Thursday, March 27, 2008

Gleanings: Non-Twilight Related

It is Thursday for the rest of the world but it is Friday for me, because I am taking off tomorrow morning for a few days of high-altitude luxury on the shores of Lake Tahoe.  (Side note: The thing about Tahoe is that it is amazingly, heartwrenchingly blue, without the chemical appearance of some limestone-laden, cupric or volcanic bodies of water.  Seems like that’s on the way to being history, because changes in lake temperature are making the water “stratify” and it’s not mixing properly, so it’s likely to start growing green algae and to go from a turquoise gem to “another goddamn lake” pretty soon (though it’ll still be big enough to cover Texas to a depth of nine inches, to which I suggest, let’s get started already).)

ANYWAY.  Busy long week, with upcoming indolent long weekend (and let’s not forget it’s Cesar Chavez day on Monday the 31st, so I’m off work for a full four!).  I doubt I’ll have much cyberaccess while I’m roughing it up on the mountainside in my four-story hot-tub-enabled gourmet-kitchened 270-degree-lakeside-viewed pleasure tower, but I bet y’all get along just fine without me.  No, no really.  Don’t butter me up.  My cardiologist hates that.  Of course, the guy on the bus with the little moustache might be okay with it, but he’s not setting my priorities ever since the “sausage sandwich” debacle. 

SO: instead of writing up a nice chewy piece of text for your enjoyment (or whatever it is you might get out of it), I am going to resort to a handful of notebook gleanings and you should be grateful for them.  These are all gleanings having to do with things I’ve seen over the past few months which have somehow amused me.  I am easily amused, of course, but let’s see if I can share the joy.  Such as it is. 

ITEM: A new Russian grocery is getting ready to open near my house on Geary, which would be great if we didn’t already have, like, five of them.  There’s only so much discount caviar a man can (or should) eat.  More saddening, though, is that the wooden construction barrier walls will soon be coming down, depriving me of poster advertisements for the following musical phenomena:
* The Spill Canvas, and their album “No Really I’m Fine”
* Serj Tankian, and his album “Elect the Dead”
* Silversun Pickups, and their album “Carnavas” (featuring the single, “Well Thought-Out Twinkles")
* Avenged Sevenfold, and their album “Avenged Sevenfold.”
I don’t know if any of the music is any good, but the posters sure are tasty. 

ITEM (related to tasty posters): There’s a karaoke bar on Clement that’s been around for so long that it was almost invisible, with a blank windowless front wall featuring a faceless metal door and a photo of the Hong Kong skyline at night.  Except they recently went and replaced that nice architectural photo with one of a skanky-looking female Caucasian lounging next to a glitzy ‘70s-style wetbar, wearing a slinky dress and holding a handful of strawberries - which, as it appears from the photo, she’s trying to snort.  It is a very strange photo, but it arouses in me an unquenchable desire to sing along to unauthorized remixes of “Country Roads” and “Evergreen.” Strange how these things work. 

ITEM: In my office building, restrooms have been thoughtfully provided on every floor.  The restrooms have sinks, which I always thought were for doing laundry, draining abscesses, and quick cookery.  Not so, it turns out: The new warning signs thereon warn as follows [with my comments in brackets]: “These sinks are for washing your hands and face.  [So keep your ‘nads out of the sink, sicko mcstinknads.] For sanitary reasons and in consideration of your coworkers, please be sure to rinse your personal debris from the bowl and wipe the sink of any remains with a paper towel.  [Personal debris: sounds unsanitary, all right.  Then again, I got my debris from DeBrie and I’m on my way!  “Remains”?  You mean like, when we try to rinse some dead guy down the drain?  And I wonder why you distinguish between the “sink” and the “bowl.” Is some debris sinkworthy but not bowl-appropriate, and are some remains bowl-okay but sink-counterindicated?] Tissues should be discarded in the appropriate waste receptacles.  [I fell for the old inappropriate receptacles trick once too often, I’m ashamed to say!] Thank you for your consideration – Building Management.” Well thank you, building management!  Things seem more sanitary already.  But I am getting that sinking feeling.

ITEM: at a friend’s house, I encountered a German bubble-blowing product entitled “Pustefix Seifenblasen-Spiele.” I don’t know about the wisdom of marketing that out this-a-way.  “Pustefix” just doesn’t sound like something I want my kids to play with.  Even if the first one is free. 

ITEM: Driving down to Monterey, we went past the old location of Fort Ord.  With the decommission fever that’s swept the nation (catch it!), many forts are no longer forts.  There’s Cal State Monterey, the Presidio National Recreation Area, Pendletonland (coming soon!), and - now my current favorite - The Ord Military Community.  Because “fort” sounds a little, I don’t know, bellicose? 

ITEM: I took an F-line streetcar a few days ago.  It had been imported from Milan, complete with original Italian-language advertisements.  That may seem sloppy from a marketing standpoint, but I personally appreciate the opportunity to check out the ad for the ladies’ eurospa, “Figurella.” If anyone speaks Milanese, can you tell me if that sounds as dumb there as it sounds here?  Bonus: since seeing that ad, I have had the jingle for “Figurines“ diet bars playing in my head for days on end.  Kill me now.

FINAL ITEM: A dialogue between myself and the Director of my department, just before our last full department meeting, when she’d distributed little easter-y sacks of candy, fluffbunnies, and an envelope of seeds:
Me: Are these delicious candy seeds?
Her: No, just for flowers, but I bet you could eat some of those flowers if you grew them from the seeds.
Me: I don’t know if I want to eat anything grown from a seed called “Burpee."

With this, I leave you to your evil devices.  I will be back later.  Until then, do me a favor and wipe up that personal debris, will ya?  The community needs sanitary sinkage.  Thaaaaanks....

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Tony: En Plein Air

I sort of sensed that something was going to happen.  Each of them had made a distinct impression on me as they’d independently passed me on the way to the back of the bus: the rotund, rollicking mocha dude, the looming pale guy with the crazy track shoes, and the art school chick with the clear eyes and the kilt.  I could see from my bench that the art student had chosen a seat on the right in the last row but one; the two big guys were taking up the three rightmost seats of the very last row. 

Those are all power seats on my bus, and these three riders were occupying them with powerful individual panache.  The student sat primly in a pert cap; her hair was dark and glossy, and her skin was fair and clear.  She’d pulled out a notebook and her eyes flicked from it to the general environs and back in the manner of one making a drawing.  The party dude behind her was in soft denim over a white t-shirt stretched tight by his full belly and generous sub-chin; he sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the ceiling.  The lummox next to him wore a t-shirt that read, in heavy generic type, “ROYALTY,” with formfitting tapered jeans that did him no favors and fabulous trackshoes in bright and glossy red, white and blue plastic. His expression was that of a sturdy hill that had recently been clearcut.  I returned to my book thinking that those three were oddly-matched.

I got wrapped up in something else for awhile and suddenly it was almost time for me to get off the bus.  I strolled back toward the rear door, since that would let me off closest to my crosswalk.  As I waited there for my stop, I noticed that the art student had taken up a new subject: the guy in the corner was posing for her, head cocked absurdly.  The guy with the shoes was splayed out, glossy bright shoes extended up the central bus aisle.  Earbuds bracketing his monolithic head like a couple of outsize enoki stuffed in his ears, he nodded sternly in time to something. 

The art student softly asked her model for his name.  “Tony!,” he delightedly told her.  His voice rang out in the otherwise quiet bus and I glanced over; our eyes met.  He apologized: “Sorry, so sorry, but this here’s a famous art teacher and I just have to have her do my picture - How’m I doin’, sweetheart?” His attention swerved again to the bit of crumpet doing the sketching, but one glance at her showed me who was in control of that situation.  Her dark eyes locked unwaveringly on her subject much as a cat might eye an obese hamster.  Her pad was pulled up near her face; I couldn’t see her work, but the gleam in her eye was both gentle and merciless. 

Tony was in his element - chin uplifted, profile proffered with the confidence of a fat black Errol Flynn, he reveled in the attention even as the huge dude next to him just kicked back to the jams in his head, iridescent patriotism on his feet and monarchic delusions on his chest. 

I deflected his apology with what was intended to be a low, gruff voice, but which came out weak and squeaky: “not at all.” The student’s laser gaze snapped to my eyes for a moment, and then returned to her sheet and her subject, her sugarfloss smile melting just a touch more warmly on her lips.  Tony was in thrall.  Trying to hold his ludicrous pose, he reiterated, “World famous art teacher.  Now, you don’t be puttin’ any bags under my eyes, righ’?  He shot me a complicit wink, an irrepressible grin forcing itself upon his austere expression.

“No, no,” the art student mouthed, shaking her head delicately.

“You should stick around and see how it comes out,” Tony suggested to me.  I was the only (attentive) witness to his assignation with the hot art student, and I think he wanted me to be able to confirm his story. 

“I’m off at the next stop.” My voice had reclaimed itself and I spoke quietly but deeply. 

“Take another stop!,” Tony cheerfully suggested.  The goon next to him, eyes closed, head bobbing, grinned.  I got off at the next stop anyway but I wish I hadn’t.  It’s killing me that I never saw the finished product - Tony in situ, en plein air.  I suppose this recollection will have to suffice me. 

Sunday, March 23, 2008

The Straight Line - plus bonus photo-delite goodies

It’s been a while since I’ve updated, but not for lack of material - the new notebook is working out well and there’s some good stuff in the pipeline.  However, I had to put my time into other pursuits for a while, of which, a touch more later.  Here, though, in honor of Easter, is a story about Purim, which I failed to mention when it was actually happening.  God Bless Shiva.

She spoke up from behind me; that’s what first attracted my attention.  “It’s not up to me, it’s up to him, he’s the one in front...” I’d left the ‘pod at home in anticipation of one of these moments, in which I’d be tangentially, passively addressed, and my part of the social contract would be to respond to the oblique jibe with polite alacrity.  I’d gotten all the way through my shopping on that overcrowded sunday afternoon without noteworthy incident, though, so I’d started thinking I was home free.  But then I heard her disclaiming responsibility in deference to me, literally behind my back - and I knew all the rest had been a set-up.  Game on. 

I peered behind me.  A slim, somewhat bent woman stood with her sparse cart, large dark glasses accentuating high slim cheekbones, a somewhat underslung jaw, and a narrow chin, all somehow drawing toward and accentuating a very direct gaze.  Behind her, a somewhat older-looking woman, heavier, more formally dressed, looked a bit embarrassed at the end of the express line as she held up a single box of something or other for my assessment and possible mercy.  I had a full 12 items and the hissing woman immediately behind me had about the same.  I nodded the woman with her one box forward with a “come on up” and she scooted ahead of me to the front of the line.  I gazed down at my sugar and flour and apricots and eggs and wondered how long things were going to take. 

The woman I’d let ahead of me began by fumbling in her purse for a saver’s card, so she wouldn’t have to key in her telephone number.  Then she fumbled for her cash, paying slowly and deliberately.  She had change - dollars and cents.  She had a coupon - wrong product?  Really?  Let’s check it again.  What’s this, a raffle?  She buys three postage-stamp-sized tickets, and stands at the register painstakingly filling them all out. 

“It’s always the way.” The voice was a sharp whisper, conspiratorial at my shoulder.  I turned to see her staring fixedly at the next lane over as she kvetched: “You let them through with one and it takes all day.  You’re just trying to be nice, I know it.  You could set your clock by it.  Or, well, you know.” The lack of a sustainable metaphor was no impediment.  “Of course, it’s even worse when it’s people from other cultures.” She pronounced it “othah culchas.” Her gaze swung to me like the boom of a crane, sticking at last right into my eyes.  Her shoulders were rolled forward in her light cardigan; did her t-shirt say something about a library?  I didn’t want to look.  We were having a moment. 

“Like, once, here, in that line there, there was a young lady” - the first syllable drawn out, the second snipped unceremoniously short - “a young lady from anothah culcha, and the fellow in front of me said to her, go on, you go ahead, and boom!  she comes back with a whole cart!” Her brows and shoulders raised up as she gestured with upraised palms.  “One thing, or a couple of things, you can say, okay.  But she’s doing her whole shopping!”

It was a pro forma conversational handoff, a common courtesy in nascent relationship such as this.  “That guy must have been mad,” I ritually intoned.

She had returned to scanning the rest of the crowd by now, having established sufficient conversational intimacy with me.  Her forehead furrowed; she stood with neck craned forward as if to form a straight line from her nostril down to her inward parts.  “No, no, he was from anothah culcha too, he thought she was adorable, so cute, he was fine with it.  But I had to stand there too and wait for them both, and it was a long time and I didn’t care how adorable she was.  Ugh.”

“It’s the way things are,” I solemnly, lamely responded.

“Well, once, when I first moved here, I was in a long line, and this guy walked in, I mean, he was doing fine, he was doing well, he wasn’t any kind of, you now, poor person, and he wanted to get these flowers, they were $10, I remember that, and he came up and handed me a $20 and he told me, ‘keep the change,’ and oh boy were those people behind me sore but I was happy to keep the change, the flowers were only $10 and he game me $20 so my change was $10, that’s as much as the whole flowers were in the first place.”

“Quite a profit!”

“No, it was just, I could keep the change.”

“I see.” We debated the basis upon which others might be antagonized by such behavior.  The conversation sputtered.  She suddenly took a stock-taking step back, eyes fixed on my chest, peering with contemplatively hooded eyes at the legend on my shirt.  “Penn.  Oh.  Okay.  I know… um, yes, it’s um, I know… Chris Tucker!  He went there.”

“Oh, okay.” It didn’t seem to call for more of a response.  Not needing one from me, she went on: “Oh and there was, oh, I’m sure… there was somebody else… at Penn… and of course my son was once in a Ph.D program at the University of Pittsburgh.”

“Ah.” There was something behind what she’d said, something unspoken and possibly terrible, and I didn’t want to know what it was.  I turned my eyes, face, shoulders and undivided attention forward.  I wanted nothing more to do with that conversation.  In a startling karmic coincidence, the woman I’d let ahead of me was just stuffing the last of her raffle tickets into the plastic insert of her gargantuan wallet, and I casually engaged the checkout clerk in small talk much as a drowning rat would casually take to a liferaft full of corndogs.  As I arranged my groceries on the belt we talked a little about nice weather and St Patrick’s Day. 

I had essentially concluded my transaction already, having tried to remedy the slowness of the woman ahead of me through the application of extraordinary efficiency.  By now the clerk was just bagging and I was just waiting for her to finish.  “And get ready for purim, too.” I told her with a grin.  “Jewish St Pat’s day.”

The woman behind me snapped to attention as if awoken from zombieism.  “Yes, purim is coming!  It’s purim!” She said it to me as if she were informing me of something, her voice full of pedantic sincerity.

“Yes, that’s why I’m getting all these hamentashen supplies.  To make cookies for purim.” I picked up my sack; verily, it bulged.  I swung it down and turned toward the door.  “But wait, cried the woman, imploring from her station by the register with her paltry groceries: “How did you know?”

I just turned and left, laughing.  How did I know it was purim?  Such a question!

Okay, so, for your update: Saturday we went to San Rafael to play some mini-golf with some friends.  It was a compact but very entertaining course, to wit:

Mail your unused peeps and cadbury overstock to the Chucklehut.  I’ll be happy to send you back some butterlamb.  While supplies last.  Which at this rate might not be too long.