That's Empress to You

And I didn't even drink any Budweiser

Yankees Yankees Yankees.  Yay, Yankees!  Derek Jeter.  Mariano Rivera. Jorge Posada. Andy Pettitte.  Matsui.  It's so multicultural even lady shrinks in Berkeley drinking kombocha like this shit. 

What I really love are the many nights spent watching the moon come up over the bleachers (geography/architectural help here) at the old Yankee Stadium.  The many train rides back downtown where I really really had to pee somewhere around 42nd Street and damn it if I didn''t have 3 more stops. 

Rickey Henderson. May seem like a non-sequitor, but if you love the human body like I love the human body you know what I mean.

Go Yankees! 
 

Notes from the Periphery of Journalism *

We are all for Bay Area coverage in the New York Times, because Lord knows the Chronicle doesn’t do much reporting lately, unless you count breaking news about the The Fog, or Pet Profiles. So it was with great anticipation that I opened today’s paper to the Times’ Bay Area edition – two facing pages – and found one semi-hard story about how more stringent air quality standards are pushing independent truckers out of the Oakland ports.  In fairness it was written by a friend, Frances Dinkelspiel, but I thought it covered the issues and gave voice to various interest groups pretty well.  Then there’s Barbary Coast, Scott James’ column, which is quite good, a restaurant profile, and a short piece about cutbacks to State Parks.

And then there’s the half page ad.  It covers ¼ of the total Bay Area inches.  Today’s half-pager is for ACT’s production of Mamet’s “November.”  Last Friday’s was from Limn Furniture, which sells sofas that cost more than a Prius, to make it easy for Bay Area readers to understand.  I finished my bagel and asked myself, “Is that all there is?” After congratulating myself for my deeply ingrained knowledge of the Leiber and Stoller oeuvre, I wondered whether there really isn’t more to report on than a restaurant, trucks, a Halloween party, and a couple of State Parks that we all plan to visit until we realize we’ll have to be right in the middle of nature, ew. 

Then I went on Facebook, and saw a post from a journalist which said that the Martha Stewart Weddings magazine editor told her that “because of the recession” they now use only advertisers for editorial.  I’m not pretending I’m Dictionary.com or anything, but as I recall, isn’t that called extortion?  I’m thinking Martha probably learned it in the Big House in West Virginia.

After a full morning’s work on my novel with very very little Facebook activity, minimal, really, I went to work at our small PR firm, and made calls to journalists.  I had to cringe and cover my head every time someone told me that another arts and entertainment editor has been fired, there have been more “shake-ups,” more column inches have been slashed, another print edition has fallen and can’t get up.

I have been asked by two editors in the past two weeks if we can provide content because they don’t have enough writers on staff.  I guess I’m okay with doing this, but honestly, I’m not a journalist, and it’s not the editor’s fault, but shouldn’t they be paying someone to do this?  Someone who has children to support or student loans from journalism school to repay? I know this isn’t like when the Bush administration paid “reporters” to go on camera to talk up their policies.  We’re just asking innocuous questions about taiko drumming and hip hop dancing.  But these are our clients.  I feel like the pimp and the prostitute, which on second thought is not such a bad thing.  I guess it’s better than being a journalist.

* also posted Nov. 4 in Daily Casserole

Conversations with Jackson: Episode 1

Jackson: Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.

Me: Yeah, me too.  Maybe I should get you a white noise machine.

Jackson: I already have a white noise machine.  It's the white guy fornicating next door.

21st Century Philanthropy

I have been silent too long.  I have endured this over the course of hundreds of trips to Safeway for beer.  And other things.

Now, every time a shopper walks into the store he or she is assaulted by an aggressive, almost violent request for donations to good causes: Jerry’s Kids, or the Breast Cancer Foundation or any number of other middle-of-the-road, unobjectionable charities. 

There is a box on the credit/debit card screen that says “Do you want to make a donation to the Save Helpless Victims Who Look Just Like You - We Promise They’re Not Like From Some Country You’ve Never Heard of - from Impending Painful Death?”  The checkers are trained to ask if you want to round out your purchase to donate to this cause.  Today, my checker, who was wearing a pink tie, when tallying my Safeway Savings Card savings, said, “Since you saved over $74 (she bit her tongue and didn’t add, ‘on beer’) maybe you would like to make a donation to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation.”   I'm afraid I almost always say no.  I know everyone is glaring at me, but I just feel I should be left to decide where I’d like to make charitable contributions.  All by myself. 

And if I did donate, I’d have to crawl under the counter when they announced over the loudspeaker system, so that everyone in every aisle, while selecting breakfast cereal or tile cleaner, is forced to stop and listen to the announcement that “Someone in Aisle Five has made a generous donation to the “Victims Who Look Just Like Your Six-Year-Old Son Foundation.  Let’s hear it for the caring, loving, unselfish lady on Aisle Five!”  I’d have to stay there until the applause died down.   

Call me cynical, but I don't think shaming people into giving 53 cents is all that helpful in the long run.  How about addressing real need in a bigger way? 

Oh, and how about double bagging that six-pack?

To: Nobel Peace Prize committee, in case you lost my number, it's 415-252...

I am pretty sure I should have gotten the Nobel Peace Prize, or at least shared it with Obama.  I think it was a mere oversight.  My qualifications are incontestable:

1)    I too am multi-racial.

2)    I'm potentially very diplomatic. 

3)    I love peace.

Since it seems like you don't have to have accomplished anything that's in the strictest sense diplomatic, or done anything that’s really like totally all that peaceful, I think potential is an important consideration.

4)    People of all nationalities love me, except for the French (Who cares how I speak their language. Whatever.  It’s not that special), the Chinese (only because for some reason they hate the Japanese), Filipinos (see above), Koreans (if they hate Japanese people so much they shouldn’t own so many sushi restaurants), and a couple of other countries.

5)    I was overlooked for the MacArthur award.  I am way overdue for worldwide recognition and a large cash prize.

John thinks that because Obama can’t accept the money, he really ought to give it to me.  He’s drawing up the papers for that now.

6)    Sometimes I too want to rip the faces off the people who think nothing of bringing the country to absolute ruin if it protects their own economic interests.  I want to gouge their noses out with a woodcarving tool, which you can get at http://www.woodcarverswarehouse.com/ and throw them into my neighbor’s garbage.  But like Obama, I merely smile and say things like “bipartisan cooperation,” and “consensus,” and “I like your dog’s poop in my driveway.” 

I have my phone set up to make international calls at a discount rate.  So when Oslo calls, I am totally ready.

Jobless Recovery My Ass

Jobless recovery means that the f***ers who laid people off, put them on furlough, cut work weeks to four days, deferred raises, and have made us pay their price in so many other ways are delighted to discover that they can expect everyone to continue working harder, longer, and for less money.  And that they'll be able to squeeze the same amount of work out of us.  These venal f***s cannot be allowed to get away with it.  It's not a  recovery unless there are real jobs with reasonable expectations and rational compensation.  I know I'm going all Karl Marx meets crack pipe here, but maybe that's what this moment calls for.

Remedial Dance Instruction for 15-Year-Old White Boys

Listen up guys.  It’s the 21st century. You now have permission to cast off the shackles of your whiteness and your straightness.  And if you’re gay, you no longer have to pretend to be straight by dancing like these other doofuses.  Ditto being a person of color, Barack Obama.  I saw you at those inaugural balls.

First things first.  Please stop standing on the side of the dance floor moving only from the neck up and the knees down.  Girls hate that.  They only put up with it when they grow up because they have your babies.

Do you think that if you move your hips it might give girls ideas, like: “Hey, they have hips.  Maybe they should walk around looking sexy and getting me coffee, and I should run the SEC.”  No, it will make them think… never mind, you’re only 15.  Anyway forget about it, we’ll be running the SEC before you register for “Gender Paradigms 101,” in your Freshman year at Brown.

Anyway, your hips are the center of your body.  If while dancing you move the other parts of your body by themselves you look like you’re trying to flag down a police officer or scrape dog shit off your foot.

Okay, so don’t panic, no one’s laughing at you yet.  Stand quietly, without pushing any of your male friends or making a series of retarded jokes about calculus or someone’s boobs.  Listen to the music and find the beat.  You’ve done this before, in Western Civ.  Okay, so it was Hildegard of Bingham, but still, rhythm is rhythm.  If the song is in 4/4, which is almost always will be at any dance you’re likely to be invited to, emphasize the 2 and the 4.  If you emphasize 1 and 3 you will look like Bon Jovi.

Ask a girl to dance.  If she says no, don’t start saying mean things about her to your friends.  Say, “Maybe later,” and know that when she sees you dancing she will flog herself for saying no.  If she says yes, put your hand gently on her shoulder and move into the center of the room.

Then comes the dancing part.

When moving the hips we talked about earlier, remember, they can move not just forward and backward, or side to side.  Think of the circle of life you learned about in the “Lion King.”  Dancing is circular, as is life.  While dancing your hips should have access to all 360 degrees of this circle. 

STOP BOBBING YOUR HEAD.

Your feet can move too.  The psychological superglue that has cemented your feet to the floor has been blasted to smithereens, like the enemies in Call of Duty 4.  Girls like it when you move your feet.  You won’t step on their toes, and if you do, they’d much prefer that than to watch some kind of sea anemone creature all stuck in one place.

Breathe. Relax the facial muscles.  You look like you’re being poked in the ass, and not in a good way.  In case you forgot: 2 and 4.  Not 1 and 3.

Watch what your partner is doing.  Do not ignore her.  If she moves left you don’t necessarily have to mirror her movement by moving right but in any case, she is surely a better dancer, and you could do worse than to try to imitate her.   If possible look into her eyes.  If you do this she might not notice anything else.

Key Points:
1.    Stop and actually listen to the music before you think about how much shit you’re going to get on Monday.
2.    Know that you do have rhythm in that body, even underneath the plaid shirt. In fact, imagine that you are not really wearing that plaid shirt.
3.    Know that anyone who is making value judgments about your sexuality or ethnicity based on how well you dance is fucked up.  (Except me, and I am only trying to remedy the situation)
4.    Relax.  Don’t panic.  It’s the panicky ones that look like dorks.  Music is king.  If you listen to the music, and give all your body parts permission to move, in all directions, you’re going to be fine.  Or you’ll be a lot better off than you are now.
5.    Listen to different types of music, not just Rancid.  You never know what you’ll run into at a dance, but I guarantee it won’t be Rancid. 

Love, Mom

Chinese

繁 體中文版 傑克遜表示，他不必須是在权利認為的演講： 學會對等级，努力工作在是困難的事等等。 他繼續普通話，因為" 我不可能僅quit."

This is translated into Chinese and then back into English thanks to Altavista. Its final iteration:

Jackson indicated that he cannot be the lecture which thought in the right: The academic society to the rank, works in is diligentl...y difficult matters and so on. He continues the standard spoken Chinese, because of " I am impossible only quit."

Basically what this means is that he refuses to quit, because he's not that kind of guy.  Even though his Mandarin probably comes out sounding a lot like this.

We Heart Dolores Park

There’s a movement afoot to “improve” Dolores Park, the 2-block square urban oddity across the street from our house.  In a recent spate of print and online articles people have pointed out what they perceive as problems: trash, dog and human waste, drug dealing, public drinking, portable barbecues, amplified sound.  I agree that these are all to varying extents problematic. 

But it’s Dolores Park.  Don’t you know what that means?  It’s sunny, unlike most other San Francisco parks, which makes it a patch of heaven when the weather is good.

And it sits on the cusp of three very different neighborhoods – the Castro, the Mission and Noe Valley, with easy public transit from all parts of the city; making it a truly and not just wishfully diverse public space.

Yes, there are not nearly enough trash cans, and the bathroom is a health hazard in so many many ways.  As for dog shit: no comment ,you assholes.  And the music/performances are essentially uncurated.  They vary wildly, from Chilean heavy metal drag bands to the San Francisco Opera to the heinous screeching polemics of the San Francisco Mime Troupe. 

The worst aspect of Dolores Park is that those people with the portable barbecues keep forgetting to put my invitation in the mail, and sometimes on a hot day the Mojito lady runs out of rum.

But there are so many things to love about this place.  There are:

1)    The hill dwellers, including: the 6-foot-tall guy with his hair wrapped in a huge white towel, wearing a white sundress, girls size 12, tops; totally naked man; lesbian with bikini bottom pulled down to her ankles; guy selling beer and water, wearing knee-high athletic socks totally without irony; giggling Japanese girls taking pictures; former (?) meth addict training scary pit bull to “listen to Daddy.”

2)    The prairie folk: many of these people are strikingly similar to one another – skinny jeans, peasant blouses, single-speed bikes, tall cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Bi-Rite picnics.  But they all mean well, I think, and are not as irritating as they might be, except for the guys playing hacky-sack.  There are also Hispanic men playing soccer, hopeful entrepreneurs selling cassette tapes and bracelets made out of twist-ties; the truly addled sleeping off a month-long bender.

3)    The kids on the playground.  Who are not all white and dressed in Hanna Anderson, with bored nannies speaking Swedish into cellphones.  Jackson grew up first swinging in the baby swings and being guided down the baby slides, then careening around the wooden structure playing ball tag, lining up with every kid on the playground to take turns jumping off the boat to make the Stomp Rocket go even higher, jumping off the top of the slide, dropping his helados in the sand.  Some Dolores Park association is renovating the playground. I hope they don’t make this into one of the Alta Plaza-ish, No Fun At All places, with the creepy foam surface under all the completely hazard-free 2-foot high, blunt-edged structures. 

 4)    The Dyke March and pre-party (see photo)

Parts of the community – I guess people like me who live around Dolores Park – are trying to get the police to patrol more, to make them enforce the no-alcohol/drug/barbecue/nudity rules.

I’m totally in favor of increased patrols.  I just think they should focus on muggers, car thieves, bicycle thieves (2 out of my garage in 2 years), guys who ask 3-year-old children to perform sex acts (yes, it did happen, and I was the one screaming “Get the fuck away from him NOW or I will fucking kill you!”), people who don’t control their vicious dogs (yes, that was me involved in another discussion featuring the word fuck), and the few remaining hard-core dealers who are trying to replace 90’s crack with today’s crystal meth.  Oh, and the San Francisco Mime Troupe.

Dolores Park is beautiful, egalitarian, useful, and as much as it has to be, good clean fun.  In some ways, with a few remarkable exceptions, it polices itself.  Put in a couple of trash cans, fix the bathroom, make sure people (especially high school kids, Jackson) know how dangerous the place is after dark, force dog owners to pick up that large crap they’ve conveniently overlooked with their bare hands, and I think we’ve got a wonderful Public Space on our hands. 

Viva Dolores Park.

Mid-recession Conversations with John, volume 2

***

Me: Woodstock, Woodstock, Woodstock.  Enough with Woodstock.  I’m sick of all these people who were there, or weren’t even there going on and on about it.  It’s like it’s the only thing they’ve ever done in their pathetic lives. 

John: That’s not all they did.  They bought ridiculously cheap real estate, got university tenure when it was incredibly easy, and made partner in law firms when becoming partner took  1500  hours.

*** and 40 years of pretty much undeserved privilege