Much Ado About T.O.
If you don't follow Eagles football, you probably don't care about the ongoing soap opera involving the King of Me-Me-Land, Terrell Owens. Cranky because the Eagles refuse to renegotiate his 7-year $48 million dollar contract (which he signed last year), he's been his usual uncooperative, nasty, bitter, selfish self. Yesterday his antics got him kicked out of training camp for a week.

T.O. has complained that he has to consider his family. Um, ok. just how big is your family T.O.? And how much do these peole eat? You can't feed them on $50 million? You poor thing. Just rest now, T.O. while we have a telethon in your favor.

I hope the Eagles trade his sorry butt. The team and the city deserve better than this. And I would like nothing more than to find wonder boy out on his ass with no one to play with and no one to cheer for him.

The Evolution Revolution
So GW has spoken out on the issue of teaching evolution in schools by saying, "I felt like both sides ought to be properly taught."

Ah yes, both sides. The proven, scientific side that actually belongs in a classroom, and the theoretical, faith-based theory that has no place in a public school.

Why, oh why are we still having this debate? Why, oh why does it seem like the longer this administration is in office, the farther back in time we go. I have fears that by the time Bush is ready to pack up his Adam & Eve pop-up books and head back to Texas, we'll all be wearing white caps and muslin and the entire country will be constantly dressed for a Thanksgiving reenaction.

This is the 21st century. The fossil record is fact. It is science. It it not a theory. And yet the President and his narrow-minded cronies would like for all American children to be taught that the ridiculous, unproven, Christian-dominated theory of creationism is an idea worthy of their time. Whatever happened to the separation of church and state?

Hot weather music
For me, when the temperature rises, the music must keep pace. In the summertime, I can't get enough of high-energy, make you sweaty, get off your ass and dance music. Here are a few of my favorites for Summer, 2005.

North African Groove. Yet another delicious Putumayo compilation. Sexy Arabic beats, great vocals, serious fun. Yum with a capital, yow!

Tekitoi by Rachid Taha. Buy this one, trust me. The title track, plus that deliciously ironic, iconic cover of Rock the Casbah are two of the most infecious, exciting world tracks of 2005. This one rocks!

Son: Soul of a Nation by Sierra Maestra. Not as hot and upbeat as the previous two, this release is a sultry trip into the history of Cuban son music. Slow & sexy, romantic as a kiss at midnight, this one is just too delicious for words.

Come on folks, break out of your rut. Try any of these, and I guarantee you'll have fun.

The Return of the Stanford
My beloved Stanford Theatre is finally, finally, oh frabjous day, open!

It's been closed for renovations for far too long, and I was going into serious withdrawal. For those of you in the San Francisco Bay Area, I urge you to visit the Stanford. It's a classic movie house from the days when movie houses featured gold leaf and velvet curtains. You will always see two (yes, two!) wonderful old movies (with an organist between the shows), plus you can munch on the best movie popcorn in the Bay Area. This weekend, one of my all-time favorite movies The Philadelphia Story plus the classic mysery, Laura. Do go, it's a wonderful date spot.

You could go a long way in Poland without seeing anything pretty...
So says the hatefully odd Mrs. Mortimer in The Clumsiest People in Europe: Or, Mrs. Mortimer's Bad Tempered Guide to the Victorian World. Mrs. Mortimer was a humorless, xenophobic childrens' author in England in the 1850s who wrote three guides to the world. The only problem was, she'd never seen the world. All she'd seen that wasn't England was Brussels, Paris, and Edinburgh. Still, she manages to find something insulting to say about nearly every county and every race of people on the planet. Her books have recently been rereleased and are apallingly hilarious. Comments such as "the Swedes do nothing well," and "Spain is full of murderers" will have you howling in amazement.

Good with kids
Why is the phrase "good with kids" a legitimate description of someone but "good with adults" isn't? It's odd, because it lumps all kids in together as being alike. Even someone like me, who is most decidedly not good with kids, knows that kids are different. As different as adults. I am good with some adults. I've even been known to be good with a few, select kids. Other adults, I am not so good with. And I think I prefer it that way. Only someone like Mother Teresa can be "good with everyone."

It just seems like an odd phrase. "Good with kids." What does that mean, anyway?

The really strange thing is how many parents seem to be "bad with kids." Honestly, I don't believe people even think about having children before they start reproducing. On the whole, more thought seems to go into what breed of dog to get, or what kind of car to buy than goes into the issue of kids. They have children because that's what you do. You get married. You have kids. That's it. Which is sad, really, because I think at least 50% of parent would probably say "no" if they honestly asked themselves "do I really want to have children?"

I know that I don't. I have always known that I don't. I have no maternal instincts whatsoever and I'm way too selfish to be a good mom. I like being impulsive. And I'm so full of self-doubt that I know I wouldn't be able to raise the kind of fearless, confident child that I'd want to raise. No, I like that it's just me and my sweetie.

But then again, I'm not "good with kids."

A change of view
We're getting new windows at our house tomorrow. Our landlady has decided to replace the two big windows in the living room, and the one in the office. Lovely, but a heck of a lot of work to clear out space. The window guys need 3-4 feet of clear space inside the house to work. Given that our house ins't that large, finding places to move a sofa, a large work table, a desk, etc., isn't easy. But we did it.

Now it looks so strange.

I'm sitting in a chair that usually faces the fireplace. Now it's where our sofa usually lives. The view is familar, but not. The ancient and falling-apart bookcase is gone, so there's a wasteland of more-or-less sand-colored carpet between me and the window. As is always the case when you move things about, the room looks so much bigger. This space that always seems packed when I try to fit 9 people in here for our monthly bookgroup, now appears to be big enough to give waltz lessons. It's all so vast and open. In a way it makes me wish it was always like this...that we could keep the sofa up against the bookcases and just have this open space.

What is it about looking at familiar things from a different angle that always causes such a reaction? My house feels as cozy and familiar as always, but it's different. There's an airiness about the open space that provides an almost Zen-like sense of peace. Is it the simplicity? Am I subconsciously being stressed by my row of cactus plants? Do the tables that usually flank the sofa make me feel trapped somehow?

Oh well, I'm not going to analyze it (in spite of the fact that I apparently already am analyzing it), I'm just going to enjoy the novelty and look forward to having my house back in order tomorrow.

The Legend of "Cheap and Surly"
There's an Indian resturant nearby that my dear friend, Naveena, introduced me to. In spite of the numerous times I've been there I cannot, for the life of me, tell you the real name of this place. Since my first visit I have always referred to it as "Cheap and Surly."

To begin with, let me tell you that yes, the food is very good. And yes, it is inexpensive. But the one and only waitress that we've ever seen there is the most unwelcoming, inattentive, careless waitress in the history of served food. No, really, she is.

She never says hello. Never welcomes you. Barely looks at you. You come in, the place is always empty, and you seat yourself (because she shows no sign of pointing you to a table). Eventually, she'll put menus on your table. Eventually, you order. Eventually, food comes. Eventually, she'll bring you a plate, a napkin, and maybe a spoon, maybe a spoon and a fork (score!).

Today I took my husband there for lunch, as he'd been hearing about C & S ever since my first visit. I lived up to its reputation, as far as he's concerned.

The world's most unwelcoming waitress (WMUW, for short) did all of the above. When time came for cutlery, it arrived in a pile, sort of thrown on the table after our food had arrived. It was up to us to sort it out. A few minutes later, after I'd already used my spoon to take a helping of one of the dishes, she shows up again and thrusts a serving spoon into the bowl -- like she was poking a turkey to see if it was done.

Mind you, the place was empty. WMUW was most emphatically not being run off her feet. We were the only table. There were two men who were leaving as we came in, and their table remained un-bused the entire time we were there.

One other guy came in and asked about an order to go. When told it would take 30 minutes he agreed and then almost immediately changed his mind....too late...WMUW had already disappeared into the dark recesses of the apparently soundproof kitchen. After about 6 or 7 tries of "Miss?" "Miss?" WMUW finally moseyed on out to the counter where the poor guy cancelled his order.

Mind you, all this with a Bollywood soundtrack CD blaring from the speakers. Music which she immediately switched off (not turned down, which would allow your customers to still enjoy the cool music, but turned off) when the phone rang so that she could then shout into the phone for several minutes. So much for a nice ambience. More chicken tikka, dear?

One of the more endearing features of C & S is the complete absence of a check. In all the many times I've got there, WMUW has never once actually brought a check to the table. When you're done, you walk over to the counter and ring the bell, hoping that luck is with you and the tiny ding will penetrate into the soundproof kitchen (where the big ding likes to hide in-between snarls). Of course, I should count my blessings. The bell is a relatively new addition...you used to have to stand there and just shout towards the kitchen.

Today it only took two rings before WMUW roused herself from her overworked stupor and condescended to take our money. "Good thing we're honest," my husband said, as we could easily have walked out without paying while WMUW was hidden behind the curtain of safety in the kitchen area....away from us nasty customers.

We speculated that she got roped into this against her will. That she had no desire to open a resturant but her father or husband or someone bought it and her form of protest is to make the dining experience so completely miserable that there will be no repeat customers. Unfortunately for her, the food is really good. And as long as I always go in expecting to be ignored and treated with a complete lack of hospitality, I guess I'm OK with that.

It came from Sweden!!!!
Yesterday I had one of the more frightening experiences of my life.

I went to Ikea.

If you've never been, don't go. It's terrifying. First of all, the one that I visited (in East Palo Alto, California), has a garage that makes airport parking garages seem tiny by comparison. Of course the 20-foot high concrete walls don't exactly inspire a sense of cozy - but it's vast. Immense. So big that in spite of the fact that the store was packed, the garage looks empty.

Then you enter the store (if you can figure out where the entrance is, of course). Then the "fake museum experience" truly begins. Pick up a map. Follow the arrows on the floor. Want something from the first floor? Sorry, you have to go through the "hall of soulless rooms" upstairs before you can come back down and visit the "emporium of Nordic wonders." So up we go.

Screaming kids. Smug yuppies who actually want a "house in box" because it saves them from having to be creative. Entire families sprawled in stupification on anti-grammatical furniture. Then the fake "happy home" dioramas of perfect kitchens and cold bedrooms. All with odd Swedish touches like copies of Dashiell Hammett's "The Glass Key," in Swedish on their light ash bookshelves.

Now don't get me wrong. If you're just starting out and can't afford much, the prospect of getting a table for $50 or a $75 bed is nice. But why would you want an entire house, let along an entire room, that looks just like someone else's house or room?

The truly ironic thing is that we never did find what we went there for. We did, however, pick up an office chair, which we'd needed for a while. And I bought two heavy cardboard storage boxes, shoe-box size, for photos and such. Then we get home.

The chair requires no tools or hardware whatsoever. My husband put it together, by himself, in under 5 minutes. The little boxes? They're held together with screws. Of course. I needed a screwdriver and a crescent wrench. I also needed three hands. It took both of us somewhere around 10 minutes to put together the two boxes.

I came away with a new appreciation for antiques, a headache, and a firm determination to never set foot in another Ikea. Ever.

I wonder if there will be an entire generation of Swedish children traumatized by the fact that their names have been assigned to cheap, mass-produced furniture? And is there a heirarchy to it all? Will the other kids pick on you if you're named after a footstool, but not if you've got the name of an entire dining room suite?

Freaky.

How to get rich
Sometimes I'm so brilliant, that I need special glasses just to look at myself in the mirror.

So, one of the secrets to becoming rich is to exploit a need or, in this society, a desire. Figure out what people want, or at least what they'll spend lots of money on, and produce it.

In thinking about a) what everyone wants; and b) what people will spend lots of money on, I've hit on The Perfect Idea™. Are you ready...?

An iPod with the picture of the Virgin Mary™. Yes, that's right. Combine the hottest, must-have product since indoor plumbing with people's twisted sense of religion and I'll make a million.

It's my idea folks, no fair stealing!

No wonder I'm depressed!
This just in: Home prices in the bay area are STILL rising! Good Lord! The median price, according to a story in today's SF Chronicle is now $600,000 "or more than $8,200 per month!" Merde, merde, merde. Everyone, please go back where you came from.

You know what really pisses me off? I don't want to buy real estate "as an investment." I'm not trying to get rich. I just want a home of my own. That's it. Nothing fancy, I don't need much. Just a cozy little place where my husband and I can live as we want, paint the walls any color we want, get a couple of dumb dogs, and live happily ever after. Is that too much to ask???

Musical Vacations
It's hot, it's summer, and I'm not on vacation. Worse, I have no vacation planned. Being in a blue funk, I went to a bookstore at lunchtime and acquired some new music and a book or two. (What is it about spending money that makes people feel better?) Anyway, I'm on a "musical vacation," thanks to The Rough Guide to the Music of Hawaii. Lots of slack-key laziness helping me get through the day.

So. When you desperately need a vacation, and you can't take one, what do you do? All advice gratefully accepted.

End of an era. Well....end of a novela
After months of dedicated viewing, and much frantic page-turning in our Spanish-English dictionary, the Telemundo novela to which we were addicted ended last night. Yes, the show we affectionaly called "Glitter and Gopher," is no more.

La Mujer en el Espejo was the twisted tale of a plain girl, her glittery alter-ego, an uber villian, a hero with frosted hair, and various residents of La Concordia, a barrio in "NeverNever land" (actually, Bogata, Colombia). After spending so much time with these people, I feel like I know them. I'm really going to miss Paco and his dance studio, "Thag the dance boy" who apparently owned no shirts that had sleeves. Luzmila the clueless and Charlie with his pointy hair. I'll miss "Ralph Lauren," and his one-handed push-ups, Alberto who had his apartment decorated with photos of himself and, especially "Guapo Cop-o" who was just plain yummy.

Well, it was fun while it lasted. And for those who missed that last, final, thrill-packed episode of "G & G" let me just say that Romero poisoned Babsyque and himself, Juliana & Marcos finally got married, Juan Tobias hit on Ginger (!?!? Eww!!!), and Luzmilla still has no stroller for that damned baby.

Thanks everyone, it was fun.

Why bother?
Why bother buying a convertible if you're not going to put the top down? I mean just how perfect must a day be before you decide it's nice enough to drive around in the sunshine? It's gorgeous out there. Mid to high 80s, blue sky, a perfect, perfect, summer day. And yet I counted no fewer than 7 convertibles driving down with the top up. I mean why bother? If you're not going to take advantage of your car, give it to me, dammit!

Big ol' "awww...."
Some animals are just so cute I can hardly stand it. Case in point: Red Pandas. If you don't think they're completely adorable, you have no heart.

In other news, the surviving kitten I wrote about a few weeks ago is still thriving, thank you. It's taken to pouncing on mama cat, and not doing a very good job of being stealthy. It's still danged cute, and we still worry about it. Mama and kitten seem to have taken up permanent residence in our backyard. When we looked out at about midnight a few nights ago, we could see the white patch of the kitten sleeping in the darkness. Well, as long as it's there it's not out playing in the street, I guess.

If you haven't already followed my sage advice, buy "Up & Down" by the Palm Wine Boys. You'll thank me for it.

Music. Fun. Yes.
Last night, for some reason, I had more fun doing my show than usual. And I played some damned fine music, if I do say so myself. (Don't believe me? check it out for yourself!)

Perhaps it was our recent trip to Portland and the associative terror of possible leaving the Bay Area that made me appreciate this slice of home more than usual. Whatever the reason, I had a lovely time. I love being on the air, and I'm so very thankful for KZSU.

Just keep your f-ing loompas away from me!!!
OK, let me be upfront about this. Oompa Loompas terrify me. These freaks from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to give the book its due), are just about the scariest things ever. All that orange and green. And those pants that stick out. And their scary-ass song.

So this movie really needed to be remade? Why? In the name of all that's unholy, why???

Why inflict upon us Johnny Depp doing Michael Jackson and yet another terrifying depiction of what someone's nightmare Loompas look like?

No good can come of this.

What makes home?

Not a home. Just home. Home is, famously, where the heart is. But it's also where your stuff is. Is home a place, a building, or just a state of mind? And how does one decide.

As we travel to Portland this weekend to consider it as "home," I find myself thinking about my home here. Not the house, although I love that old place. But it's not mine. No, I think of home as where the people I love are. Where I know the best places to get pot stickers and used CDs. Where I know the backroads in case of traffic, where I have my favorite radio stations, where I have a doctor I trust, a dentist I like, and a favorite place to walk.

In order to be home, does home need all these things? If we left here, we'd have a house -- the one thing I've always, always wanted and the one thing that always, always seems impossible here. But would I have home? Is being able to paint walls, plant flowers and say "ours," worth not having anyone to invite to the housewarming party?

I don't want to go. But if I don't, I'm admitting to "never" in terms of a house. It seems ironic that poor people can, with help from the wonderful folks at Habitat for Humanity, achieve what I cannot do -- in spite of being gainfully employed at a salary that is overpaid compared to the rest of the world.

I feel like I'm in a no-win situation. If I stay I get to keep seeing the people I love, but I never get a house of my own. If I leave, I get the house, but I have to leave home. And yes, it's possible to make a new home, people do it all the time. But is it worth it?

Please do yourself a favor...
And buy Up & Down by The Palm Wine Boys. It's my new favorite CD. They're a local band, and their music is sweet, joyful, fun, light, playful, and perfect for summer. I really love this and I think you will too.

Guilty pleasures
On this quarter's application for a show on KZSU the random question was "what's your guilty pleasure?'

I don't know about you, but it's hard to name only one. I mentioned three. The first was La Mujer en el Espejo on the Telemundo network. It's a cheesy Spanish-language soap opera that I can't understand (not speaking Spanish being a great hindrance in this case), but to which I and my husband are completely addicted. The discussion board for this show is a riot, and includes comments from some very funny, very smart people.

My other guilty pleasure....Oreos. No explanation needed.

Musically my guilty pleasure is Garth Brooks. OK, he's a mega star and nothing to be ashamed of. But hey, when you're a world music DJ and you're surrounded by people to live and breathe music, admitting to liking Garth Brooks is like admitting to liking Fear Factor. (Please, no irate mail from Fear Factor addicts.

But my list of guilty pleasures is really huge. Captain Crunch cereal, cozy British mysteries I've seen dozens of times, ice cream, naps, popcorn, mummy movies, reruns of I Love Lucy, Jeopardy, trashy books, sometimes reading only the comics in the morning paper, country music, watching documentaries about cute animals...

So, what are your guilty pleasures?