The day Muni took the black pill

Think Muni and the mind conjures many things. A clever logo. The 8:35 express that wasn't there. Nate Jones and his ilk. For me, it's a fairly dependable conveyance to work. It is also frequently nausea-inducing, either because of its lingering scent of urine, or for the lurching driving style of its operators. But I admittedly have a delicate constitution.

The 14 Mission almost took off our car's passenger side mirror once. Emboldened by their hulking shells of metal, Muni operators think nothing of crowding you out on the City's narrow streets.

But common grievances aside, the most unheard of thing happened on my commute not too long ago. The 1 California AX Express ran out of gas. And it didn't come to a fizzling halt just anywhere- the bus decided to quit in front of the driveway of the King-American Ambulance Company on Bush Street. Now we were in a pickle.

Traffic on Bush Street is hectic to say the least. It can be like a three lane freeway, with its timed lights and aggressive commuters hurtling towards downtown. The bus driver wouldn't let us out at first for safety reasons, and then one by one the EMTs started coming out of the ambulance company, scratching their heads in awe.

EMT: "Uh, you're going to have to move that bus. We're a 911 responding ambulance center."

Muni Operator: "Well, I can't. I'm out of gas. I've called for help, but it might take a while."

Those of us on board all wondered how a City bus can run out of gas? Don't they check these things? Apparently not. Our driver, who I must state is one of the nicest guys out there, simply said, "Call Muni" when confronted with our questions.

We sat for a while, uneasy as we waited for the fateful wail of sirens that would alert us to the fact a trapped ambulance would be unable to respond to a life-or-death emergency. Thankfully that never happened. The EMTs had started gathering with the plan to push the bus and all of us in it, but then someone managed to open up a secondary driveway.

Eventually the driver let us off and we stood around waiting for a new bus to pick us up, laughing easily in the new found camaraderie the morning had given us. Once we were finally headed downtown, we passed yet another Muni bus being towed. It was like a Muni bus suicide pact. It made for the most interesting commute I've had in a while.

Waiting for a ride on Bush Street (disabled bus in background)

Is it possible to breathe without smelling?

It was an experiment that I tried to test tonight during a cab ride home, and I can report that it failed. Tonight I endured the smelliest cab in the world. So smelly that I was gagging as I clutched the handrail, climbing the stairs to my front door. So smelly that I remained nauseated for about 30 minutes after getting home. So smelly that I had to take an immediate shower with the most heavily scented bath products I could find. So smelly that I am getting the coat I was wearing dry cleaned.

I think this smelly cab ride, along with one I took this morning, are somehow punishment for my want of thrift. Recalling the first part of my day... I dropped off my car at the Honda Service Center. Running late as usual, I grabbed a cab instead of waiting for the N- Judah. The trip seemed to go well until the cab driver started to make a lot of pointless turns downtown, basically circling around City Hall. He eventually found his way to Market Street, turned down New Montgomery, and dropped me off in front of the Starbucks across the street from my office. I handed him $20 and asked for change.

"No change."

"What?"

"No change. I only have $50 bill."

"Uh-okay. I'll pay with my debit card."

"No machine. I can't take credit card. You go inside Starbucks. Buy coffee."

I went in. The line was outrageously long. Frustrated, I gave up and ultimately let this joker keep a $4 tip.

I already thought at that point I was being punished for my extravagance, yet after work, driven by hunger and weariness, I once again opted for a cab. This almost proved to be my undoing. I jumped in the first cab in line outside the Palace Hotel, and immediately realized I had entered an alternate hell.

The first odor that hit me was the acrid smell of urine. I patted down the back seat to make sure it was actually dry. I looked at the cab driver, an unkempt man with long, greasy white hair and beard, and coke-bottle glasses. Could it be him? I automatically told him where I needed to go, and it was too late to get out as the cab started to drive.

As my nose adjusted to the urine smell, other scents, primarily feet, musk, and sweat, began to permeate the air. It was almost as bad as the smelliest Muni train I was ever on, but worse in a way because it was more personal. In this confined space, the stench wrapped its reeking arms around me and held fast. If the odor had been visible, I imagined its color to be dark yellow.

I had recently watched HBO's Grey Gardens, which in parts depicts Jackie O's cousins Big and Little Edie Bouvier Beale living in the squalor of a decaying East Hampton mansion. They live among feral cats and racoons, with a five foot tall pile of trash amassing in their kitchen. I imagine that is what the cab driver's own dwelling must be like. I imagine that's exactly what it must smell like.

I took short, shallow breaths for the next 20 minutes. I tried yawning with my mouth over my hand to get more oxygen. I prayed for green lights all the way home. I stifled a gag just blocks away from my house. Hang on. Just please hang on, I told myself.

And then more money gone. Sixteen dollars for the worst cab experience of my life. I need to get my priorities straight and soon.

image from http://www.wilson-graf.com/w/?p=23156

Hello Oakland! I shook hands with Derek Smalls

Tonight I enjoyed a rare treat- Spinal Tap Unwigged & Unplugged at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland. I've been a fan of the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap since I first saw it my freshman year in college- so much a fan that I can recite every memorable line and song lyric from the film.

So you can bet I was thrilled to see Christoper Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer (Nigel Tufnel, David St. Hubbins, and Derek Smalls, respectively) rock out my favorite tunes from Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind, all unplugged and unique adaptations. The unplugged versions of their songs showcased just how talented these guys are as musicians, while their harmonizing vocals stood out even more in the absence of screaming electric guitars.

What made the evening even more special was that my friends- John and Lou's- dad, who grew up with Harry Shearer, managed to swing backstage passes. Going backstage truly was like a scene from the film- we were ushered into a holding area where a spacey woman with an English accent distractedly shook our hands and introduced herself:

"It's quite full back there yet, we'll take you back in a second... okay, we can take you now."

She summoned us forward into a narrow, crowded room, where Guest, McKean, and Shearer were milling around. The actor who played Viv Savage was also there- I overheard he lives in San Francisco.

We hovered awkwardly at the back of the room until the crowd cleared a little, and shuffled over to Harry Shearer. John and Lou's dad chatted with Shearer and we all introduced ourselves and grinned and shook hands. I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but predictably the memory was full. We were suddenly interrupted by a tall man in a sequin-trimmed suit, who extended a hand out to Shearer, at which point he turned to all of us and said, "Thank you so much for coming." It was our cue that our visit had come to a close.

Notably missing from the VIP room backstage: hors d'oeuvres in the form of pimento-less olives and cold cuts with oversized bread, hard alcohol, cocaine, women in tight, shiny pants, wafting cigarette smoke.

On our way out, we actually got lost backstage trying to find the lobby. It was a very Hello Cleveland moment and a perfect ending to our evening.

My friend Matt, me, and the Gorenfelds
in front of the Paramount Theatre

Simulacram iv: Then and Now

I was thrilled to see an article in today's San Francisco Chronicle, releasing photos taken by United Railroads photographer John Henry Mentz, in the aftermath of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.

Many of these photos have never been published, and offer us a fascinating glimpse of our City in the wake of the disaster. Tomorrow marks the quake's 103rd anniversary.

Sutter Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and

present day (at bottom)

Union Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and
present day (at bottom)

DIY Fungi

My husband, Jason, recently brought home a mushroom log from the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market. When he first showed it to me, I thought it was some nasty-looking panettone, or some other sweet euro-bread that I don't like.

It's actually a Mushroom Mini Farm, and is sold by Far West Fungi

out of Moss Landing. Ours is a shiitake mini farm. This thing is really cool. You punch a few holes in it, keep it in a plastic bag, and in a few days you have a mushroom harvest! It's like a science project watching the mushrooms grow, seemingly getting larger hour-by-hour. Our mini farm should last 4-5 months and produce 3-4 crops.

We harvested our first crop last night and enjoyed shiitake mushrooms with garlic, sauteed in butter and served over whole wheat fettucine. Yum.

Curious cats and shiitake log

The War Dead

On Sunday cameras were permitted to cover the arrival at Dover Air Force Base of a flag-draped coffin bearing the remains of Air Force Staff Sergeant Phillip Myers. It was the first time in 18 years that the media has been able to document the solemn arrival ceremony of the U.S. war dead, now that the ban first set by former President George H.W. Bush has been relaxed by the Obama administration.

I listened to a report detailing this ceremony on NPR today. It involves transferring the soldier's coffin from the cargo plane to a military mortuary van.

"We march up in a formation — the seven of us — two columns of three and one behind, calling the cadence — left, right, left, right," (one) soldier says. "There's no music … even the commands we call out — they're not loud."

Another soldier discussed how he couldn't permit himself to show too much emotion, because he didn't think that's what the fallen soldier would want. Several of the soldiers interviewed wondered about who it was inside the coffin- were they young or old, a man or a woman, a private or an officer?

There are people on both sides of the argument about media coverage. Some feel that it invades the privacy of grieving families, while others maintain that a lack of coverage hides the human cost of our wars.

I am all at once drawn to and repelled by such accounts of tragedy and sorrow. Modern culture is increasingly voyeuristic, and I do admit I click on all the worst news stories each morning when I start up my computer- sometimes regretting my choice. I read the articles' comments from posters, admonishing the media for only reporting the grim news stories. Yet we are all reading them.

My husband doesn't like my morbid curiosity and penchant for true crime stories, while I don't like the ultra-violent cable shows he enjoys, which, he points out, are just fiction. I'm not sure what that says about me. Am I a realist? A pragmatist?

I am certainly not as pragmatic as my father. He once told me the story about how he was on a flight from Vietnam to the Philippines during Vietnam war time. He was traveling in a cargo plane, and, overcome with tiredness, he lay down on one of the coffins there. "God, dad, didn't that bother you?" I questioned him, disturbed by the thought. He replied that it didn't at all, there was no other place to lay. He is a hard-boiled stoic, to a fault. And while I don't like to shelter myself from the truth, I do think that I possess a sensitivity that meets ignorant bliss halfway.

The Long Way Home

Path of Rejuvenation

I've lately been fond of leaving work and taking a longer route home- one that follows The Embarcadero, to Bay Street, through The Marina along Crissy Field, and then onto Lincoln Boulevard as it winds through the Presidio and eventually out to 25th Avenue.

The views offered from the bluffs along Lincoln, overlooking Baker Beach, are breathtaking. I love slowly winding down this stretch of Lincoln, one eye on the road and one eye gazing out over the dusky, shimmering Pacific. It's the perfect ending that sets the tone for a restful evening. It's like hitting a reset button that erases the daily rubble we create.

View at dusk from Lincoln Boulevard overlooking Baker Beach

I must confess I drive this route. I try to not make a habit of driving to work, but sometimes it's a necessity- if I need my car for something after work, or if I am going to be excessively late in the morning. But The Long Way Home gets addictive. I really should try it by bike, as my friends Jake and Greg do.

The Phantom Trailers

Last Thursday I took The Long Way. I left work at 7:00, and by the time I reached the Presidio it was dusk. Driving on Lincoln, I was in the more forested area, just after Merchant Street. In the fading light, I came upon men standing along the edges of the road, and what must have been about 50 trailers. Were they filming a movie? Was it some sort of convention? Was it a mirage?

The next day, they were gone. Okay, so that's not so spectacular, but I like to imagine it was some twilight vision and they were never really there. Maybe that idea would be more plausible if I had seen wagons and men on horseback in 19th century dress, instead of modern-day trailers and guys in T shirts and baseball caps... but one can fantasize.

The one thing I am still waiting (and more likely) to see during my crepuscular ambling through the Presidio is a coyote.

photo from http://www.flickr.com/photos/schuberts/349047938/

Into the Bright

Today I left my office just after 6 o'clock, and the City was bathed in perfect light. The air was crisp and uncomfortably chilly, highlighting the sharpness with which the light delineated things like buildings, cars, and people.

This is the sort of late afternoon light you see only in winter or early spring, closer to white than gold. It's the light that precedes sunset and is on the cusp of the magic hour. It's soft and diffuse, yet blindingly brilliant.

My commute home is westbound, and there was something that revived my spirit, something about the cool air on my skin as I had to close my eyes against the silvery brightness of the waning afternoon.

silvery brightness - Dolores Park

The Nowtopian, January 2009

Bohemia

Tonight Jason and I went to Yoshi's in Oakland to see Béla Fleck perform with Toumani Diabate. My bottle of nigori sake mellowing me out, I was so satisfied to sit and listen to banjo and west African kora and take in my surroundings.

After the show, we decided to have a quick drink at Cafe Van Kleef. I think of this bar as bohemian with a touch of the diabolical, and it's haunted- always a bonus for me. One of the first times I visited, I asked the owner about the haunting, which he matter-of-factly confirmed as he sipped a glass of red wine behind the bar. A band was playing, made up of a woman on accordion, a guy on fiddle, and a guy on bass, sounding like the band that would have accompanied the devil in The Charlie Daniels Band's The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I had fallen through the looking glass, the mood was perfect.

Tonight my mind wandered and focused (as it often does) on the idea of the bohemian proletariat. Let me elaborate... I am by no stretch blue collar, but I do consider myself among the ranks of the modern-day worker. I enjoy the fact that I work hard all day, and that makes possible my ability to go out after work and enjoy live music, a drink at a pub, what-have-you, so long as it distances me from the workaday world.

A few scenarios recur in my mind: Kafka's Prague, with his Protagonist, "K.", going out after work with the local anarchists, or Edna St. Vincent Millay, tossing back drinks at La Rotonde with her fellow Lost Generation expats in Paris. Bringing it closer to home, I like to imagine men in fedoras clinking pints at the House of Shields circa 1930, right next door to my present-day office.

We are doing just as they did, and belong to a brotherhood and sisterhood that has spanned time since the advent of the modern work culture.

Architectura Victoriana

Farewell to a Piece of Pre-Quake History

I was recently reading about the cottage at 1268 Lombard Street in Russian Hill that was demolished. The cottage was built in 1861, and had housed blue-collar workers through the mid-20th century until it was purchased by a family in 1945. The house had fallen into disrepair, and despite the protests of preservationists, the house came down on Tuesday. The wood frame shingled cottage was an example of Italianate architecture that was popular at the time of its construction.

1268 Lombard Street

The Italianate style is a departure from the Queen Anne Victorians with their towers and spindles. Italianate homes featured flat roofs and broadly overhanging eaves, among other elements. The style was meant to invoke the villas of Renaissance Italy. (1)

Examples of Italianate Victorians on California Street

A Mystery Solved

The destruction of the house on Lombard Street had me thinking of old Victorians, and reminded me of the time I researched a question that constantly plagued me while I stared out the bus window on my morning commute: What did the garages on Victorian homes used to be? I mean, the homes were built before cars were in use, so they must have had some other use? My guess was that they were either stables or perhaps a place to store carriages. I was wrong on both fronts.

I contacted Stephen Haigh, of the Victorian Alliance of San Francisco, who provided me with his succinct yet thorough explanation. I love the way Mr. Haigh matter-of-factly wraps it up at the end:

On Wed, Apr 30, 2008 at 8:59 AM, Stephen Haigh wrote:

Your question regarding what the space was used for prior to garages is a good one. Depending upon the builder or architect the first level or basement level of a victorian sf home could be used for: storage of food stuffs and other house hold items, laundry services, a tiolet for use when in the garden, a downstairs recreation area or parlor. Some of the older homes had kitchens and dining rooms on this level. Most sandard row houses had at least a 7 to 8 foot high basement, which kept the main living area of the parlor and dining room above ground level and thus warmer and dryer. Windows were built below the bay. Most horses and thus carriages were housed in special buildings for that purpose so you now find car service garages housed in what were originally built for cariages and horses. This is my explanation. Steve Haigh, Pres CSF Victorian Alliance.

(1) The Old House Web http://www.oldhouseweb.com/

Derby Style

In the world of horse racing, jockeys wear racing "silks" that are custom-designed and unique to the horse owner. Horse and rider are thus easily identified during a race. I love the colors and the patterns, which are often traditional symbols like stars and crosses.

Of Gentlemen and Hooligans

There are so many styles and subcultures now, that I feel nothing is shocking. I wonder if, throughout the centuries, everyone looked the same and had the same style. Were societies lacking in permutations? There must have always been some nonconformists out there.

Scuttlers

Scuttlers were neighborhood youth gangs in England that sprang up in the working class areas in and around Manchester during the late 19th century. They distinguished themselves from other young men in their neighborhoods by their distinctive clothing. They wore brass-tipped pointed clogs, bell-bottom trousers cut like a sailor's, and flashy silk scarves. Their hair was cut short at the back and sides, but they grew long fringes, known as "donkey fringes", that were longer on the left side and plastered down on the forehead over the left eye with oil or soap. Peaked caps were also worn tilted to the left to display the fringe. (1)

The gangs fought with a variety of weapons, but they all carried knives and wore heavy buckled belts, often decorated with pictures such as serpents, hearts pierced with arrows, or women's names. The thick leather belts were wrapped tightly around the wrist so that the buckle could be used to strike at opponents in a fight. The use of knives and belts was designed to maim and disfigure rather than to kill. (1)

A Scuttler gang photo (Greater Manchester Police Museum)

Bartitsu: The Gentlemanly Art of Self-Defense

If you've heard of bartitsu, the first thing that likely comes to mind is Sherlock Holmes. Bartitsu arose as a response to the problem of self-defense in an increasingly urban, industrialized society. It was adopted by the middle and upper classes, who were becoming alarmed by the emergence of street gangs like the Scuttlers. That, coupled with a current fascination with Asian warfare and a new obsession with "Physical Culture", contributed to its popularity. (2)

Bartitsu was the brainchild of Edward William Wright (later changing his name to Edward William Barton-Wright), who was born in 1860. As an adult he worked for a time in Japan, where he studied jiujitsu. He combined what he had learned from his martial arts studies into bartitsu, which incorporated the gentleman's walking stick as a weapon.

Bartitsu has been devised with a view to impart to peacefully disposed men the science of defending themselves against ruffians or bullies, and comprises not only boxing but also the use of the stick, feet, and a very tricky and clever style of Japanese wrestling, in which weight and strength play only a very minor part. (Barton-Wright, 1902)

Teddy Boys

The British "Teddy Boy" subculture arose in the 1950s, and was typified by young men wearing clothes inspired by the Edwardian era, such as long draped jackets (sometimes with velvet trim), white shirts with high-necked, loose collars, high-waisted narrow "drainpipe" trousers, and chunky crepe-soled shoes, or Brogues. The subculture became associated with American rock and roll music, and some groups formed violent gangs.

Boys smoking, Portland Road - photograph; photographic print; silver gelatine print

Two Teddy Girls, Battersea Fun Fair

(1) Sarah Chalmers. The First Hoodies. Daily Mail: pp. 60,61. January 17, 2009.

(2) A consequence of the Industrial Revolution was the decline in the physical condition of Britain's increasingly sedentary middle and upper classes. A new obsession with purely athletic sport and gymnasiums emerged as a result. Tony Wolf, Bartitsu.org. January 15, 2007.

Wild Beasts revisited

I came across the work of artist Paul Volker a few years back when I was searching for a memorable birthday gift for a friend. Volker paints mostly animals, married with pithy text, using house paint on plywood. He was able to create a custom piece for me and I enjoyed the quirky email exchange that passed between us while sorting out the details. Here are a few of his pieces. Check out the "wild beasts" link in the archive on his website.

Simulacram iii

Lunch on Cathay Pacific

Image from one of my favorite sites, AirlineMeals.net, where you can browse photos and descriptions of thousands of in-flight meals.

Butterflied prawns wrapped with bean curd skin, steamed rice, Chinese mixed vegetables, garlic bread, seasonal fresh fruit, baked pear tart with fresh berries.

Photo taken by: Luke
Route: Hong Kong-Taipei
Class: business

When a good lunch goes bad

Do you ever have a day when everything goes gastronomically wrong? This morning, I skipped breakfast. So busy with email, etc., that by the time I looked at the clock it was almost lunch.

12:30. I microwave my "Vegan Burger India" meal from Whole Foods. I love these meals by a company called Fresh India. They're tasty, healthy, but not cheap. After taking a few bites, I notice a hair. I can't even tell what kind of hair. I call my coworker at our front desk and ask him if I should still eat it. He says, "As long as it doesn't gross you out, then go for it."

I stare at my plate for a long time and move peas and rice around warily with my fork. Then I decide to crawl under my desk to find the discarded hair, to really see if I can ascertain where it came from. The a hair in my recent memory begins to take on many forms: head hair, armpit hair, dog hair, synthetic fiber from an unraveling seat belt.

I decide it's just not worth it and I toss the whole meal. Now I've wasted half my lunch hour and need to go out and spend money on something else to eat. Outside, I settle on a salmon/smoked salmon sandwich. Normally I would really like this, but today I just couldn't deal with the slimy texture of the smoked salmon. I end up picking it apart, extracting the cooked salmon, lettuce, and fennel, and eventually only eating half.

Today I was just not meant to eat. Maybe something's telling me to only eat when hungry, and eat more simply. There's a piece of fruit in my desk that I'll probably have later. That should work out well.

I'm Nate Jones

Normally I wouldn't write about lunatics on public transportation because everyone's got these stories, but this morning was an acute reminder of why I avoid taking the 38 Geary.

I missed the 2 Clement by seconds. It's a longer bus ride, but without a doubt more innocuous. Mostly filled with downtown commuters and elderly Chinese and Russians going to Clement Street markets. Instead I was forced to walk the couple extra blocks to catch the 38L. All was status quo until we reached Divisadero.

You know that your commute is destined to suck when a passenger gets on the bus and the first thing he does is lock-and-load his mop. Yes, a mop. The sort with the plastic ringer that you slide up and down (that's what he locked and loaded). I looked up at this man and his jaw was trembling and he had crazy eyes. He was wearing fuzzy red socks without shoes, and his sagging sweatpants exposed about 4 inches of butt crack. Water from his mop splashed onto my shoes. Of course, he sat directly across from me.

The next half hour was an unrehearsed dance of passengers moving away from wherever this man sat or walked. He leaned over me to shut my window (I held my breath), and proceeded to shut every window on the bus within reach. The ranted and swore, each rant punctuated by a swift thud of his mop handle on the floor of the bus. My concern was that he might go off and whack someone with it.

He moved from my sight to the front of the bus, and his rants became more intense. Some choice excerpts:

"Hey, what's your name (to another man standing)?
Look I got these (pulls pack of AAA batteries from his pocket)
I sell 'em to you. I stole 'em from Walgreen's.
Sixteen dollars. Sixteen dollars. Sixteen dollars. Sixteen dollars..."

"Why you keep looking around? Are you a cop?
You in the military? Why you keep looking?
You a cop? You a cop? You a cop...?"

"Stop that beeping (bus makes beeping sound as it lowers). Stop that beep!!
Turn it off! Stop that beeping! Stop that beeping! Stop that beeping!"

"I'm getting off at Jones Street.
I need to get off at Jones Street! Jones Street! Jones Street!
I'm Nate Jones! NATE JONES! NATE JOOO-OONES!!!"

And finally this (as bus driver maneuvers through double-parked delivery trucks downtown):

"Man! You crazy! You crazy m'er-f'ker!! You crazy m'er-f'ker!!
You almost hit that woman! You hit that man!! You f'ker!!
You crazy m'er-f'kr!!! Let me off this f'ing bus! LET ME OFF THIS BUS!!!!"

Thankfully we arrived at Jones Street and breathed a collective sigh of relief after the guy left. Ah, those fleeting bonds with strangers over street person craziness.

(remove bazooka and shoes, insert mop)

The Far Side, Gary Larson

Simulacram ii

The Docarat

It's a rat on a cat on a dog. Spotted by my husband, Jason, in front of the DSW shoe store on Powell Street.

Visions on my way to work

I took the 2 Clement to work today, and while cruising down Post Street at Leavenworth, I was struck by two scenes within one block: First, I noticed a window in a sooty apartment building, that was propped open with a can of Raid. Immediately after that, my eyes focused on two trannies rummaging through their car trunk, tossing wig after wig aside. Not drag queens folks, but cracked-out at 9am, I'm-for-hire trannies. Strange, this was actually a couple blocks north of the true Tenderloin.

This reminded me of a night in the 'Loin when I was standing outside the Edinburgh Castle making a phone call before pub quiz. In the span of no more than 10 minutes, the following occurred:

• hustled for cigarettes, 4 times
• grimaced at for not having cigarettes, 4 times
• watched someone grab cigarette butt out of the gutter and try to smoke it, 1 time
• leered at by nasty men, 3 times
• offered drugs, 1 time
• offered an array of fake Rolex's by guy with a grill, 1 time

Awesome.

This euphemistic description of the 'Loin is offered by Only In San Francisco- The Official Visitors Site for San Francisco:

Thousands originally from Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam have given the Tenderloin, a 20-square-block district west of Union Square new life. A landmark church, an experimental theatre house, jazz and blues clubs, restaurants and cafes point to a neighborhood renaissance.

Double awesome.

The Castle

Some jobs can be fulfilling. Others can be soul-sucking, feeling you left to wonder what is your purpose? Are you making a difference? Are you truly fulfilled? Fifty years ago, the idea of fulfillment might have seemed laughable. A person was glad just to be earning a wage. And in a lot of situations, that is still the case. Being said, I am grateful for my job, especially in this economic climate. For years, I've gotten by on the notion that I could effectively separate my office life from my real life, as so wisely explained by Jennifer Aniston's character, Joanna, in the excellent film Office Space.

... most people don't like their jobs. But you go out there and find something that makes you happy

I have a coworker who I like to imagine as Keyser Soze from The Usual Suspects. She is always distracted in meetings, hiding behind imperfect English and seeming to not understand most things. But I'm convinced that she's aware of everything, and smarter than us all. I imagine her leaving the office, casting off her accent in the same way that Keyser Soze abandoned his limp at the end of the film. "I f**cking hate all those bastards," I like to imagine her saying...

I recently printed a photo of my two cats and taped it up near my mailbox in the main office. One of the cats has glowing eyes in the photo, like red-eye in humans, but it's yellow in cats. I went to my mailbox the other day, and noticed that someone had crudely taken a ball point pen and drew in pupils on my cat's eyes. That someone was my boss. I was perplexed, trying to imagine her motivation to vandalize my cats' photo. Was she in the main office after hours, staring at my cat's glowing eyes and feeling compelled to color them in? All she told me when she confessed was that she "wanted the cat to be looking at something." Now my cat's inky eyes follow you around the room. I don't like it, but if I take the picture down, she'll know it's because I didn't like that she drew on it.

We now have a rule of no eating at our desks. It's a problem if you have errands to run during your lunch break, or if it's raining outside and the break room is full. Equally draconian are the rules concerning working at special events- we are not supposed to sit or consume beverages like water or coffee in front of clients, even though the event lasts all day. None of these activities would look professional, we are told. I am more concerned with looking and feeling human, versus feeling like a cyborg. And I really don't think it would turn off potential buyers, who probably want to interact with humans and not cyborgs.

More often I contemplate my place in this organization, but I know that feeling lost and frustrated at work are hardly unique sentiments. Years ago I saw the movie Kafka with Jeremy Irons. I was captivated by the perverseness of his situation as a clerk at an insurance company in WWI era Prague- his unreasonable manager, his ridiculous and useless assistants, and eventually even murder (though I don't see that last one happening at my job)?

(Kafka talking to his two totally incompetent assistants, Ludwig and Oscar.)
Oscar: It's not too bad working here, though.
Kafka: You've never felt it was a horrible double life from which there's probably no escape but
insanity?
Ludwig: Yes.
Oscar: No.
Both: No.
Kafka: I envy you.
Oscar: You should be content, you know.
Ludwig: You should!


The movie had such an ideological and visual impact on me, that I've since had a pet-fantasy of opening a cafe called "Prague 1915," based on Kafka's Prague. It would serve Trappist ales, wine and a small selection of spirits, and be old world, bohemian, and gypsy. It would be dark with a touch of something diabolical- an air of superstition, without being full-on Vlad the Impaler. The closest thing that I've seen come close to this is Cafe Van Kleef in Oakland. Go there sometime, you will enjoy it.

Phantasmagoria ii

Tam O' Shanter and the Witches

In Tam O' Shanter (1790), Robert Burns tells the tale of the eponymous character as he begins his night at the local public house in Auld Ayr (Scotland), and eventually goes over to the dark side...

Tam drinks and regales with friends at what might be considered the equivalent of the modern-day happy hour (have fun looking up all the Scots colloquialisms).

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy

He stays too late, gets too drunk, flirts with the landlady of the pub and offends his wife. Eventually leaving alone, he makes his way through the countryside, which seems especially eerie on that night. Ultimately he comes upon a raucous scene ablaze in light- a danse macabre with witches and warlocks, open coffins, and the Devil himself, carousing and whirling in decadent abandon.

He dances with a pretty young witch, wearing a too-short nightshirt (cutty-sark). Tam, overcome, can't help but exclaim in lecherous glee:

Weel done, Cutty-sark!

Suddenly, the lights go off and Tam is pursued by the witches and warlocks, who have flown into a rage. Escaping on his horse, he makes it over the bridge to safety (the witches and warlocks can't cross running water) (1), but not without the young witch grabbing his horse's tail and pulling it off.

I first came upon an illustration of the Tam O' Shanter dance scene on a trip to Seattle during college. It was on a promo postcard for a show at a downtown bar. I had no idea of the artist, and was so intrigued by the debauched imagery that I simply had to know the tale behind it. It took about 12 years (and Google) before I could search to find it's inspiration.

Tam O' Shanter and the Witches by John Faed, 1892
Illustration to the poem of Robert Burns

(1) Lindsay, Maurice (1996), "Tam O'Shanter", The Burns Encyclopedia (3 ed.), Robert Hale, ISBN 978-0709057192, http://www.robertburns.org/encyclopedia/TamOShanter.23.shtml, retrieved on 31 October 2008

Simulacrum i

Mensch / Natur / Technik

It is a huge understatement to say that I like cycling. I like it a lot, almost bordering on obsession at times (I just got a new Easton wheelset this weekend).

Naturally, then, one can imagine that I'm currently in cycling heaven, as the Amgen Tour of California rolls through the state. The tour gets better each year, drawing more top cyclists and spectators. It's the closest thing to la Tour that we have stateside, and yesterday I got to see it live. The peloton raced over the Golden Gate Bridge, and right through my neighborhood. We were able to see them at the start of their short climb up to the Legion of Honor, and then spur-of-the-moment drove down to Santa Cruz for the finish.

Watching them slice through the drizzle on El Camino del Mar was like watching a phantom ship glide silently through the mist- a soft whir of derailleur and wheel, punctuated by the rhythmic breath of the riders. All is distilled to the essence of man-machine.

The inspiration for this characterization is not lost upon me, as the idea of the man-machine was famously conceptualized by the likewise cycling-obsessed Kraftwerk. Describing the Tour De France EP, founder-member Ralf Hütter explains “the bicycle is already a musical instrument on its own. The noise of the bicycle chain, the pedal and gear mechanism, for example, the breathing of the cyclist...When your bike functions best, you don’t hear it – it’s silent, there’s no cracking, just shhhh – you’re gliding. It’s the same when you’re in good shape and you're in form and you’re riding your bike, you hear nothing – maybe just a little bit of breath." (from "Kraftwerk and the Ultimate Man-Machine" by John Thurston, Rouleur Magazine, August 2005)

GHI

I am obsessed with shows about the paranormal. It started with Ghost Hunters, but now that has expanded to Ghost Hunters International (GHI), Psychic Children, and Paranormal State.

Why this obsession? I blame it on a report I had to write in the 7th grade, over winter break. I don't remember which class and why I chose a report on paranormal activity, but I checked out all these books at the library on topics from the Bermuda Triangle to the famous Crystal Skull (Mysteries of the Unknown: Time-Life Books). I immersed myself in all of this while my parents were at work. It rained two straight weeks that break, and George Harrison's "I Got My Mind Set on You" kept playing on MTV. I thought that video was creepy.

The thing that stuck out about what I was reading was a report of an area in England called "Chestnuts." There had been strange disappearances, sightings of supposed demons, and even UFOs. Dogs would mysteriously disappear and be found dead, but at an advanced state of decomposition that didn't correlate with the time they'd been gone. A priest disappeared. A large, black 10 foot shadow was seen by a man one night. The next day, cloven footprints were found where that shadow had been seen.

All of this creeped me out to no end. One night while I lay awake thinking about everything, I noticed the walls of my bedroom start to glow (though it was probably an illusion caused by the fact that I kept my eyes open too long). I had the sensation of my sheets levitating off my body. I was convinced I was haunted, and that if I looked down the hallway, I'd see that black 10 ft demon shadow.

Until I graduated high school, I would only sleep on my back so I could keep one eye on my bedroom door. This probably lead to sleep paralysis incidents that I will discuss in a future post.

Fast-forwarding to now, and my GHI watching, last night the GHI team investigated the Clark Air Force Base hospital in the Philippines. The hospital is a ruins now because the eruption of Mount Pinatubo in 1991 sent 11 ft of ash through the place. The team recorded some of the eeriest EVPs (electronic voice phenomenon) that I've heard in all my Ghost Hunters watching. You could really hear disembodied voices clearly, saying actual words.

The thing that was so fascinating to me with this investigation is, this is where I was born. I saw the ruins personally in 1996, but seeing them now in their haunted state, and knowing it was once a working, vibrant place where, 33 years ago, my mom had a c-section and there I was- well, it was intriguing.

Phantasmagoria i

The Jersey Devil

The Jersey Devil, or the Leeds Devil, is said to inhabit the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey.

Deborah Leeds had twelve children, and she vowed that if she gave birth to another, it would be the devil himself. In 1735, she gave birth to her thirteenth child. It was seemingly normal at first, but later formed bat wings, a horse's head, a forked tail, and cloven hooves. (1)

There are sightings of the Jersey Devil to this day.

(1) Documents Relating to the Colonial History of the State Of New Jersey, 1st Ser., Vol. XXX Ed. A. Van Doren Honeyman, (Union-Gazette, Somerville, N.J.)1918.

Prima

Hi. This will be my space to spew forth random thoughts and observations, recount memories, and document an assemblage of curiosities that I like.