That's entertainment?

I just got back from the gym all steamed up, not from the cursed elliptical machine, but from the bizarre Dateline MSNBC program I watched while climbing my way to gluteal improvement. It's called To Catch A Predator and I'd heard about it, in the way you hear murmurings about troubling, exploitative television, but I'd never watched it before. I didn't have much choice tonight because the screen attached to my machine was broken--I couldn't change the channel, and I couldn't turn it off, and I couldn't even get rid of the closed captioning. So I watched it, like you watch a snake swallow a mouse on a nature program. Not because you are enjoying it, but because there is something horribly compelling about seeing base instinct at work.
I will spare you the details cos they are just horrendous/absurd (in one case involving Cool Whip, an American whipped cream substitute, and a cat), but here's the basic outline: men were lured to a Florida house to meet with a 14-year-old boy or girl--depending on their preference--they had encountered in an online chat room, for sexual purposes. But ba-ba-ba-boom, they weren't meeting a 14-year-old at all, but some super-tanned blow-dry guy with a camera team.
He met them as they wandered the kitchen/lounge, looking for the child they'd hoped to meet, directed them to sit on a stool at a kitchen breakfast bar on which sat a plate of cookies and a vase of flowers, then interviewed them. At this point they did not know they were being filmed. He asked them if they had ever met children for sex before, and what in the heck did they think they were doing, and did they realise their behavior was unacceptable. And then he revealed his identity, just as two camera men came out of hiding. But that's not all, folks. Then he told them they were free to go--except when they got outside, police literally jumped from the bushes and pushed them to the ground. This was ostensibly for the benefit of concerned parents everywhere.
Now, I am not for a moment defending these men, ranging in age from 20 to 61, gay and straight, married and not, fathers and not. They were there to harm children, no doubt about it. But explain to me the public good that is achieved with this candid camera-style sting? (The men's faces were not obscured, their names were revealed, their personal lives sliced open.)
Result? The men's families are humiliated, their careers potentially destroyed, their anonymity at the supermarket gone. The men are arrested and charged and yes, put out of action for a brief time, but is that enough? Where's the follow-up care/treatment/prevention? I can't imagine Dateline MSNBC feels any responsibility towards these guys and their families. Forgetting that, is it an appropriate role for me, as a television viewer, to judge men whose lives I know nothing about, and who have been coerced into breaking the law by a television network which stands to profit from its trickery? Should that really be what passes for entertainment--and it is presented as entertainment; the news-value window-dressing is fooling no-one.
I try not to get lathered up about social issues just before bed, but I left the gym feeling quite nauseous.

Wicker, big hair and moustaches

Tom Selleck is the only man in the world who can pull off a moustache without looking like he belongs on the H.M.S. Pinafore. I loved Thomas Magnum, PI as a little girl, I loved Richard on Friends, and now I'm loving Magnum again, thanks to the forever-70s-and-80s universe that is satellite television.
We watched the first-ever episode of Magnum PI this week--a two-parter that explored his tortured past in Vietnam and his bizarre caretaker role on mystery writer Robin Master's oceanfront estate. I don't think I ever got his motivation as a kid; I just liked watching him tooling around in TC's helicopter and swatting away the girls with that who-am-I-kidding grin. Anyway, I think Selleck grew into his role--or perhaps I was a generous viewer, cos the acting was pretty crapola. But I was also a devotee of The A-Team and Dukes of Hazzard. It was all about the adventure for me.
I also studied the women in these programs for clues as to what adulthood held for me. Given that the ladies were pretty much there to scream, fall for the men's charms--often against their will--and look sexy, I didn't have a lot of scope. And because I also loved the more ambitious Wonder Woman--pilot, heroine and lingerie model--I was most interested in the sexy. I developed a passion for blue eye shadow, gold chains, big fluffy hair, plastic bangles, high-heeled sandals, and deep Coppertone tans. I envisioned womanhood as involving a lot of personal maintenance (manicures, aerobics, drinking diet shakes) and afternoons spent in an apartment with an ocean view, wicker furniture and framed 1920s advertising prints on the walls, waiting for Magnum or similar to turn up and give me something to do. As I "matured" in second and third grades, I wanted to be a secretary by day/lounge singer by night, so I could wear stilettos and file important documents from 9 to 5 then, after work, don false eyelashes and sparkly dresses and drink multicolored cocktails garnished with little umbrellas and fruit skewered on plastic swords.
Life turned out very differently, of course, and thank heavens for that. I still like paper, although I collect piles of it and lose it, rather than file it. I can't wear stilettos and blue eyeshadow has been out and in and out again, but with my coloring it's just not a realistic option. My hair won't fluff and it looks stupid big. I hate wicker and own not one lounge singer-style dress. Turns out I can't sing. But I still love Magnum and my heart still speeds just a little when I hear the theme song and watch TC's helicopter swoop down over the ocean off Oahu.
And I still like the 'tache

Nasty and kinda nice

I have not been able to stop thinking about this place since I went with Tim a few weeks ago. And even though it's disgusting, I almost want one of these.
I have just learned how to link, and I like it.

Drive me to the moon

San Francisco bus drivers are a cranky lot. I think it's because they work in a state of constant uncertainty, or at least that's how I feel when I see the 1BX steaming down California St. You never know quite what's going to happen when you jump on board--will you nearly hit a jaywalking pedestrian; will the thingies that attach the bus to the overhead power cables fall off, leaving you stuck on the side of the road until the driver can reattach them; will a drunk cuddle up next to you and slump against your side in an uncomfortably intimate way? Such adventures to be had. The mood of my morning is often determined by whether I get a seat on the bus or not. It's not the standing itself I mind, it's the queasy whoosh of barelling down steep SF streets without something solid to brace against. If I have a seat, I can read my book and enjoy the rollercoaster ride; if I'm standing, I need both hands to hold on. And still I am thrown into the folk on either side of me. I don't know how the immaculate blowdry women with the stilettos and manicures manage to cling on.
For the most part, the general public is pretty polite to the drivers, but they don't always get the same courtesy in return. This morning, the machine you feed your dollar bills into seized up. A young woman stood and waited for her bill to go through. Nothing happened. "It dudn't sing and dance-h," snapped the bus driver. I would have rolled my eyes at him and huffed, but she delivered a sweet "Thank you" and moved down the aisle. Last night, I ended up on Snippety Snipe's bus. He is my least favorite driver for so many reasons: he speeds in a dangerous, not thrilling, way; he is openly hostile towards Asian patrons; he once told me off for pulling the bell strap thing too soon and when I apologized he just kept sniping until I got off; he yells "fuck" whenever he feels like it; he is sleazy. Each time he drops me off I wonder if he is going to speed off before I am all the way down the steps, or shut the door on my handbag.
Still, riding the bus beats the pants off having to drive and find a park.

State of Blah

I’m feeling a bit tired and pathetic today, just draggy and blah. It’s a hangover from yesterday’s draggy blahness, which came out of nowhere. I think this job is stressing me out more than I realized. We went to Baker Beach, site of the cow painting, unrolled our little $1.99 grass mats, and scattered pieces of the NYT around ourselves (in a manner reminiscent to the hamsters' behaviour with nesting materials--are we taking on pet-like characteristics and, if so, have we turned into one of those sad childless couples who treat their golden labs like toddlers?) And I, after reading about how people with disabilities these days are getting on with "normal" lives, and to hell with those who might stare (right on, I say; they illustrated the story with a photograph of the amputee contestant from The Amazing Race, Sarah, dancing at a club) turned over and fell asleep. I woke up with grass mat marks pressed into my right cheek and a craving for sweets. We satisifed the craving at a German bakery run by Chinese people in Clement St, which is SF's second, smaller Chinatown. We go there a lot. I got a slice of mocha cake. And then we went home and I fell asleep on the sofa before giving in and going to bed. At 9.30pm. Am I living the big city life, or what?
In my defense, we had a busy Saturday, what with meeting the cow painting artist and all. Also, we got up before 7am to help out with the food drive at Tim's church, something we've managed just three times since we've been here. It's actually fun. There are some tough old ladies who try to sneak extra food--not because they're any hungrier than anyone else but because they can--and I actually slapped away a woman's hands when she tried to take two extra yellow squash. That sounds mean in black and white, but it wasn't. She knew she was pushing it, and I think she respected me for staying on the ball. One old guy had dressed up for the occasion, including a hat, and told Tim he used to have a job that was "clean". We think he meant he worked in an office.
Speaking of people in bad situations, I saw a man going through a rubbish bin for food as I walked to work this morning. This is not an unusual occurrence. There are people who stand outside Starbucks, watching you gulp back lattes and holding out their empty cups. There are a couple of men who sleep on the grass right near my office, are often still sleeping there when I pass. There are people who sleep under freeway overpasses, next to the train lines--I see them arranging their bedrolls from the train. The fact that none of this is unusual is what bothers me. So when I am mopey and tired and blah, it makes me feel like a jerk.

Art patrons

Tim and I share few interests—we have an embarrassing passion for The Amazing Race; inhale chip and dip whenever we have the opportunity, therefore must ration ourselves, or suffer malnutrition; love reading and writing (though not the same stuff); and derive tremendous enjoyment from teasing each other. And that’s about it. So when we stumbled on a painting—a grown-up, put-it-on-the-wall and admire-it-for-the rest-of-your-life painting—we both absolutely loved while poking around Bodega village, where Hitchcock’s The Birds was filmed dontcha know, we bought it. Even though our budget didn’t really support it at the time. (It should be noted here that we did get a beautiful painting from Tim’s sisters and their families when we got married, but it’s in New Zealand, with our house and barbecue and the rest of our adult lives.)
In our California painting, two cows stand on Baker’s Beach, with a spectacular view of the Golden Gate and Marin headlands. One is a fresian, and the other is that reddy brown and white sort of cow, the one that looks like wet clay. Both cows are beautifully rendered, would look completely at home on the walls of a great ranching home, but the killer part as far as we’re concerned is the striped beach ball that hangs in the air between them, as if one of the ladies has just nosed it towards the other, and both are trying to look nonchalant for fear of losing their cool. Once you’ve spent a few minutes looking at this scene, drinking in the loopiness, you notice a black cow (Angus?) in the background, thundering up the beach to join the game. The whole thing is surreal and lovely. We swallowed our anxieties and whipped out the credit card, feeling confident we had bought the best thing in the gallery.
That was four months ago and today we returned to Bodega to attend a reception for the painter. We were a bit nervous to meet her, given how much we love the painting and how cool we’d imagined she must be. I was expecting, lord knows why, a woman with a husky voice, lavender hair and shiny black boots with the laces undone. I didn’t realize this is who I expected until we met the artist and she turned out to be quite ordinary, with an embroidered waistcoat (I have a weird hang-up about these), and little interest in talking to us, her patrons. We were miffed, I tell you. She even, at one point, took a huge step back towards the wall, positioning herself in front of another of her paintings, a well-endowed mermaid hugging two sea otters, but that didn’t stop us from sidling back into her space and talking at her some more. We so wanted to make a connection with her. Sad, huh? To heap disappointment upon disappointment, the gallery owner served Chablis in the smallest disposable cups I have ever seen—literally not much bigger than a cough syrup measure. So when “our” artist turned away from us again—crying out and practically jumping into the lap of a man she knew to escape us—there was nothing left for us but to get back in the car and drive back to San Francisco, an hour south.

Practically still flapping

I love sushi—the salty-sweet firmness of the fish and the bite of the ginger—but I have a bit of an issue with raw food, so I’m conflicted. I tend to go for the cheater’s sushi made from cooked chicken and loads of avocado, or the cooked eel thing that tastes a bit caramel-y and looks like a wrapped gift. So today’s lunch counts as an accomplishment. One of the interns had to deliver some magazines to a restaurant on Shattuck Ave, Berkeley’s “gourmet ghetto”, and offered to pick up some bargain sushi on her way back. It was superb, the fanciest sushi I think I’ve ever eaten, despite being composed of many jewel-like slabs of raw tuna, albacore and salmon. Oh, and eel, coiled like a centipede, wrapped in a rice blanket and sprinkled with brilliant orange fish eggs that burst when bitten. I had to close off the part of my brain screaming, ooh yucky, this hasn’t been cooked, and concentrate on the subtle flavor of the super-fresh, practically still flapping, fish, which was deeelishus. Dunking it in lots of soy sauce helped too. I gotta say, I think having interns at my disposal is going to spoil me for other jobs. I try not to abuse my position, but ,hey, who doesn’t like having someone fetch lunch for them? I guess this is why executives get off on having personal assistants.