself into the largest land mass possible to take most advantage of her proximity to the quietest fan. It's quite impressive, really. In the winter she can curl herself into a tiny ball to conserve heat. In the summer she extends herself out into about two cat lengths. It's like feline origami.
It's a bit cooler today, but not by much. Currently it's 84 in the house. Tomorrow, according to the SF paper, will be 20 degrees cooler. 20 degrees! That's how unusual this heat is.
So yes, it's hotter where you are. It'll be hotter next week. You'll be sweating for another month. But gee, can we get just a little sympathy please?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
No Radio Tonight Plus Fresh, Hot Links
I've got a sub for my show tonight. The Tuesday dinner shift at the kitten nursery fell apart and I'm filling in. You can still turn in for some fine music as Trent Maverick keeps the Cafe Bohemian alive. On KZSU. I'll be back next week with more delicious world music.
Now on with the fun:
Check out the Chinese Red Army doing Michael's Jackson's Beat It.
Danish Rabbit Hopping Competition. Not a Monty Python sketch.
Freaky ass puppets. Bad music. Must be Christian Pirate rap.
I've got a sub for my show tonight. The Tuesday dinner shift at the kitten nursery fell apart and I'm filling in. You can still turn in for some fine music as Trent Maverick keeps the Cafe Bohemian alive. On KZSU. I'll be back next week with more delicious world music.
Now on with the fun:
Check out the Chinese Red Army doing Michael's Jackson's Beat It.
Danish Rabbit Hopping Competition. Not a Monty Python sketch.
Freaky ass puppets. Bad music. Must be Christian Pirate rap.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Kittens. Yeah, again.
The "official" kitten nursery has closed. That means that everyone who signed up for the summer is off the hook and doesn't need to come in anymore. That's because we had a lot of high school students getting their volunteer credits. They're back in school and now it's just us old folk. The nursery is still up and running. Last year it was open until the first week of October. This year it looks to end mid-September. We saved over 80 kittens last year and we're aiming for more this time around.
Fewer volunteers means more work, but I don't mind. Actually those of the die-hards still working the nursery are the best. Experienced, reliable, fun. Our shift with four people today ran smoother than previous shifts with 7, of whom several were useless. We still have a full house with all kennels full, at the moment we have 22 kittens in residence.
Here's the deal. For each litter we mix up a batch of food, customized for each group. Some get solid kitten food. Some get a mix of KMR (Kitten Milk Replacement) and food. We weigh each kitty and, for the smaller ones, syringe feed them. At least 12ccs per kitty, which is sometimes quite a chore.
We clean their cages, socialize them (that's the best part) and report any signs of illnesses. Between each litter we bleach the scales and tables and make sure everything is clean so as not to cross-contaminate. Then it's on to the next one. The average litter of 4 takes about 40 minutes, so with 7 litters it can take some time. And it always takes longer than you think because you want to spend more time with each litter. And usually they don't want to go back, which makes it harder to end the visit.
The thing I love about the lunch shift, though, is how the kittens react. Usually I'm the first one there and when I walk in they wake up. There's a chorus of curious and hungry meows. But after two and a half hours of lunch, play, and cuddling they're all fast asleep again by the time I leave. There's a deliciously comforting silence about piles of sleeping, happy kittens. And every day it's harder to leave without smuggling one of these little guys home.
The "official" kitten nursery has closed. That means that everyone who signed up for the summer is off the hook and doesn't need to come in anymore. That's because we had a lot of high school students getting their volunteer credits. They're back in school and now it's just us old folk. The nursery is still up and running. Last year it was open until the first week of October. This year it looks to end mid-September. We saved over 80 kittens last year and we're aiming for more this time around.
Fewer volunteers means more work, but I don't mind. Actually those of the die-hards still working the nursery are the best. Experienced, reliable, fun. Our shift with four people today ran smoother than previous shifts with 7, of whom several were useless. We still have a full house with all kennels full, at the moment we have 22 kittens in residence.
Here's the deal. For each litter we mix up a batch of food, customized for each group. Some get solid kitten food. Some get a mix of KMR (Kitten Milk Replacement) and food. We weigh each kitty and, for the smaller ones, syringe feed them. At least 12ccs per kitty, which is sometimes quite a chore.
We clean their cages, socialize them (that's the best part) and report any signs of illnesses. Between each litter we bleach the scales and tables and make sure everything is clean so as not to cross-contaminate. Then it's on to the next one. The average litter of 4 takes about 40 minutes, so with 7 litters it can take some time. And it always takes longer than you think because you want to spend more time with each litter. And usually they don't want to go back, which makes it harder to end the visit.
The thing I love about the lunch shift, though, is how the kittens react. Usually I'm the first one there and when I walk in they wake up. There's a chorus of curious and hungry meows. But after two and a half hours of lunch, play, and cuddling they're all fast asleep again by the time I leave. There's a deliciously comforting silence about piles of sleeping, happy kittens. And every day it's harder to leave without smuggling one of these little guys home.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Old Faces in Odd Places
This has been my week for catching up with old friends.
First my friend M who I never see because, well, I live in California and she lives in Saudi Arabia. But she's back for the summer with husband and two kids and she had some free time and randomly came by the shelter. I'm walking across the lobby on my way to the nursery and who should I see but someone I thought was on the other side of the map. Completely surprising and so wonderful. We've kept in touch via e-mail and Christmas cards but I haven't seen her face-to-face in probably 10 years. And there she was.
Then today Husband and I were having breakfast in our favorite local diner and two old friends walk in. I was great friends with M & R when I was married to my first husband. The four of us traveled together and spent endless hours eating good food and playing cribbage. But we drifted apart and today for the first time in about 12 years I saw them again.
Running into old friends is weird. We're of the age when we don't change that much. None of my friends look any different than they did 10 years ago. Maybe one or two more wrinkles. Maybe a bit more gray hair. But seeing them again after so many years was interesting because I recognized all of them immediately. No "they look familiar" no "where do I know that face from?" It was an instant recognition and a delicious gift from the universe.
This has been my week for catching up with old friends.
First my friend M who I never see because, well, I live in California and she lives in Saudi Arabia. But she's back for the summer with husband and two kids and she had some free time and randomly came by the shelter. I'm walking across the lobby on my way to the nursery and who should I see but someone I thought was on the other side of the map. Completely surprising and so wonderful. We've kept in touch via e-mail and Christmas cards but I haven't seen her face-to-face in probably 10 years. And there she was.
Then today Husband and I were having breakfast in our favorite local diner and two old friends walk in. I was great friends with M & R when I was married to my first husband. The four of us traveled together and spent endless hours eating good food and playing cribbage. But we drifted apart and today for the first time in about 12 years I saw them again.
Running into old friends is weird. We're of the age when we don't change that much. None of my friends look any different than they did 10 years ago. Maybe one or two more wrinkles. Maybe a bit more gray hair. But seeing them again after so many years was interesting because I recognized all of them immediately. No "they look familiar" no "where do I know that face from?" It was an instant recognition and a delicious gift from the universe.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
I'm Back!
My new MacBook arrived today and I am back in the land of technology. I promise to write something vaguely interesting tomorrow and start the photo of the day again. For now I'm just sitting in a geek haze in joy at my very first brand new (not handed down from a Husband) laptop. I am ashamed at how happy this makes me. Did I just lose all my Humanities Major credibility?
My new MacBook arrived today and I am back in the land of technology. I promise to write something vaguely interesting tomorrow and start the photo of the day again. For now I'm just sitting in a geek haze in joy at my very first brand new (not handed down from a Husband) laptop. I am ashamed at how happy this makes me. Did I just lose all my Humanities Major credibility?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
On the air
For those of you interesting I'm on the air tonight 6-9 pm (Pacific). You can listen via the wonders of the Internet or through iTunes. (iTunes -> Radio -> College -> KZSU.
Tune in and share the love.
For those of you interesting I'm on the air tonight 6-9 pm (Pacific). You can listen via the wonders of the Internet or through iTunes. (iTunes -> Radio -> College -> KZSU.
Tune in and share the love.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
In and Out of Focus
I am now officially old. When I went to the eye doctor last week she suggested reading glasses. In addition to my regular bifocals.
I've worn glasses since 6th grade and am legally blind without them. But lately I've noticed a hard time reading. I thought it was the bifocals and the fact that I need to hold both the book and my head in this perfect alignment of planets in order to see the pages. But no, turns out I need reading glasses too.
To save money I just brought in a pair of old frames and asked them to put new lenses in. So today they were ready and I now have the problem of switching between two pairs of glasses. I refuse to become one of those crazy old ladies with pearl glasses holders and eyeglasses hanging down her bosom. But I'm not sure how to live with the two pairs.
I can read with my regular glasses, so I don't need to carry two pairs, luckily. But for long reads, I guess I'll just have to get used to putting on the new specs and taking off the old ones...and remembering where the bifocals are because I can't see very well with the reading glasses beyond a foot or so.
When I tried them on in the doctor's office my first thought was "they gave me the wrong glasses." Everything was fuzzy. But then the guy handed me a card with writing on it and the world became clear. Vivid. Wildly vivid. Suddenly words on a page were jumping out at me as if animated.
I predict a series of headaches while I get used to them. First off looking at a book is now like looking at something under a microscope -- it's so clear and perfect that it almost hurts the brain. Too much stimulation. Plus whenever I look away, I can't see a damned thing. But I think it'll be nice to go back to marathon, multi-hour reading sessions without feeling like I need a magnifying glass.
Yeah, I'm old. But it's better than the alternative.
In other news I went to the local Apple store and found out that it will cost over my limit to get my laptop fixed. Before going in I decided if it cost over "X" then I'd just bite the bullet and get a new one. So I'm getting a new one. Luckily I have many friends who work there who can get me their discount, so within the next week I expect to be a technocrat again. It's been lovely of Husband to let me use his, but I want my own back.
I am now officially old. When I went to the eye doctor last week she suggested reading glasses. In addition to my regular bifocals.
I've worn glasses since 6th grade and am legally blind without them. But lately I've noticed a hard time reading. I thought it was the bifocals and the fact that I need to hold both the book and my head in this perfect alignment of planets in order to see the pages. But no, turns out I need reading glasses too.
To save money I just brought in a pair of old frames and asked them to put new lenses in. So today they were ready and I now have the problem of switching between two pairs of glasses. I refuse to become one of those crazy old ladies with pearl glasses holders and eyeglasses hanging down her bosom. But I'm not sure how to live with the two pairs.
I can read with my regular glasses, so I don't need to carry two pairs, luckily. But for long reads, I guess I'll just have to get used to putting on the new specs and taking off the old ones...and remembering where the bifocals are because I can't see very well with the reading glasses beyond a foot or so.
When I tried them on in the doctor's office my first thought was "they gave me the wrong glasses." Everything was fuzzy. But then the guy handed me a card with writing on it and the world became clear. Vivid. Wildly vivid. Suddenly words on a page were jumping out at me as if animated.
I predict a series of headaches while I get used to them. First off looking at a book is now like looking at something under a microscope -- it's so clear and perfect that it almost hurts the brain. Too much stimulation. Plus whenever I look away, I can't see a damned thing. But I think it'll be nice to go back to marathon, multi-hour reading sessions without feeling like I need a magnifying glass.
Yeah, I'm old. But it's better than the alternative.
In other news I went to the local Apple store and found out that it will cost over my limit to get my laptop fixed. Before going in I decided if it cost over "X" then I'd just bite the bullet and get a new one. So I'm getting a new one. Luckily I have many friends who work there who can get me their discount, so within the next week I expect to be a technocrat again. It's been lovely of Husband to let me use his, but I want my own back.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Tonight's Playlist
Just home from KZSU and my weekly world music radio show. For those who are interested, tonight's playlist is now available on Zookeeper our online music database.
I was all over the map, as usual, tonight. Everything from Duke Ellington to the latest from Rachid Taha. From 101-year old ukulele master Bill Tapia, to fairly new on the scene artists such as Yuka Ito.
And remember you can always listen to my show live via the wonder of the Internet from 6-9 pm (Pacific) on Tuesday nights.
Just home from KZSU and my weekly world music radio show. For those who are interested, tonight's playlist is now available on Zookeeper our online music database.
I was all over the map, as usual, tonight. Everything from Duke Ellington to the latest from Rachid Taha. From 101-year old ukulele master Bill Tapia, to fairly new on the scene artists such as Yuka Ito.
And remember you can always listen to my show live via the wonder of the Internet from 6-9 pm (Pacific) on Tuesday nights.
Patricia Neal
I was saddened today to learn of the death of actress Patricia Neal. In spite of her Academy Award for Hud she always struck me as sadly underused and under-recognized. She didn't have the typical leading lady beauty, although I think she was a gorgeous woman with an outrageously sexy voice. She's one of those actors that I wish had made more movies.
She had a tough life and her career was sadly shortened by a series of strokes. But in every movie she did she left a stamp of quality.
I loved her toughness and the underlying sweetness she seemed to bring to every role. In In Harm's Way she plays a military nurse dealing with personal problems and WWII. And she acts rings around poor John Wayne who plays John Wayne. She's so subtle and quiet in the face of his cowboy persona it's easy to overlook just how little work she's doing (in a good way). She manages to be strong enough that you believe her as a woman of force in a man's world, but you also see the compassion and soft heart. And in almost every role there's this little twinkle that seems to say she knows more than everyone else, but she's not telling.
I admire'd her talent and her courage. Coming back from one stroke is hard enough. She came back from three, learning how to walk and speak again and even pursuing acting roles in the face of setbacks that would have ended most careers. And in everything she did, even crappy guest appearances on Murder She Wrote she was shining.
Thank you, Ms. Neal, for your graciousness and talent. You will be missed.
I was saddened today to learn of the death of actress Patricia Neal. In spite of her Academy Award for Hud she always struck me as sadly underused and under-recognized. She didn't have the typical leading lady beauty, although I think she was a gorgeous woman with an outrageously sexy voice. She's one of those actors that I wish had made more movies.
She had a tough life and her career was sadly shortened by a series of strokes. But in every movie she did she left a stamp of quality.
I loved her toughness and the underlying sweetness she seemed to bring to every role. In In Harm's Way she plays a military nurse dealing with personal problems and WWII. And she acts rings around poor John Wayne who plays John Wayne. She's so subtle and quiet in the face of his cowboy persona it's easy to overlook just how little work she's doing (in a good way). She manages to be strong enough that you believe her as a woman of force in a man's world, but you also see the compassion and soft heart. And in almost every role there's this little twinkle that seems to say she knows more than everyone else, but she's not telling.
I admire'd her talent and her courage. Coming back from one stroke is hard enough. She came back from three, learning how to walk and speak again and even pursuing acting roles in the face of setbacks that would have ended most careers. And in everything she did, even crappy guest appearances on Murder She Wrote she was shining.
Thank you, Ms. Neal, for your graciousness and talent. You will be missed.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Photo of the day: Coco
This is Coco, a member of our tiniest litter. Coco and her sister, Cream, weigh in at about half a pound and are doing quite nicely, thank you. The only photos I have on Husband's computer are the kitten pictures I took at the nursery today so I decided to share one with you. Coco is a total charmer and will be quite a handful once she's bigger. She's just starting to explore a bit and do more than just eat and sleep. Today she wandered all over the table, played with her first pipe cleaner, and managed to jump (not fall) onto my lap.
This is Coco, a member of our tiniest litter. Coco and her sister, Cream, weigh in at about half a pound and are doing quite nicely, thank you. The only photos I have on Husband's computer are the kitten pictures I took at the nursery today so I decided to share one with you. Coco is a total charmer and will be quite a handful once she's bigger. She's just starting to explore a bit and do more than just eat and sleep. Today she wandered all over the table, played with her first pipe cleaner, and managed to jump (not fall) onto my lap.
Techno'd Out
My laptop has died a sad and tragic end. It's been fading for a while, the screen occasionally turning itself into what looks like a barcode. Yesterday I tried (rather stupidly as it turns out) to update the software and it didn't come back. So don't expect much from me for a few days. I'm typing this on Husband's computer but I don't like to use his. We also have a desktop, but I'm spoiled and like to be curled up on the sofa while I'm working. Anyway, I'm not sure how much posting I'll be doing for a bit. I can't go cold turkey...and we can't afford a new laptop so I guess I'll have to get over my laziness and actually move into the office and dust off the desktop for a bit. And use Husband's when he's not busy.
My laptop has died a sad and tragic end. It's been fading for a while, the screen occasionally turning itself into what looks like a barcode. Yesterday I tried (rather stupidly as it turns out) to update the software and it didn't come back. So don't expect much from me for a few days. I'm typing this on Husband's computer but I don't like to use his. We also have a desktop, but I'm spoiled and like to be curled up on the sofa while I'm working. Anyway, I'm not sure how much posting I'll be doing for a bit. I can't go cold turkey...and we can't afford a new laptop so I guess I'll have to get over my laziness and actually move into the office and dust off the desktop for a bit. And use Husband's when he's not busy.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
In Praise of Volunteering
As regular readers know, I volunteer at a local animal shelter. But it's not my first volunteer gig. I've had a history going back a while, mostly in AIDS organizations. But I've also volunteered at a local museum, doing writing/editing for a few non-profits, picking up trash, delivering meals, and various other positions.
In my case I am unemployed by choice. When I got fed up working for an international fruit-named high tech company, I knew I wanted a complete change. And here I am. Broke and loving it. Of course I couldn't do this if it weren't for the support (both emotional and monetary) of my wonderful Husband. But even when I was working full time I made sure to give back to the world. Sure back then I wrote more checks and logged fewer volunteer hours. But I suppose I've always wanted to be one of the good guys.
The one thing that never fails to amaze me is how hard people will work for no money. Those of us who work at the shelter do it because we love animals and we want to help them. Many of my fellow volunteers have been there for over ten years. This marks my third summer there and I can't imagine ever giving it up. The volunteers there do everything from the easy (playing with cats, taking dogs for a walk) to the hard (maintenance work, fence building, laundry, carrying 50 lb. sacks of food around). They give freely of their time and normally work longer and harder than they need to.
We occasionally get free cookies and leftover pizza, but other than that our only pay is in purrs and licks. And the satisfaction of seeing an animal find a home. And every time I get tired and think I've put in enough time, there's always someone there whose been there longer who makes me want to stay so I can be just like them.
Organizations like the one I work with wouldn't exist without volunteers. There's no way these groups could afford the salary to hire the workers necessary to do all we do. In this case, they certainly wouldn't be a no-kill shelter. Problem dogs and cats would most likely be euthanized rather than given special attention. So, in many ways, we save lives when we go in and do what we do.
I've often said this is the best paying non-paying job I've ever had. Sure I hate being broke. And I feel bad because I'd like Husband to have an easier life and would like someday to afford our own house. But right now I wouldn't change a thing. I don't need 20 pairs of shoes or a new car (OK, maybe I'll need one soon. Mine is 12 years old with 170,000 miles on it.) I'd rather do without than do without the care I can give to these critters in search of a home.
So to all of you who volunteer, thank you. You make miracles happen. You keep the world fed, cared for, and loved. You inspire me. And I want to be just like you when I grow up.
As regular readers know, I volunteer at a local animal shelter. But it's not my first volunteer gig. I've had a history going back a while, mostly in AIDS organizations. But I've also volunteered at a local museum, doing writing/editing for a few non-profits, picking up trash, delivering meals, and various other positions.
In my case I am unemployed by choice. When I got fed up working for an international fruit-named high tech company, I knew I wanted a complete change. And here I am. Broke and loving it. Of course I couldn't do this if it weren't for the support (both emotional and monetary) of my wonderful Husband. But even when I was working full time I made sure to give back to the world. Sure back then I wrote more checks and logged fewer volunteer hours. But I suppose I've always wanted to be one of the good guys.
The one thing that never fails to amaze me is how hard people will work for no money. Those of us who work at the shelter do it because we love animals and we want to help them. Many of my fellow volunteers have been there for over ten years. This marks my third summer there and I can't imagine ever giving it up. The volunteers there do everything from the easy (playing with cats, taking dogs for a walk) to the hard (maintenance work, fence building, laundry, carrying 50 lb. sacks of food around). They give freely of their time and normally work longer and harder than they need to.
We occasionally get free cookies and leftover pizza, but other than that our only pay is in purrs and licks. And the satisfaction of seeing an animal find a home. And every time I get tired and think I've put in enough time, there's always someone there whose been there longer who makes me want to stay so I can be just like them.
Organizations like the one I work with wouldn't exist without volunteers. There's no way these groups could afford the salary to hire the workers necessary to do all we do. In this case, they certainly wouldn't be a no-kill shelter. Problem dogs and cats would most likely be euthanized rather than given special attention. So, in many ways, we save lives when we go in and do what we do.
I've often said this is the best paying non-paying job I've ever had. Sure I hate being broke. And I feel bad because I'd like Husband to have an easier life and would like someday to afford our own house. But right now I wouldn't change a thing. I don't need 20 pairs of shoes or a new car (OK, maybe I'll need one soon. Mine is 12 years old with 170,000 miles on it.) I'd rather do without than do without the care I can give to these critters in search of a home.
So to all of you who volunteer, thank you. You make miracles happen. You keep the world fed, cared for, and loved. You inspire me. And I want to be just like you when I grow up.
Friday, August 06, 2010
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Rivalries
Husband went to Stanford. I've always been a Stanford fan and have been a Stanford radio DJ for going into my 11th year now.
My ex-husband, with whom I am still friends, went to Cal. Through him I met the people who went on to become my dearest friends. They also went to Cal. Of our book group, five members went to Cal.
Out here, the Stanford vs. Cal rivalry is long-standing and heated. It got me wondering why. How do rivalries get started? Of all the schools they play against, when Stanford is against Cal in anything, the crowds get wild.
Today I went to see the eye doctor, a Cal grad. Last year was my first visit to her and we got to talking about schools. She, as a joke, actually put it in my patient file that she would only agree to treat me if I promised not to wear a Stanford Cardinal sweatshirt when I came in for visits. Her assistant brought up my file and asked me to look it over to make sure everything was still correct and it's in the "special notes" area. I laughed at that.
I'm a huge SF Giants fan and love to attend their games. But the games against the LA Dodgers get especially heated. Chants of "Beat LA! Beat LA!" echo throughout AT&T Park. On game day, if you buy a soda, it comes in special "Beat LA" cups that are only used when they play the Dodgers. And I find it funny that it seems more important to the crowds that the Giants play well against LA. I mean games against, say, the San Diego Padres are equally important in the pennant race -- yet not as emotionally charged.
Perhaps it's part of the whole SF vs. LA thing. Those of us who were born and raised in Northern California will never accept that LA is anything other than a smog-filled, traffic-choked pit.
One other interesting division, though, is the use of the word "the." There's some sort invisible north vs. south thing when it comes to freeways. If you are on highway 101 up here that's what you say "I'll be taking 101 up to Marin County." But somewhere around, say, King City, a "the" gets added. "I'll be taking the 101 down to San Diego."
We don't need no stinkin' "the."
Husband went to Stanford. I've always been a Stanford fan and have been a Stanford radio DJ for going into my 11th year now.
My ex-husband, with whom I am still friends, went to Cal. Through him I met the people who went on to become my dearest friends. They also went to Cal. Of our book group, five members went to Cal.
Out here, the Stanford vs. Cal rivalry is long-standing and heated. It got me wondering why. How do rivalries get started? Of all the schools they play against, when Stanford is against Cal in anything, the crowds get wild.
Today I went to see the eye doctor, a Cal grad. Last year was my first visit to her and we got to talking about schools. She, as a joke, actually put it in my patient file that she would only agree to treat me if I promised not to wear a Stanford Cardinal sweatshirt when I came in for visits. Her assistant brought up my file and asked me to look it over to make sure everything was still correct and it's in the "special notes" area. I laughed at that.
I'm a huge SF Giants fan and love to attend their games. But the games against the LA Dodgers get especially heated. Chants of "Beat LA! Beat LA!" echo throughout AT&T Park. On game day, if you buy a soda, it comes in special "Beat LA" cups that are only used when they play the Dodgers. And I find it funny that it seems more important to the crowds that the Giants play well against LA. I mean games against, say, the San Diego Padres are equally important in the pennant race -- yet not as emotionally charged.
Perhaps it's part of the whole SF vs. LA thing. Those of us who were born and raised in Northern California will never accept that LA is anything other than a smog-filled, traffic-choked pit.
One other interesting division, though, is the use of the word "the." There's some sort invisible north vs. south thing when it comes to freeways. If you are on highway 101 up here that's what you say "I'll be taking 101 up to Marin County." But somewhere around, say, King City, a "the" gets added. "I'll be taking the 101 down to San Diego."
We don't need no stinkin' "the."
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Where'd it go?
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is not the most intellectual of cats. Face it, as much as we might love the beasts, cats are not known for their deductive reasoning. They rarely solve mysteries or debate foreign policy. They are smart enough to be cats and figure out things like killing empty toilet paper rolls, but sometimes higher concepts defeat them.
Gravity is one of those concepts that cats don't seem to grasp, and Cipher is very much symptomatic of this failure.
One of her favorite things to do is knock items off of tables and then wonder where they've gone.
Her favorite target is books and since both Husband and I are voracious readers, she has plenty of game. She loves to jump onto the coffee table and bat with intense concentration at a paperback. Then when she finally manages to knock it onto the floor she looks completely mystified. "Hey," she seems to express, "it was here a minute ago!" She'll look at us with a "where is it?" expression and a few moments later appears to be extremely surprised when she jumps off the table and finds a book on the floor.
I usually have three or four books on the nightstand next to the bed and they plague her in the middle of the night. Suddenly she just can't stand it any longer and she'll walk over me to knock one of the offending books onto the floor. That'll teach it. Then, having disposed of another book and completely perplexed as to where the damn thing went, she'll walk back over me and settle at the foot of the bed once more, no doubt to meditate on the amazing disappearing book.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is not the most intellectual of cats. Face it, as much as we might love the beasts, cats are not known for their deductive reasoning. They rarely solve mysteries or debate foreign policy. They are smart enough to be cats and figure out things like killing empty toilet paper rolls, but sometimes higher concepts defeat them.
Gravity is one of those concepts that cats don't seem to grasp, and Cipher is very much symptomatic of this failure.
One of her favorite things to do is knock items off of tables and then wonder where they've gone.
Her favorite target is books and since both Husband and I are voracious readers, she has plenty of game. She loves to jump onto the coffee table and bat with intense concentration at a paperback. Then when she finally manages to knock it onto the floor she looks completely mystified. "Hey," she seems to express, "it was here a minute ago!" She'll look at us with a "where is it?" expression and a few moments later appears to be extremely surprised when she jumps off the table and finds a book on the floor.
I usually have three or four books on the nightstand next to the bed and they plague her in the middle of the night. Suddenly she just can't stand it any longer and she'll walk over me to knock one of the offending books onto the floor. That'll teach it. Then, having disposed of another book and completely perplexed as to where the damn thing went, she'll walk back over me and settle at the foot of the bed once more, no doubt to meditate on the amazing disappearing book.
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Girl Who Was Lost
Silver Creek was, and is, a safe town. Growing up we had little crime, and what there was wasn’t serious. Cars being broken into. A little vandalism. That sort of thing. But in 1976 we had a murder. And it hit pretty close to home.
Paula Bradley was only two years ahead of me in high school. She was a cheerleader and sang alto in the choir. She lived two blocks away on Alder Street and I used to see her in the evenings walking a very yappy beagle.
She dated the brother of my best friend, Sean. She was whatever the female equivalent of an Eagle Scout was and every year my family bought Thin Mints from her.
She had long brown hair, parted in the middle, and so straight it looked like she ironed it in the morning. She had blue eyes and a small constellation of freckles on her cheeks. She collected blown glass animals and shy male admirers. And when she sneezed it sounded like a cartoon character.
Paula was one of five girls of similar appearance who was killed between 1975 and 1977. She was last seen leaving choir practice at school and was found three days later in what was then an empty field behind the local Mormon church.
Back then there was more privacy for grief. The news didn’t push microphones into the faces of devastated parents, and the papers didn’t publish all the grisly details. All we knew was that Paula was dead and we were stunned.
Silver Creek High was small enough that pretty much everyone knew her, at least by sight. So we shared a quiet, shocked sorrow that, in retrospect, caused irreparable changes in my town. We didn’t have grief counselors back then, no canceling of classes for the day while we dealt with the news. In fact there wasn’t even an official announcement. It was just a word whispered between classes in increasingly quiet hallways. I’m sure the parents knew a lot more than they told any of us – but we who knew her, even slightly, were kept mostly in the dark.
There was no public assembly. No huge, publicized funeral. Those who were close friends went to a service – those who were merely acquaintances stayed away because it seemed intrusive back then to go to the funeral of someone you barely knew. Back then sorrow required a degree of familiarity. Today if someone in a high school dies the entire school, whether acquainted or not, shows up in some TV-covered service; usually wearing homemade buttons with photos of the deceased. But in 1976 it wasn’t seen as support for the family, it was seen as mere vulgar curiosity to attend unless you were related or deeply close.
So we had no acknowledgement of her. She was a solo photo on the back page of the 1976 yearbook. The only “official” sign of her loss at school was a dramatically empty chair in the alto section at the year-end choir concert. And by silent agreement of the manners of the mid-sixties, she was a subject you didn’t talk about because it was scary or rude or mean.
She was, both physically and emotionally, lost.
But she was never really forgotten. And her killer was never found.
Silver Creek was, and is, a safe town. Growing up we had little crime, and what there was wasn’t serious. Cars being broken into. A little vandalism. That sort of thing. But in 1976 we had a murder. And it hit pretty close to home.
Paula Bradley was only two years ahead of me in high school. She was a cheerleader and sang alto in the choir. She lived two blocks away on Alder Street and I used to see her in the evenings walking a very yappy beagle.
She dated the brother of my best friend, Sean. She was whatever the female equivalent of an Eagle Scout was and every year my family bought Thin Mints from her.
She had long brown hair, parted in the middle, and so straight it looked like she ironed it in the morning. She had blue eyes and a small constellation of freckles on her cheeks. She collected blown glass animals and shy male admirers. And when she sneezed it sounded like a cartoon character.
Paula was one of five girls of similar appearance who was killed between 1975 and 1977. She was last seen leaving choir practice at school and was found three days later in what was then an empty field behind the local Mormon church.
Back then there was more privacy for grief. The news didn’t push microphones into the faces of devastated parents, and the papers didn’t publish all the grisly details. All we knew was that Paula was dead and we were stunned.
Silver Creek High was small enough that pretty much everyone knew her, at least by sight. So we shared a quiet, shocked sorrow that, in retrospect, caused irreparable changes in my town. We didn’t have grief counselors back then, no canceling of classes for the day while we dealt with the news. In fact there wasn’t even an official announcement. It was just a word whispered between classes in increasingly quiet hallways. I’m sure the parents knew a lot more than they told any of us – but we who knew her, even slightly, were kept mostly in the dark.
There was no public assembly. No huge, publicized funeral. Those who were close friends went to a service – those who were merely acquaintances stayed away because it seemed intrusive back then to go to the funeral of someone you barely knew. Back then sorrow required a degree of familiarity. Today if someone in a high school dies the entire school, whether acquainted or not, shows up in some TV-covered service; usually wearing homemade buttons with photos of the deceased. But in 1976 it wasn’t seen as support for the family, it was seen as mere vulgar curiosity to attend unless you were related or deeply close.
So we had no acknowledgement of her. She was a solo photo on the back page of the 1976 yearbook. The only “official” sign of her loss at school was a dramatically empty chair in the alto section at the year-end choir concert. And by silent agreement of the manners of the mid-sixties, she was a subject you didn’t talk about because it was scary or rude or mean.
She was, both physically and emotionally, lost.
But she was never really forgotten. And her killer was never found.
Monday, August 02, 2010
Photo of the day: William
William. A big name for a little kitten. William the Conquerer. William Shakespeare. And William the kitten.
Little William's had a rough start. Fleas and a cold. But one of our dedicated volunteers has taken him to foster in her home and I'm glad to say he's doing much better and is, apparently, terrorizing one of her adult cats.
William. A big name for a little kitten. William the Conquerer. William Shakespeare. And William the kitten.
Little William's had a rough start. Fleas and a cold. But one of our dedicated volunteers has taken him to foster in her home and I'm glad to say he's doing much better and is, apparently, terrorizing one of her adult cats.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
CD Pick of the week: Amira
Check out this week's CD Pick. Zumra by singer Amira Medunjanian and accordionist Merima Klujuco playing gorgeous Bosnian folk music. Amira has an angelic voice – rich, soaring, and passionate. The music is full of emotion and tradition yet is never boring or predictable. This duo can make you cry. Wonderful stuff, every track. Wildly evocative & dramatic. Holy cats!
Check out this week's CD Pick. Zumra by singer Amira Medunjanian and accordionist Merima Klujuco playing gorgeous Bosnian folk music. Amira has an angelic voice – rich, soaring, and passionate. The music is full of emotion and tradition yet is never boring or predictable. This duo can make you cry. Wonderful stuff, every track. Wildly evocative & dramatic. Holy cats!
Me and the Pig
I've never been personally acquainted with a pig before. Now I am. He's a sweet black and white (and pink) guy who comes trotting over to see me whenever I walk over. And I walk over every time I'm at the shelter now. He heaves himself up from his favorite corner in the shade and comes to the front of the little barnyard area. Then he pushes his black snout through the fence and snuffles at my hand.
I'm not sure of his name, but he's incredibly friendly and my new best friend. He must weigh close to 200 pounds, so we're not talking about one of those adorable mini-pigs. And I never thought I'd be a pig fan, but he has such a wonderful personality and always seems so happy to see me. Of course I'm not kidding myself, it's not me he's happy to see, but anybody. But I like to pretend it's me and that he recognizes me. He gets so excited he taps his little feet on the straw, like a little happy dance.
So the upshot is I have a new friend. And the downside is, I'll never eat pork again.
I've never been personally acquainted with a pig before. Now I am. He's a sweet black and white (and pink) guy who comes trotting over to see me whenever I walk over. And I walk over every time I'm at the shelter now. He heaves himself up from his favorite corner in the shade and comes to the front of the little barnyard area. Then he pushes his black snout through the fence and snuffles at my hand.
I'm not sure of his name, but he's incredibly friendly and my new best friend. He must weigh close to 200 pounds, so we're not talking about one of those adorable mini-pigs. And I never thought I'd be a pig fan, but he has such a wonderful personality and always seems so happy to see me. Of course I'm not kidding myself, it's not me he's happy to see, but anybody. But I like to pretend it's me and that he recognizes me. He gets so excited he taps his little feet on the straw, like a little happy dance.
So the upshot is I have a new friend. And the downside is, I'll never eat pork again.
Photo of the day: The chocolate Tribe
One of our litters is named after candy. He have Milky Way, Mars, Cadbury, Baby Ruth, and Snickers. This little guy is Cadbury. He Ioves to snuggle has has a HUGE explorer steak that makes him wonder off of tables and across the nest of unsuspecting volunteers. Hes a wriggle demon with huge eyes and a totally compelling purr and I'm going to miss him when he goes into the adoption areaa.
One of our litters is named after candy. He have Milky Way, Mars, Cadbury, Baby Ruth, and Snickers. This little guy is Cadbury. He Ioves to snuggle has has a HUGE explorer steak that makes him wonder off of tables and across the nest of unsuspecting volunteers. Hes a wriggle demon with huge eyes and a totally compelling purr and I'm going to miss him when he goes into the adoption areaa.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Photo of the day: Classics
One of the great things about living in the bay area is that there are always interesting things going on. Yesterday when Husband and I were on our way to Stanford we stumbled across a classic car show. It was great fun wandering around and looking at all the amazing vehicles. Cars used to be so sexy, didn't they? All that delicious chrome and gorgeous styling.
One of the great things about living in the bay area is that there are always interesting things going on. Yesterday when Husband and I were on our way to Stanford we stumbled across a classic car show. It was great fun wandering around and looking at all the amazing vehicles. Cars used to be so sexy, didn't they? All that delicious chrome and gorgeous styling.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Party of the Century
Screw Truman Capote and his star-studded epic, the REAL party of the century took place in Silver Creek at the home of Riley and Kat Logan.
The Logan’s was my second home, and Sean Logan my “brother from another mother.” No matter how dull things were at my house, Casa de Logan was always happening. Impromptu croquet tournaments. Games of Risk complete with fake military uniforms and European accents. Homemade cookies, warm from the oven. And the parties. Every month an epic party.
Riley and Kat met in an acting class at university and never lost that delicious spirit of play. They passed it on to their kids and, in some way, to the whole town through their parties. They were just evenings, they were events. You had to work, or you weren’t invited back. So in some ways Silver Creek's social schedule was dictated to by Kit and RIley's monthly inventions.
Take something simple, for instance, Chinese Night. For weeks every Chinese cookbook in town was poured over while people prowled secondhand stores for suitable costumes. And when the night game we were surrounded by Mandarins and slaves, peasants and paupers. I dressed entirely in gray and went at the Great Wall. Sean dressed in red as the little red book. We ate delicious crispy-fried duck and had a man-johng tournament. The whole night was illuminated by paper lanterns and the sounds Chinese music played on the Logan’s excellent hi-fi. The Logan's even insisted on teaching us an easy folk dance and we all slithered and slide underneath their paper lantens to the sounds of pipes and gongs.
Some parties, however, took a great deal of trouble. The gam-themed party threw many into confusion until they got into the gist of it and began creating giant papier mache chess set heads or painting playing card for costumes. We had shuttlecocks dancing with bowling pins and something of a scandal when a backgammon board was found in the corner with a hungry-hungry-hippo. My little green army man was no match for the large top hat (Sean's favorite Monopoly token) but we both laughed at his parents as Ken and Barbie. Scarily so.
The most famous party of all, though, was the celebrity party. The rule was simple: no one allowed in unless escorted by someone with a famous name. That’s it. You didn’t have to actually bring a famous person, just the name. Once word got out, one of our local dentists, John Wayne, got a lot more business and was snapped up quick. Consultation with Kit Logan expanded our horizons when she allowed for spelling differences. Thus Glen Miller (from the local Ford dealership) and Vivien Lee (of Lee’s Lovely Nails) were both permissible.
People began looking through the yellow pages and rifling through old year books. Total strangers were cold called with invitations to parties with people they didn’t know. And a surprising number said yes. But for most of is, it was an uphill battle
Eventually Kit relented and allowed famous fictional characters to be in, so Perry Mason and Peter Parker showed up on the guest list. The Logan’s next-door neighbors had it easiest of all. Dr. Raymond Charles went as himself, Ray Charles and his wife brought their Doberman, Prince Charles. They even brought a letter from their vet addressed to Prince Charles to prove his name. Kit accepted the letter but banished Prince back to his own home, being familiar with the dog’s tendency to pee when excited.
I was really struggling until the day before the party when I got a flat tire. I went to A-1 Auto Parts for a new one and Mr. Carson, who I’d known forever, waited on me. But it wasn’t until I saw him standing there in his black and white striped uniform shirt with “John” stitched onto the name patch that I realized all these years I had been buying oil and wiper blades from Johnny Carson. He quickly became my date for the party.
It was an amazing night. Betty Davis danced with John Adams. A female Jackie Robinson flirted with a male Dale Evans. Our youngest guest was a 4 month old Bruce Lee and our oldest at 90+something Tina Turner. We had Paul Newman, Jim Morrison, Mary Martin, and Debbie Reynolds. A few of the more obscure “celebrities” had to prove not only their name but also their fame. My father brought a man and an encyclopedia to probe that Robert Borden was prime minister of Canada in the 1920s. Thanks to Brittanica, Robert Borden (dad’s insurance guy) got them both in.
Everyone from George Patton to Martha Washington was there, and had a fabulous time. And the great thing is nobody was in costume, so you had no idea who they were. You’d just walk up and introduce yourself and find yourself talking to Sammy Davis or Jackie Kennedy. That night Kit posted a huge piece of white paper on the wall of her living room and asked all the guests to sign in. If it had been a real gathering, this document would be worth a fortune. She let John Adams (an orthodontist) sign first, and then everyone else dug in. Even Mother Theresa from OLA came over for a bit and got into the spirit of things, She signed right next to Pat Garett,credited with killing Billy the Kid.
It was an epic party, one talked about for months afterwards, People bragged about their "celebrity" others laughed at their 15-minute of fame. But it was defiitely one for the books. To this day, however, the thing that never fails to make me laugh is the one guy in town who, try as he might, could not find anybody with a famous name to take to the party. His name was Harry Potter.
Screw Truman Capote and his star-studded epic, the REAL party of the century took place in Silver Creek at the home of Riley and Kat Logan.
The Logan’s was my second home, and Sean Logan my “brother from another mother.” No matter how dull things were at my house, Casa de Logan was always happening. Impromptu croquet tournaments. Games of Risk complete with fake military uniforms and European accents. Homemade cookies, warm from the oven. And the parties. Every month an epic party.
Riley and Kat met in an acting class at university and never lost that delicious spirit of play. They passed it on to their kids and, in some way, to the whole town through their parties. They were just evenings, they were events. You had to work, or you weren’t invited back. So in some ways Silver Creek's social schedule was dictated to by Kit and RIley's monthly inventions.
Take something simple, for instance, Chinese Night. For weeks every Chinese cookbook in town was poured over while people prowled secondhand stores for suitable costumes. And when the night game we were surrounded by Mandarins and slaves, peasants and paupers. I dressed entirely in gray and went at the Great Wall. Sean dressed in red as the little red book. We ate delicious crispy-fried duck and had a man-johng tournament. The whole night was illuminated by paper lanterns and the sounds Chinese music played on the Logan’s excellent hi-fi. The Logan's even insisted on teaching us an easy folk dance and we all slithered and slide underneath their paper lantens to the sounds of pipes and gongs.
Some parties, however, took a great deal of trouble. The gam-themed party threw many into confusion until they got into the gist of it and began creating giant papier mache chess set heads or painting playing card for costumes. We had shuttlecocks dancing with bowling pins and something of a scandal when a backgammon board was found in the corner with a hungry-hungry-hippo. My little green army man was no match for the large top hat (Sean's favorite Monopoly token) but we both laughed at his parents as Ken and Barbie. Scarily so.
The most famous party of all, though, was the celebrity party. The rule was simple: no one allowed in unless escorted by someone with a famous name. That’s it. You didn’t have to actually bring a famous person, just the name. Once word got out, one of our local dentists, John Wayne, got a lot more business and was snapped up quick. Consultation with Kit Logan expanded our horizons when she allowed for spelling differences. Thus Glen Miller (from the local Ford dealership) and Vivien Lee (of Lee’s Lovely Nails) were both permissible.
People began looking through the yellow pages and rifling through old year books. Total strangers were cold called with invitations to parties with people they didn’t know. And a surprising number said yes. But for most of is, it was an uphill battle
Eventually Kit relented and allowed famous fictional characters to be in, so Perry Mason and Peter Parker showed up on the guest list. The Logan’s next-door neighbors had it easiest of all. Dr. Raymond Charles went as himself, Ray Charles and his wife brought their Doberman, Prince Charles. They even brought a letter from their vet addressed to Prince Charles to prove his name. Kit accepted the letter but banished Prince back to his own home, being familiar with the dog’s tendency to pee when excited.
I was really struggling until the day before the party when I got a flat tire. I went to A-1 Auto Parts for a new one and Mr. Carson, who I’d known forever, waited on me. But it wasn’t until I saw him standing there in his black and white striped uniform shirt with “John” stitched onto the name patch that I realized all these years I had been buying oil and wiper blades from Johnny Carson. He quickly became my date for the party.
It was an amazing night. Betty Davis danced with John Adams. A female Jackie Robinson flirted with a male Dale Evans. Our youngest guest was a 4 month old Bruce Lee and our oldest at 90+something Tina Turner. We had Paul Newman, Jim Morrison, Mary Martin, and Debbie Reynolds. A few of the more obscure “celebrities” had to prove not only their name but also their fame. My father brought a man and an encyclopedia to probe that Robert Borden was prime minister of Canada in the 1920s. Thanks to Brittanica, Robert Borden (dad’s insurance guy) got them both in.
Everyone from George Patton to Martha Washington was there, and had a fabulous time. And the great thing is nobody was in costume, so you had no idea who they were. You’d just walk up and introduce yourself and find yourself talking to Sammy Davis or Jackie Kennedy. That night Kit posted a huge piece of white paper on the wall of her living room and asked all the guests to sign in. If it had been a real gathering, this document would be worth a fortune. She let John Adams (an orthodontist) sign first, and then everyone else dug in. Even Mother Theresa from OLA came over for a bit and got into the spirit of things, She signed right next to Pat Garett,credited with killing Billy the Kid.
It was an epic party, one talked about for months afterwards, People bragged about their "celebrity" others laughed at their 15-minute of fame. But it was defiitely one for the books. To this day, however, the thing that never fails to make me laugh is the one guy in town who, try as he might, could not find anybody with a famous name to take to the party. His name was Harry Potter.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
I Scare Myself
And, apparently, other people.
The Internet world is all over I Write Like a fascinating little piece of computerese whereby you past a few paragraphs of your writing and it tells you what famous writer you write like.
So I pasted a few bits from Silver Creek.
The first response? I write like HP Lovecraft. Next try? Stephen King. Finally it tells me I write like Chuck Palahniuk (author of The Fight Club and other works). Apparently I'm a scary sci-fi writer. Who knew?
And, apparently, other people.
The Internet world is all over I Write Like a fascinating little piece of computerese whereby you past a few paragraphs of your writing and it tells you what famous writer you write like.
So I pasted a few bits from Silver Creek.
The first response? I write like HP Lovecraft. Next try? Stephen King. Finally it tells me I write like Chuck Palahniuk (author of The Fight Club and other works). Apparently I'm a scary sci-fi writer. Who knew?
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Envy of the sleep
As a life-long insomniac, I am used to being the only awake individual in the house. Growing up I shared a room with my two sisters and would often read long into the night, holding a flashlight under the covers while my sisters snored from the darkened corners of our room.
I adore both Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) but in one way they drive me crazy -- the can both, apparently, fall asleep at will.
Husband has been known to fall asleep mid-conversation. We'll be in bed, chatting quietly about life. He'll say something. I'll respond. And his response to my comment is a gentle snore. It typically takes him all of five minutes to fall asleep. I hate that about him.
Cipher, like most cats, has a well-developed nap instinct. And when she falls, she falls deep. She can get into these amazingly liquid positions where you can tell she hasn't a stressed bone in her body. In fact, it looks like she has no bones at all. At the moment Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just in our comfy bed. Cipher is asleep on the chair across the room from me, lying full-length will paws forward (think of Superman flying) and dreaming little kitty dreams of birds and mice.
And me? I'm settling in for another all-nighter. Two hours sleep last night (or rather this morning), and anticipating about the same tonight. But I have books. Movies. Ice cream. All the necessities. And I'm OK with that -- but I do envy Husband and Cipher. Damn their sleepiness.
As a life-long insomniac, I am used to being the only awake individual in the house. Growing up I shared a room with my two sisters and would often read long into the night, holding a flashlight under the covers while my sisters snored from the darkened corners of our room.
I adore both Husband and Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) but in one way they drive me crazy -- the can both, apparently, fall asleep at will.
Husband has been known to fall asleep mid-conversation. We'll be in bed, chatting quietly about life. He'll say something. I'll respond. And his response to my comment is a gentle snore. It typically takes him all of five minutes to fall asleep. I hate that about him.
Cipher, like most cats, has a well-developed nap instinct. And when she falls, she falls deep. She can get into these amazingly liquid positions where you can tell she hasn't a stressed bone in her body. In fact, it looks like she has no bones at all. At the moment Husband is sleeping the sleep of the just in our comfy bed. Cipher is asleep on the chair across the room from me, lying full-length will paws forward (think of Superman flying) and dreaming little kitty dreams of birds and mice.
And me? I'm settling in for another all-nighter. Two hours sleep last night (or rather this morning), and anticipating about the same tonight. But I have books. Movies. Ice cream. All the necessities. And I'm OK with that -- but I do envy Husband and Cipher. Damn their sleepiness.
Scenes from Silver Creek: The Summer Musical
There was never much to do in Silver Creek in the summertime. Growing up, I mean. It was, and is, hardly a hotbed of excitement and without school the days tended to be a bit dull.
When I was in high school the first week of summer was always heaven. Sleeping until noon. Reading whatever I wanted, rather than what I had to. Endless TV, root beer popsicles, and hanging out. But by the second and third week I was usually so bored that I actually cleaned my room.
But between my freshman and sophomore years the high school instituted the summer musical program. It was actually a summer school class, for which we got three whole credits. But it lasted all day, was insanely fun, and resulted in two whole performances of a badly produced, directed, and choreographed musical that the entire town went to.
The choice was South Pacific. All the sailors were 15 and hearing them sing “Nothing Like a Dame” was nothing like a sailor. All the nurses were taller than the sailors. Our male lead was a tenor instead of a baritone, which made all the duets sound like two female cats competing over the sexiest tom in town. And the female lead weighed close to 220.
The “uniforms” were salvaged from local thrift shops or made by local moms and made the US Navy look like a ragtag bunch of munchkins. The pit orchestra had no string section and fourteen trumpets. Every overture sounded like a fanfare. People kept expecting royalty to show up.
But it was so much fun we didn’t care.
Silver Creek High has an impressive auditorium, allowing for huge sets and lighting. Of course we had neither, but we had the space for them. And when not plunging head-first into rehearsals, we’d all sit on the stage painting flats and making a huge cardboard cannon of which we were so insanely proud that it was in the background of every scene – even the interiors.
We’d throw open the huge doors big enough to drive a truck through and let the warm wind blow across the stage while we sang our little hearts out to the hard work of our one and only rehearsal pianist. Mr. Lang, the choir director, stepped up to take the helm. The fact that he had no dance experience at all made the choreography consist of lots of walking aimlessly around the stage and making huge arm gestures as if everyone was directing everyone else to a different part of the island.
Rehearsals started every morning at 10 am and we’d all show up early because we were so darned bored. Since it was technically a class, we’d have to line up on the stage while Mr. Lang took role, then he’d actually leave – go have breakfast at Missy’s Diner – and leave us with the run of the place. We’d play tag in the curtains, do each other’s faces with outlandish paint in the make-up room, and eat our PB&Js. Then Mr. Lang would stroll back in at about 1 and we’d finally get some work done. Until 3. Then he’d leave again. But still we hung on. The custodians finally kicked us out at about 5. You’d never seen such a dedicated cast. Nobody wanted to leave.
There were romances, with the kind of instant, desperate passion only horny 16 year olds can achieve. There were huge, teary fights worthy of any Opera diva. And there was absolutely no talent whatsoever.
Actually, that isn’t true. The girl who plays Bloody Mary (who sings the lovely “Bali Hai”) really had a gorgeous voice. Her name was Rebecca Su and she was the shiest girl ever. She never talked to anyone and the only reason anybody knew she could sing is because she had a horrid stage mother who paid for punch sold at intermission in exchange for her daughter getting a solo. Rebecca, poor thing, would sit in the fourth row reading Harlequin romances and not speaking to a sole until called upon to burst forth with her song. Then the stage would resound with the one good voice in the cast, before she’d leave and go back to “Love’s Captive”. We all tried to be friends with her, but she never friended back.
At the end of the summer, giddy with anticipation, we opened on Friday and closed on Saturday. Every bored mother and father, and every reluctant sibling in town had to go to one of the performances. There was, of course, thunderous applause from indulgent parents and a town starving for anything to do in the heat of a boring summer.
And then it was over. The place we could go. The something we could do. And we went back to our sleeping until noons and our root beer popsicles.
To this day, whenever South Pacific is on TV, I’ll watch it and think of our 15 year old sailors and overweight nurses. And wonder how the hell we got away with anybody left in the audience at the end of the show.
It’s a pretty good indication of city-wide boredom when a town will sit through such dribble because it’s better than nothing. Ah…show business.
There was never much to do in Silver Creek in the summertime. Growing up, I mean. It was, and is, hardly a hotbed of excitement and without school the days tended to be a bit dull.
When I was in high school the first week of summer was always heaven. Sleeping until noon. Reading whatever I wanted, rather than what I had to. Endless TV, root beer popsicles, and hanging out. But by the second and third week I was usually so bored that I actually cleaned my room.
But between my freshman and sophomore years the high school instituted the summer musical program. It was actually a summer school class, for which we got three whole credits. But it lasted all day, was insanely fun, and resulted in two whole performances of a badly produced, directed, and choreographed musical that the entire town went to.
The choice was South Pacific. All the sailors were 15 and hearing them sing “Nothing Like a Dame” was nothing like a sailor. All the nurses were taller than the sailors. Our male lead was a tenor instead of a baritone, which made all the duets sound like two female cats competing over the sexiest tom in town. And the female lead weighed close to 220.
The “uniforms” were salvaged from local thrift shops or made by local moms and made the US Navy look like a ragtag bunch of munchkins. The pit orchestra had no string section and fourteen trumpets. Every overture sounded like a fanfare. People kept expecting royalty to show up.
But it was so much fun we didn’t care.
Silver Creek High has an impressive auditorium, allowing for huge sets and lighting. Of course we had neither, but we had the space for them. And when not plunging head-first into rehearsals, we’d all sit on the stage painting flats and making a huge cardboard cannon of which we were so insanely proud that it was in the background of every scene – even the interiors.
We’d throw open the huge doors big enough to drive a truck through and let the warm wind blow across the stage while we sang our little hearts out to the hard work of our one and only rehearsal pianist. Mr. Lang, the choir director, stepped up to take the helm. The fact that he had no dance experience at all made the choreography consist of lots of walking aimlessly around the stage and making huge arm gestures as if everyone was directing everyone else to a different part of the island.
Rehearsals started every morning at 10 am and we’d all show up early because we were so darned bored. Since it was technically a class, we’d have to line up on the stage while Mr. Lang took role, then he’d actually leave – go have breakfast at Missy’s Diner – and leave us with the run of the place. We’d play tag in the curtains, do each other’s faces with outlandish paint in the make-up room, and eat our PB&Js. Then Mr. Lang would stroll back in at about 1 and we’d finally get some work done. Until 3. Then he’d leave again. But still we hung on. The custodians finally kicked us out at about 5. You’d never seen such a dedicated cast. Nobody wanted to leave.
There were romances, with the kind of instant, desperate passion only horny 16 year olds can achieve. There were huge, teary fights worthy of any Opera diva. And there was absolutely no talent whatsoever.
Actually, that isn’t true. The girl who plays Bloody Mary (who sings the lovely “Bali Hai”) really had a gorgeous voice. Her name was Rebecca Su and she was the shiest girl ever. She never talked to anyone and the only reason anybody knew she could sing is because she had a horrid stage mother who paid for punch sold at intermission in exchange for her daughter getting a solo. Rebecca, poor thing, would sit in the fourth row reading Harlequin romances and not speaking to a sole until called upon to burst forth with her song. Then the stage would resound with the one good voice in the cast, before she’d leave and go back to “Love’s Captive”. We all tried to be friends with her, but she never friended back.
At the end of the summer, giddy with anticipation, we opened on Friday and closed on Saturday. Every bored mother and father, and every reluctant sibling in town had to go to one of the performances. There was, of course, thunderous applause from indulgent parents and a town starving for anything to do in the heat of a boring summer.
And then it was over. The place we could go. The something we could do. And we went back to our sleeping until noons and our root beer popsicles.
To this day, whenever South Pacific is on TV, I’ll watch it and think of our 15 year old sailors and overweight nurses. And wonder how the hell we got away with anybody left in the audience at the end of the show.
It’s a pretty good indication of city-wide boredom when a town will sit through such dribble because it’s better than nothing. Ah…show business.
Bad movies and good wine
Last night Husband and I polished off a bottle of wonderful Pinor Noir. Byron Winery, 2008, Central Coast. We neither of us drink that much so we both got delightfully sozzled. The occasion? Twilight
The horrible teen angst/vampire flick was recommended to me by two separate people with the same caveat. Get drunk first and you'll find it hilarious. They were right. It was one of the most truly awful movies I've ever seen but, under the influence of wine, so funny that at times we were laughing so hard we had to rewind to hear the wooden dialogue.
Husband and I are the last people in the US (with the exception of my family) to join Netflix and the opportunity to watch pretty much any movie we want has filled us with a heady sense of freedom. Plus we get unlimited streaming of thousands of films through our Wii, so it's heaven. We've watched the good (All About Eve) the bad (early Doctor Who episodes wich seemed like the prelude to several Monty Python sketches) and the ugly (Twilight). It's heaven.
We're both huge movie fans. In fact, our mutual love of old movies is one of the things that we first bonded over. Having instant access to movies for every mood is proving to be wonderful -- and getting in the way of housework, grocery shopping, and generally getting out of the house. Who wants to clean the shower when you can watch your own Gregory Peck film festival?
But every so often, you just have to reach for the cheese. The films you know are awful. We both love the classic making fun of movies show Mystery Science Theater 3000 and when we get together for something terrible, like last night's monstrosity, we crack each other up with our own version of MST3K. Husband is a hilarious guy and I've been known to be pretty funny myself at times, so when we get on a roll mocking a movie, we can truly hit some home runs.
Of course, it's hard to not be funny when you've got material like Twilight to work with. Wooden acting. Atrocious script. Hilarious plot. That, combined with good wine, is a recipe for a great way to spend a Saturday night.
Last night Husband and I polished off a bottle of wonderful Pinor Noir. Byron Winery, 2008, Central Coast. We neither of us drink that much so we both got delightfully sozzled. The occasion? Twilight
The horrible teen angst/vampire flick was recommended to me by two separate people with the same caveat. Get drunk first and you'll find it hilarious. They were right. It was one of the most truly awful movies I've ever seen but, under the influence of wine, so funny that at times we were laughing so hard we had to rewind to hear the wooden dialogue.
Husband and I are the last people in the US (with the exception of my family) to join Netflix and the opportunity to watch pretty much any movie we want has filled us with a heady sense of freedom. Plus we get unlimited streaming of thousands of films through our Wii, so it's heaven. We've watched the good (All About Eve) the bad (early Doctor Who episodes wich seemed like the prelude to several Monty Python sketches) and the ugly (Twilight). It's heaven.
We're both huge movie fans. In fact, our mutual love of old movies is one of the things that we first bonded over. Having instant access to movies for every mood is proving to be wonderful -- and getting in the way of housework, grocery shopping, and generally getting out of the house. Who wants to clean the shower when you can watch your own Gregory Peck film festival?
But every so often, you just have to reach for the cheese. The films you know are awful. We both love the classic making fun of movies show Mystery Science Theater 3000 and when we get together for something terrible, like last night's monstrosity, we crack each other up with our own version of MST3K. Husband is a hilarious guy and I've been known to be pretty funny myself at times, so when we get on a roll mocking a movie, we can truly hit some home runs.
Of course, it's hard to not be funny when you've got material like Twilight to work with. Wooden acting. Atrocious script. Hilarious plot. That, combined with good wine, is a recipe for a great way to spend a Saturday night.
Monday, July 12, 2010
From the Kitten Nursery
I've been quite remiss in keeping you posted on my hum-drum life. Sorry. Sometimes I just get in a mood where I either I don't want to write or have nothing to say. Actually, I usually have nothing to say I just typically overcome that and foist myself on an unsuspecting world.
I've just come back from kitten duty. The cutie above is named Milky Way. The whole litter is named after candy. There's Snickers, Mars, Dove, and Hershey. But this little one is my favorite.
It was an extra-long day at the nursery. In spite of the fact that on Monday we have plenty of volunteers, it's a long haul for me. There are a number of, shall we say, completely useless people there. Which means I do most of the world. The cage cleaning. The laundry. The dish washing. Taking out the garbage and so on. I was there for nearly three hours and only fed two kittens. The rest of the time I was busy doing all the details. I don't mind, but I was jealous of everyone else spending time cuddling the kitties.
I've been quite remiss in keeping you posted on my hum-drum life. Sorry. Sometimes I just get in a mood where I either I don't want to write or have nothing to say. Actually, I usually have nothing to say I just typically overcome that and foist myself on an unsuspecting world.
I've just come back from kitten duty. The cutie above is named Milky Way. The whole litter is named after candy. There's Snickers, Mars, Dove, and Hershey. But this little one is my favorite.
It was an extra-long day at the nursery. In spite of the fact that on Monday we have plenty of volunteers, it's a long haul for me. There are a number of, shall we say, completely useless people there. Which means I do most of the world. The cage cleaning. The laundry. The dish washing. Taking out the garbage and so on. I was there for nearly three hours and only fed two kittens. The rest of the time I was busy doing all the details. I don't mind, but I was jealous of everyone else spending time cuddling the kitties.
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