Just woke up after a car nap. I love a good car nap and today is perfect—sunny and warm, a long drive home, and scenery that is lovely but repetitive, so I don’t feel I’m missing too much if I close my eyes. I have the laptop across my knees and one of Tim’s sweatshirts hanging in the window to reduce glare, so I am highway-blogging, which is not particularly glam, but better than sitting here eating jelly worms. There is a dwindling bag of jelly worms nesting between our seats.
After yesterday’s stroll round the picture-perfect Ferndale, we had lunch at Applebee’s, a rather good chain restaurant, not like anything in NZ, really. Tim, with his love of a bargain and a good honest feed, has developed a passion for Applebee’s and its celebrity chef, Tyler Somebody, who is often on the box talking up his latest flavor combos, such as chicken with salsa, which don’t sound particularly clever, and certainly not new, but taste fantastic all the same. There isn’t one in the city, so we keep an eye out as we drive new highways. Our first Applebee’s was in Kentucky. Yesterday, we hit the one in Eureka and it was just as good—and practically identical in appearance; the décor is Americana, with lots of road signs and pictures of Cadillacs and football helmets and such. Tim had a quesadilla burger with rosemary-parmesan fries; I had the Caesar salad topped with crispy garlic prawns. Could have fed a horse comfortably. And cheap as chips.
After that, we took a walk in the woods, getting up close and personal with more redwoods. I scared myself silly with thoughts of bears after a mysterious noise, a low, drawn-out keening, went unexplained. It was all very beautiful but I couldn’t wait to get back to the car. And then we drove to Fort Bragg, scene of one of my great childhood disappointments.
When I was about 11, one of my best friends from John Swett Elementary in Martinez, a girl I had managed to keep in touch with during a two-year stint in NZ, spent the weekend with my family. We drove up to Fort Bragg, a former military outpost, now white trash hangout (I’m horrid, I know), and caught the Skunk Train, an old steam engine that meanders through the redwoods to another nothing-much town, Willits. Dad was really excited about the train, and he had talked about it enough that I was too. Sadly, Alyson, a skinny blonde girl who often wore lavender jeans, which I thought were the coolest, was cold and miserable and unimpressed with all options laid before her. Basically, she was bored, which is about as bad as it got for middle class pre-teens in the 1980s. She didn’t like the train, she didn’t like the chile served in Styrofoam cups we ate at a pitstop along the way, she hated our charmless hotel, and she didn’t like my parents either. The years between 10 and 15 were particularly unattractive for me, so I suspect my clothes were pretty lame, and my hair dull, and my music taste dorky. Meanwhile, Alyson had the lavender jeans and a walkman. By the end of the weekend we were no longer friends. When we got home, I cried and cried.
Fort Bragg hasn’t improved much in 21 years. We ate pizza and went to bed.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
On the road
It’s Memorial Day weekend, I get Monday off, and it’s time we saw more of the state, so we packed up the car and hit Highway 101, headed north to redwood country. It’s incredibly beautiful up here, all misty and primeval, with these gigantic trees, older than Jesus, standing guard over the deer and black bears. (We’ve seen deer; no bears.) Some are 2400 years old, and even the “small” guys lining the highway are 400 to 600 years old.
Some snapshots of our weekend thus far:
* We paid $5 to drive through a giant redwood called the Chandelier, although actually it was more of a candelabra. I jumped out of the car and walked through the trunk, tapping the “ceiling” on my way, so I could photograph Tim driving through, with his head hanging out the window like a puppy.
* I was sitting on a smooth log, eating a Crunch ice cream bar when a little girl squeezed on beside me.
“Look at my ice cream,” she said, pushing her multi-colored, stripy lump of little-girl heaven under my nose.
“Wow, that looks great,” I replied.
“Look at my tongue.” She poked out her red and blue tongue.
“Cool.”
At this point her parents showed up, mom holding a very new baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, and my friend was led away. Clearly, the baby had messed up her sweet deal at home and she was looking for attention anywhere she could get it.
* Stopped the car to walk into the Chimney redwood, with a trunk hollowed by a long-ago fire. This tree has its own electrics and a guest book.
* Drove down the Avenue of Giants, 30-odd miles of, um, giant redwoods. Gorgeousness, but we had to stop before we got to the end because there had been a mudslide that the highway patrol had not bothered to signpost before we were practically upon it.
* Ferndale, USA. This is a teeny Victorian town which, rather than being a preserved under glass like a dead butterfly, is a living community that just happens to have great buildings. There is a diner with a long, wooden counter at which a local cop was drinking coffee when I peeked through the window; bank with box-office style booths for each teller; all kinds of candy shoppes, and antiques shops and a blacksmith's, all beautifully maintained and some decked out in red, white and blue bunting in honor of Memorial Day; and a miniature pink house built in 1995 as a fundraiser for maintaining some of the Victorian beauties in the main street, which was adorable except for the dog doodie on the tiny front porch. Oh, and there just happened to be a parade on as we drove into town, with a French horn and all the trimmings.
* Reading the local paper at our blandy-bland motel over muffins and crapola coffee, we learned that “Izzy” Osbourne and the AC/DC chicks’ tribute band, Thundherstruck, were on their way to Humboldt County. As were Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. Sadly, I think it was the real Joan Jett. Oh how the mighty have fallen, rather like ancient redwoods. . .
Some snapshots of our weekend thus far:
* We paid $5 to drive through a giant redwood called the Chandelier, although actually it was more of a candelabra. I jumped out of the car and walked through the trunk, tapping the “ceiling” on my way, so I could photograph Tim driving through, with his head hanging out the window like a puppy.
* I was sitting on a smooth log, eating a Crunch ice cream bar when a little girl squeezed on beside me.
“Look at my ice cream,” she said, pushing her multi-colored, stripy lump of little-girl heaven under my nose.
“Wow, that looks great,” I replied.
“Look at my tongue.” She poked out her red and blue tongue.
“Cool.”
At this point her parents showed up, mom holding a very new baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, and my friend was led away. Clearly, the baby had messed up her sweet deal at home and she was looking for attention anywhere she could get it.
* Stopped the car to walk into the Chimney redwood, with a trunk hollowed by a long-ago fire. This tree has its own electrics and a guest book.
* Drove down the Avenue of Giants, 30-odd miles of, um, giant redwoods. Gorgeousness, but we had to stop before we got to the end because there had been a mudslide that the highway patrol had not bothered to signpost before we were practically upon it.
* Ferndale, USA. This is a teeny Victorian town which, rather than being a preserved under glass like a dead butterfly, is a living community that just happens to have great buildings. There is a diner with a long, wooden counter at which a local cop was drinking coffee when I peeked through the window; bank with box-office style booths for each teller; all kinds of candy shoppes, and antiques shops and a blacksmith's, all beautifully maintained and some decked out in red, white and blue bunting in honor of Memorial Day; and a miniature pink house built in 1995 as a fundraiser for maintaining some of the Victorian beauties in the main street, which was adorable except for the dog doodie on the tiny front porch. Oh, and there just happened to be a parade on as we drove into town, with a French horn and all the trimmings.
* Reading the local paper at our blandy-bland motel over muffins and crapola coffee, we learned that “Izzy” Osbourne and the AC/DC chicks’ tribute band, Thundherstruck, were on their way to Humboldt County. As were Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. Sadly, I think it was the real Joan Jett. Oh how the mighty have fallen, rather like ancient redwoods. . .
Monday, May 21, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
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
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
Friday, May 18, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, May 14, 2007
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.
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.
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