Thank God we won the Cold War.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Ow
While spending a lovely Mother's Day at home, between eating the fine fried chicken sandwiches Zach brought, taking Caddie on a walk through the park, laughing ourselves silly over entropy jokes and keeping an eye on a surprisingly large flock of goldfinches in the eucalyptus tree, we spent some time going through some of the stuff that was getting cleared out of the loft. Among them was a file of Dad's of the things he brought back from his trip he took to Russia in 1967, including some Soviet-era toilet paper:
Thank God we won the Cold War.
Thank God we won the Cold War.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
The Happiest Discovery Channel Promo Ever
Saw this while I was running yesterday and it made me smile:
I love the thing at the end where the astronaut does a spin, just 'cause it's fun.
Also, watch for the Stephen Hawking cameo.
I love the thing at the end where the astronaut does a spin, just 'cause it's fun.
Also, watch for the Stephen Hawking cameo.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Eight Things I Didn't Do On My Trip
1. Go inside any major government building.
2. Visit the MoMA, the Met or any other easily-abbreviated New York museum.
3. See one of the many Broadway shows featuring an American Idol runner-up in the cast.
4. See any Broadway shows at all.
5. Sleep nearly enough.
6. See Dorothy's shoes, Jerry's shirt, the First Ladies' gowns or any of the other treasures that represent my cultural heritage as an American.
7. Visit any area of New York City outside of Manhattan.
8. Visit any area of DC outside of a one-mile radius of the Mall.
Guess I'll just have to go back.
2. Visit the MoMA, the Met or any other easily-abbreviated New York museum.
3. See one of the many Broadway shows featuring an American Idol runner-up in the cast.
4. See any Broadway shows at all.
5. Sleep nearly enough.
6. See Dorothy's shoes, Jerry's shirt, the First Ladies' gowns or any of the other treasures that represent my cultural heritage as an American.
7. Visit any area of New York City outside of Manhattan.
8. Visit any area of DC outside of a one-mile radius of the Mall.
Guess I'll just have to go back.
Wednesday, Part Two: Ooh, Shiny
And speaking of food (see below), I had lingered at the Library well past lunchtime, so as soon as I left I made my way to a restaurant near the Capitol that my (actually, Abigail's) guidebook described as being a popular hangout for Congressional staffers. Where, for the price of my rather average grilled chicken sandwich (question: is it even possible to make one of those that actually tastes good? because they all come off as about the same to me), I got to eavesdrop on a young (about college-age) congressional intern talking to a woman who seemed to be a professional staffer who knew his family, giving him advice on his career and suggesting networking strategies. Then they finished their lunch and I was left with only the crazy guy selling Street Scene and ranting about his uncles to listen to, which may be a metaphor for something, I'm not sure.
Okay, not a lot of time, still a lot of things to see. I had to pick and choose through the remaining museums for the things I wanted to see the most, and get to all of them before I had to leave at five to make it back in time to catch my plane. In the end, the choice went to the Natural History Museum, particularly after I looked in at the Air and Space and was overwhelmed by the noise and chaos and powerful waves of barely-post-pubescent hormones that I fled as soon as I found a clearing.
I made one more stop on my way to Natural History, at the Freer Museum of art. Not because I am so fascinated by their fine collection of Asian and early American art, but because they have the Peacock room, possibly the world's only publicly viewable display of spiteful interior decor. With peacocks!
But the main event was across the Mall, past the tour buses and up a flight of steps to the second floor, where the American People's collection of gems and minerals lives. The Hope Diamond is the main attraction here, of course, along with a fairly spectacular array of jewelry representing all your major gems. (Overheard in the exhibit room, from a child looking at a giant, four-foot tall quartz crystal: "Is that the Hope Diamond?") It is probably a sad commentary on my nerdom that I actually ended up more interested in the minerals part of the exhibit, particularly the crystals. There are a lot of cool crystals in the world. I felt like I was being too rushed to learn anything, though I did end up with the word "feldspar" stuck in my head for the next day or so.
I also swung by the dinosaur exhibit, but I find those less exciting ever since I realized that they don't display the actual bones (for the very good reason that they are valuable research specimens), and everything you're looking at is a plastic model. Of course, I guess you could consider the real fossils are basically molds too, albeit ones made over a somewhat longer period of time.
And speaking of time, I was almost out, so I made my way out through the front hall, past the schoolkids and the group of buddist monks, back to the Metro, just as soon as I figured out which direction it was.
I was going to do a whole additional post on the trip back, and the plane delay, and the trouble of getting in touch with your roommate who was going to give you a ride when you don't have your cell phone, and the taxi line, but then I realized that would be incredibly boring, so I won't.
Okay, not a lot of time, still a lot of things to see. I had to pick and choose through the remaining museums for the things I wanted to see the most, and get to all of them before I had to leave at five to make it back in time to catch my plane. In the end, the choice went to the Natural History Museum, particularly after I looked in at the Air and Space and was overwhelmed by the noise and chaos and powerful waves of barely-post-pubescent hormones that I fled as soon as I found a clearing.
I made one more stop on my way to Natural History, at the Freer Museum of art. Not because I am so fascinated by their fine collection of Asian and early American art, but because they have the Peacock room, possibly the world's only publicly viewable display of spiteful interior decor. With peacocks!
But the main event was across the Mall, past the tour buses and up a flight of steps to the second floor, where the American People's collection of gems and minerals lives. The Hope Diamond is the main attraction here, of course, along with a fairly spectacular array of jewelry representing all your major gems. (Overheard in the exhibit room, from a child looking at a giant, four-foot tall quartz crystal: "Is that the Hope Diamond?") It is probably a sad commentary on my nerdom that I actually ended up more interested in the minerals part of the exhibit, particularly the crystals. There are a lot of cool crystals in the world. I felt like I was being too rushed to learn anything, though I did end up with the word "feldspar" stuck in my head for the next day or so.
I also swung by the dinosaur exhibit, but I find those less exciting ever since I realized that they don't display the actual bones (for the very good reason that they are valuable research specimens), and everything you're looking at is a plastic model. Of course, I guess you could consider the real fossils are basically molds too, albeit ones made over a somewhat longer period of time.
And speaking of time, I was almost out, so I made my way out through the front hall, past the schoolkids and the group of buddist monks, back to the Metro, just as soon as I figured out which direction it was.
I was going to do a whole additional post on the trip back, and the plane delay, and the trouble of getting in touch with your roommate who was going to give you a ride when you don't have your cell phone, and the taxi line, but then I realized that would be incredibly boring, so I won't.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Wednesday, Part One: A Visit to the Library
The last blog post of a trip is always a tough one to write. Not because the end of the travels is so incredibly sad, though I wouldn't have minded having more time pretty much everywhere, but because, generally, by the time you are writing it you're back home, unpacking your dirty laundry, catching up on your email and trying to remember what exactly it is you do for a living, and the things you did and the fun you had start to feel kind of distant. But, seeing as how it's only been one day, I think I should be able to recall a few things.
For my last day in DC my theme was "everything else I still want to see," and I think I executed it well. I started with Union Station, a grand Roman temple to rail travel (fun fact: fully thirty percent of Central DC's buildings can be described as a "grand Roman temple of something"). Really it was a lot like the Powell Street BART station, if Powell had two enormous halls with vast vaulted ceilings, elaborate mosaic floors and a couple dozen statues of centurions, some of whom are holding shields for modesty. But otherwise they're practically the same.
I stopped in front of Union Station to check my map on my way to my next stop, then realized that I didn't have to, because I could see the Capitol directly in front of me. The Capitol wasn't actually my destination, but since I was going by there I thought I would go up and take a look. Turns out I thought wrong, because the road up was closed off and guarded by an array of cops with some impressive weaponry, and tourists were not allowed to go up and take a look, due to an "arrival." So I had to content myself with viewing it from a distance as I made my way to pay my respects to the only branch of the federal government I hadn't visited yet. That would be the Judicial, as represented by the Supreme Court, which has some impressive pillars. I don't know if I would have been able to go in there; there was a line and I wasn't that interested anyway, so I took a minute to admire the pillars and consult my map, and then headed off to swing by the library before lunch.
Clever readers (and really, do I have any other kind?) will intuit that by this I mean the Library of Congress, a place that makes me regret I already used the temple analogy. This time, the deity is the printed word, though Minerva (nee Athena) serves as a stand-in in the mosaics. The thing I was most excited about seeing here was a Gutenberg Bible, what with it representing one of the most influential developments in the progress of human civilization. I'm weird like that. Though I somewhat doubt that, even in his wildest, most mead-addled dreams, Johannes Gutenberg could not have conceived of blogging. Other highlights were draft copies of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and an exhibit on the early contact between Europeans and Native Americans that put the entire American Indian Museum to shame, in terms of depth and breadth of scholarship and supporting materials. On the other hand, no fry bread with honey.
For my last day in DC my theme was "everything else I still want to see," and I think I executed it well. I started with Union Station, a grand Roman temple to rail travel (fun fact: fully thirty percent of Central DC's buildings can be described as a "grand Roman temple of something"). Really it was a lot like the Powell Street BART station, if Powell had two enormous halls with vast vaulted ceilings, elaborate mosaic floors and a couple dozen statues of centurions, some of whom are holding shields for modesty. But otherwise they're practically the same.
I stopped in front of Union Station to check my map on my way to my next stop, then realized that I didn't have to, because I could see the Capitol directly in front of me. The Capitol wasn't actually my destination, but since I was going by there I thought I would go up and take a look. Turns out I thought wrong, because the road up was closed off and guarded by an array of cops with some impressive weaponry, and tourists were not allowed to go up and take a look, due to an "arrival." So I had to content myself with viewing it from a distance as I made my way to pay my respects to the only branch of the federal government I hadn't visited yet. That would be the Judicial, as represented by the Supreme Court, which has some impressive pillars. I don't know if I would have been able to go in there; there was a line and I wasn't that interested anyway, so I took a minute to admire the pillars and consult my map, and then headed off to swing by the library before lunch.
Clever readers (and really, do I have any other kind?) will intuit that by this I mean the Library of Congress, a place that makes me regret I already used the temple analogy. This time, the deity is the printed word, though Minerva (nee Athena) serves as a stand-in in the mosaics. The thing I was most excited about seeing here was a Gutenberg Bible, what with it representing one of the most influential developments in the progress of human civilization. I'm weird like that. Though I somewhat doubt that, even in his wildest, most mead-addled dreams, Johannes Gutenberg could not have conceived of blogging. Other highlights were draft copies of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution and an exhibit on the early contact between Europeans and Native Americans that put the entire American Indian Museum to shame, in terms of depth and breadth of scholarship and supporting materials. On the other hand, no fry bread with honey.
Made It
It took somewhat longer than expected, but I am finally back in San Mateo. Further dispatches to follow.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
History Lessons at Historic Places that Are Historic
Today, for a change of pace, we decided to do something that had nothing whatsoever to do with Washington DC and/or the Federal government. I say "we" because Abigail took the day off work to accompany me, which was nice of her, particularly since she has the car (I kid, I kid. . .). So we made our way to Alexandria, a former port and current bastion of cute on the Potomac.
I joke, but I actually do enjoy historic buildings, at least in limited doses. Which is appropriate, since the first place we went to (we bought the three-site pass for a three-dollar savings) was an apothecary that dated back to before the revolution. It was cool to see what is basically the origins of my own field, and how much of said origins relied on bleeding, mercury pills and good old superstition. Or, as we like to call it, Thursday.
Then it was on to the Carlyle House, a lovingly restored home from the 1750's, where the British once held a meeting to plan a disastrously bad decision in the French and Indian War. A good portion of the museum was dedicated to John Carlyle, the shipping magnate who was the original owner. They go into some detail about his life, and it was an interesting life, but what it really came down to was that his major historic achievement was to build a sturdy stone house in a time and a place where most of the buildings were significantly less permanent. That, and the fact that one of the most interesting exhibits was a portion of wood the restorers had uncovered that had the builder's original chalk marks, gave one to think about what we are actually likely to leave behind in this world.
Me, I'm counting on my lasting impact in the field of marionette theater.
Then, in order to stave off historic building fatigue, we broke for lunch. It's important to pace yourself with this kind of thing.
Is this getting boring? I'm afraid it might be getting boring. The truth is, while it was a lovely day, with nice weather and pleasant surroundings and interesting things to learn, these are not the things that make a good blog post. On the other hand, at least judging by past comments, the things that make for a good blog post involved being tired, hungry, cranky and lost somewhere in the middle of Texas, I think I'll stick with boring.
Anyway, our third and final historic building was a tavern where, drum roll... George Washington ate! Four times! One thing you learn very quickly here is that anything can be made more important by some sort of association with our first president. Another thing is that if a tour guide ever speaks obliquely about an individual, "a young man who lived nearby," for example, they always mean Washington and it's never exactly a surprise because it's on the display card in the exhibit.
After that, and with the sense that we had learned all that was worth knowing about historic Alexandria, we spent the rest of the afternoon poking around in the many shops, during which time I managed to not purchase a single thing. I wonder if I'm coming down with something. Dinner was with my cousin Jake and his wife Jenn, who got married right around this time last year and are a lot of fun. It was a brief visit, but that was okay, since they're coming out west in a few weeks. As are, oddly enough, Lisa and Abigail, though fortunately not all at the same time. Is it something about my presence that causes people to migrate to California, albeit temporarily? Hard to say, but I'll be testing the theory when I myself fly home tomorrow night, which may cause a delay in blogging, since I'll be getting in too late to do anything but face-plant in my pillow and, knowing me, I'm not likely to leave too much time before I have to go to the airport. So, later.
I joke, but I actually do enjoy historic buildings, at least in limited doses. Which is appropriate, since the first place we went to (we bought the three-site pass for a three-dollar savings) was an apothecary that dated back to before the revolution. It was cool to see what is basically the origins of my own field, and how much of said origins relied on bleeding, mercury pills and good old superstition. Or, as we like to call it, Thursday.
Then it was on to the Carlyle House, a lovingly restored home from the 1750's, where the British once held a meeting to plan a disastrously bad decision in the French and Indian War. A good portion of the museum was dedicated to John Carlyle, the shipping magnate who was the original owner. They go into some detail about his life, and it was an interesting life, but what it really came down to was that his major historic achievement was to build a sturdy stone house in a time and a place where most of the buildings were significantly less permanent. That, and the fact that one of the most interesting exhibits was a portion of wood the restorers had uncovered that had the builder's original chalk marks, gave one to think about what we are actually likely to leave behind in this world.
Me, I'm counting on my lasting impact in the field of marionette theater.
Then, in order to stave off historic building fatigue, we broke for lunch. It's important to pace yourself with this kind of thing.
Is this getting boring? I'm afraid it might be getting boring. The truth is, while it was a lovely day, with nice weather and pleasant surroundings and interesting things to learn, these are not the things that make a good blog post. On the other hand, at least judging by past comments, the things that make for a good blog post involved being tired, hungry, cranky and lost somewhere in the middle of Texas, I think I'll stick with boring.
Anyway, our third and final historic building was a tavern where, drum roll... George Washington ate! Four times! One thing you learn very quickly here is that anything can be made more important by some sort of association with our first president. Another thing is that if a tour guide ever speaks obliquely about an individual, "a young man who lived nearby," for example, they always mean Washington and it's never exactly a surprise because it's on the display card in the exhibit.
After that, and with the sense that we had learned all that was worth knowing about historic Alexandria, we spent the rest of the afternoon poking around in the many shops, during which time I managed to not purchase a single thing. I wonder if I'm coming down with something. Dinner was with my cousin Jake and his wife Jenn, who got married right around this time last year and are a lot of fun. It was a brief visit, but that was okay, since they're coming out west in a few weeks. As are, oddly enough, Lisa and Abigail, though fortunately not all at the same time. Is it something about my presence that causes people to migrate to California, albeit temporarily? Hard to say, but I'll be testing the theory when I myself fly home tomorrow night, which may cause a delay in blogging, since I'll be getting in too late to do anything but face-plant in my pillow and, knowing me, I'm not likely to leave too much time before I have to go to the airport. So, later.
A Word Problem For You, The Reader
Over the last two days I have had three restaurant meals for which the bill, with tax, ended up being a round number. In none of the cases was the pre-tax bill a round number, and for all the tax was five percent. Question: is this the natural result of this tax rate, or is someone messing with me? I'd do the math myself, but I'm on vacation.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Death and Espionage
Today, my adventures began in a graveyard.
Well, okay, that's not technically true. My day actually began on Abigail's couch, to the dulcet tones of a lawnmower-and-woodchipper duet which, judging by the volume, was being performed in the room next door. Such, I suppose, is the price of living in a well-maintained suburb, and also of sleeping until ten.
Since today was a workday, Abigail had to go to her job as a postdoc at the National Institute of Standards and Technology (apparently, our nation has standards. Who knew?) So I had a day on my own, to explore as I saw fit. Since I kind of OD'd on museums yesterday, I decided to make today a little more outdoorsy. Hence, the graveyard.
And by that I mean, of course, Arlington National Cemetery. It's a big cemetery, with lots of graves, a surprising number of which are for the wives and children of the military men (and some women)(but they don't have wives) buried there. It has its own metro stop, which has to be somewhat unusual, if not unique, and is also convenient. I spent a while wandering around, just looking at the tombstones, because it seemed like the thing to do, and made all the required stops-- JFK, RFK, Taft, L'Enfent, etc-- though I may have missed a few. Robert E. Lee's house sits at the high point, with an excellent view of the city (the property was his until the government decided to relieve him of it for the good of the Union), so I stopped there to have a look around. Unfortunately, they are mid-renovation on the structure and had removed all the furniture, and since there's only so much excitement that can be derived from period flooring I didn't spend much time there. Which turns out to have been fortunate, since it got me to the Tomb of the Unknowns just in time to see the changing of the guard, an activity that manages to be at the same time intensely dignified, quite moving, and utterly silly.
All that, plus the late start, took me into the early afternoon. I hadn't eaten lunch yet, but there weren't exactly a lot of options in the area and it wasn't that long since breakfast, so I decided to table (ha!) that issue while I got on with my sightseeing. I crossed back into Washington on a bridge that I'm sure has a name, and I believe was the sight of something historic, but I'm afraid I can't be bothered to look either up. Sorry. Anyway, whatever it was, it got me back to the general vicinity of the Mall, identifiable by its 555-foot obelisk and protective covering of tourists.
I realize that I am also a tourist, that there is no other word for what I am doing here and everyone can tell, even if I do try to take my map out as little as possible, but I just can't bring myself to accept it as my identity. But, the matching t-shirts. The pleated shorts and lumpy sneakers. God help me, the fanny packs. Must these be my people? Yes, as long as I carry a guidebook and a map in my purse, and still get lost trying to find the Jefferson Memorial, despite the fact that it's a honking giant Greek temple, they must.
So, resigned to my fate, I made my way off to see the White House, or at least as much as you can see of it in these security-conscious times. It looks exactly like you think it looks, which I suppose is comforting. I couldn't see the snipers, though.
And fortunately, a lot of people, snipers included, work in the White House area, and they all need to eat, so I finally made my way to lunch at an old-timey grill type place (the Old Ebbitt Grill, to be exact), where they do a fine hamburger. Then I made my way across the city, stopping a couple of times to confirm that no, as far as shopping goes, DC is no New York, to the Spy Museum, which I had wanted to go to because hey, spies are cool.
After two days of free admission everywhere, it was a bit jarring to suddenly have to cough up eighteen dollars for a museum, and at first I wasn't sure it was such a good deal. The first few exhibits were deeply cheesy, drawing a lot more on the Hollywood concept of espionage than reality, with lots of breathless descriptions of suave agents and elaborate disguises. But they did have a lot of cool (real) gadgets on display, and the rest of the museum turned out to be a fascinating and thorough history of the practice (pigeon-mounted cameras: who knew?). So fascinating, in fact, that I kind of lost track of the time, and ended up getting back to the apartment about an hour after I said I would, leaving Abigail to wonder if I had been eaten by wild dogs and if she should just go and get dinner by herself. Which would have been too bad, what with it being her birthday and all.
Fortunately, I did make it back, and we went out for some very respectable tex-mex at a place that, for Cinco de Mayo, had a band playing the worst cover of "Margaritaville" (that classic Mexican tune) that I have ever heard. Fortunately, the people at the bar were very drunk, so they seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps that was my problem.
Also, my feet hurt.
Well, okay, that's not technically true. My day actually began on Abigail's couch, to the dulcet tones of a lawnmower-and-woodchipper duet which, judging by the volume, was being performed in the room next door. Such, I suppose, is the price of living in a well-maintained suburb, and also of sleeping until ten.
Since today was a workday, Abigail had to go to her job as a postdoc at the National Institute of Standards and Technology (apparently, our nation has standards. Who knew?) So I had a day on my own, to explore as I saw fit. Since I kind of OD'd on museums yesterday, I decided to make today a little more outdoorsy. Hence, the graveyard.
And by that I mean, of course, Arlington National Cemetery. It's a big cemetery, with lots of graves, a surprising number of which are for the wives and children of the military men (and some women)(but they don't have wives) buried there. It has its own metro stop, which has to be somewhat unusual, if not unique, and is also convenient. I spent a while wandering around, just looking at the tombstones, because it seemed like the thing to do, and made all the required stops-- JFK, RFK, Taft, L'Enfent, etc-- though I may have missed a few. Robert E. Lee's house sits at the high point, with an excellent view of the city (the property was his until the government decided to relieve him of it for the good of the Union), so I stopped there to have a look around. Unfortunately, they are mid-renovation on the structure and had removed all the furniture, and since there's only so much excitement that can be derived from period flooring I didn't spend much time there. Which turns out to have been fortunate, since it got me to the Tomb of the Unknowns just in time to see the changing of the guard, an activity that manages to be at the same time intensely dignified, quite moving, and utterly silly.
All that, plus the late start, took me into the early afternoon. I hadn't eaten lunch yet, but there weren't exactly a lot of options in the area and it wasn't that long since breakfast, so I decided to table (ha!) that issue while I got on with my sightseeing. I crossed back into Washington on a bridge that I'm sure has a name, and I believe was the sight of something historic, but I'm afraid I can't be bothered to look either up. Sorry. Anyway, whatever it was, it got me back to the general vicinity of the Mall, identifiable by its 555-foot obelisk and protective covering of tourists.
I realize that I am also a tourist, that there is no other word for what I am doing here and everyone can tell, even if I do try to take my map out as little as possible, but I just can't bring myself to accept it as my identity. But, the matching t-shirts. The pleated shorts and lumpy sneakers. God help me, the fanny packs. Must these be my people? Yes, as long as I carry a guidebook and a map in my purse, and still get lost trying to find the Jefferson Memorial, despite the fact that it's a honking giant Greek temple, they must.
So, resigned to my fate, I made my way off to see the White House, or at least as much as you can see of it in these security-conscious times. It looks exactly like you think it looks, which I suppose is comforting. I couldn't see the snipers, though.
And fortunately, a lot of people, snipers included, work in the White House area, and they all need to eat, so I finally made my way to lunch at an old-timey grill type place (the Old Ebbitt Grill, to be exact), where they do a fine hamburger. Then I made my way across the city, stopping a couple of times to confirm that no, as far as shopping goes, DC is no New York, to the Spy Museum, which I had wanted to go to because hey, spies are cool.
After two days of free admission everywhere, it was a bit jarring to suddenly have to cough up eighteen dollars for a museum, and at first I wasn't sure it was such a good deal. The first few exhibits were deeply cheesy, drawing a lot more on the Hollywood concept of espionage than reality, with lots of breathless descriptions of suave agents and elaborate disguises. But they did have a lot of cool (real) gadgets on display, and the rest of the museum turned out to be a fascinating and thorough history of the practice (pigeon-mounted cameras: who knew?). So fascinating, in fact, that I kind of lost track of the time, and ended up getting back to the apartment about an hour after I said I would, leaving Abigail to wonder if I had been eaten by wild dogs and if she should just go and get dinner by herself. Which would have been too bad, what with it being her birthday and all.
Fortunately, I did make it back, and we went out for some very respectable tex-mex at a place that, for Cinco de Mayo, had a band playing the worst cover of "Margaritaville" (that classic Mexican tune) that I have ever heard. Fortunately, the people at the bar were very drunk, so they seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps that was my problem.
Also, my feet hurt.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
A Day In Our Nation's Attic, Front Lawn, White Guilt Storage Unit and Coffee Table
Since Abigail didn't have to go to work today, we decided to make this our day for exploring the museums in DC that she hasn't been to yet. Our first thought was to go to The Smithsonian, plan that was hampered only by the facts that (a) there isn't actually one place called "The Smithsonian" and (b) the museum that we thought went by that name (the National Museum of American History), with the first ladies' dresses and Dorothy's ruby slippers and Seinfeld's puffy shirt, is closed until summer for renovations. So that didn't really work out.
Instead, we stopped by the Smithsonian information center which is housed, for no apparent reason, in an ersatz castle, and which has a kind of sampler of all the collections from the various museums, and also some maps. From there we made our way to the Bureau of Engraving, passing, along the way, the absolutely vast and surprisingly plant-free buildings for the Department of Agriculture. But it turned out that the Bureau of Engraving (that is, the Mint) keeps rather odd hours, not including the one we were there, so we made our way back.
Or next stop was the National Museum of the American Indian, which we had been alerted had good food in their cafeteria and, since we were there, we figured we might as well take a look at the exhibits too.
I have to admit, this was not my favorite museum. It was very heavy on the interpretive displays and the pictures of the committees of people who were responsible for putting together the displays, and shockingly light on actual items in the exhibits. Of the artifacts that were there, very few dated to even before the twentieth century, and a surprising number were modern reproductions, which seemed kind of inappropriate for what was supposed to be a major national museum. Actual interesting information was largely abandoned in favor of vague aphorisms, some apparently from the tribe of Hallmarkcardia (actual one I saw: "In order to love others, you must first learn to love yourself.) Also, one tribe had included their tourism packet in a nicely shadowboxed display, complete with brochures and coupons "good at local businesses."
On the other hand, there was an interesting an informative temporary exhibit on women's dresses, and as for the rest, the people there who were not horrible heartless cynics seemed to be enjoying it quite well. Also, the cafeteria was quite good, and I was able to get fry bread with honey, so there's that.
It was actually a beautiful day, so we paused on the Mall on our way between museums and watched for a while while some people played softball and others tried, and repeatedly failed, to launch a radio-controlled helicopter, all against the backdrop of the Capitol building. That was cool even if, as Abigail pointed out, the Mall really does need to be reseeded.
Last stop of the day was the National Gallery of Art, where we stuck to the classic, rather than the modern wing, and enjoyed an afternoon with the works of many fine artists, including two of the four ninja turtles, plus the Impressionists (always my favorites). It had been a day with a great deal of walking, which meant that by the end of our time in the galleries we were doing a lot more in-depth appreciation of the paintings, particularly the ones situated directly in front of the benches.
And, the funny thing is, I've hardly seen anything at all.
Instead, we stopped by the Smithsonian information center which is housed, for no apparent reason, in an ersatz castle, and which has a kind of sampler of all the collections from the various museums, and also some maps. From there we made our way to the Bureau of Engraving, passing, along the way, the absolutely vast and surprisingly plant-free buildings for the Department of Agriculture. But it turned out that the Bureau of Engraving (that is, the Mint) keeps rather odd hours, not including the one we were there, so we made our way back.
Or next stop was the National Museum of the American Indian, which we had been alerted had good food in their cafeteria and, since we were there, we figured we might as well take a look at the exhibits too.
I have to admit, this was not my favorite museum. It was very heavy on the interpretive displays and the pictures of the committees of people who were responsible for putting together the displays, and shockingly light on actual items in the exhibits. Of the artifacts that were there, very few dated to even before the twentieth century, and a surprising number were modern reproductions, which seemed kind of inappropriate for what was supposed to be a major national museum. Actual interesting information was largely abandoned in favor of vague aphorisms, some apparently from the tribe of Hallmarkcardia (actual one I saw: "In order to love others, you must first learn to love yourself.) Also, one tribe had included their tourism packet in a nicely shadowboxed display, complete with brochures and coupons "good at local businesses."
On the other hand, there was an interesting an informative temporary exhibit on women's dresses, and as for the rest, the people there who were not horrible heartless cynics seemed to be enjoying it quite well. Also, the cafeteria was quite good, and I was able to get fry bread with honey, so there's that.
It was actually a beautiful day, so we paused on the Mall on our way between museums and watched for a while while some people played softball and others tried, and repeatedly failed, to launch a radio-controlled helicopter, all against the backdrop of the Capitol building. That was cool even if, as Abigail pointed out, the Mall really does need to be reseeded.
Last stop of the day was the National Gallery of Art, where we stuck to the classic, rather than the modern wing, and enjoyed an afternoon with the works of many fine artists, including two of the four ninja turtles, plus the Impressionists (always my favorites). It had been a day with a great deal of walking, which meant that by the end of our time in the galleries we were doing a lot more in-depth appreciation of the paintings, particularly the ones situated directly in front of the benches.
And, the funny thing is, I've hardly seen anything at all.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
On, Then Off, The Rails
I left New York this morning, bidding farewell to fine stores and food and crowds and Actual View of the Actual Empire State Building, to make my way to my next stop of Washington D.C.. Actually, I almost didn't leave, because I gave myself only half an hour to get to Penn Station from 38th and Park, figuring it would be plenty of time. And it was, if by "plenty" you mean "just enough to make it there as they were boarding the train." They have some traffic in New York City, did you know that?
Anyway, I did make the train, which is all that really matters, though it would have been nice to be able to chose a seat besides the one in front of the woman who spent the first hour and a half of the trip gabbing away on her cell phone. Seriously, who even has that much to say?
Abigail met me at the New Carrolton station, which appears to be somewhere in Maryland, though it's hard to say for sure; everything's so close together here. For example, I have been in five states today, and a District, in less time than it takes to get bored of I-5 on the way to LA. We drove back to her apartment, which is definitely in Maryland, in Rockville, to be exact. (The same Rockville that REM advises against going back to? I'm not sure, but the song has been stuck in my head all day.) We spent some time hanging out and catching up, then took the Metro into DC for tapas and some limited sightseeing.
Lot of monuments around here. The Washington Monument was probably the most impressive, especially with the reflection in the reflecting pool. True to form, I choked up at the World War II memorial (I'm such a damn sap for that stuff), but in terms of content and composition the Lincoln Memorial was probably the best. Not exactly the place for quiet contemplation of that dark moment in American history, what with the hordes of tour groups hording around, even at nine o'clock at night. (In those TV shows where the characters are having secret meetings there, they always leave that part out.) It was really just a brief introduction to the sights of the City, but that's okay, there will be time for more tomorrow. Tomorrow we do museums.
Anyway, I did make the train, which is all that really matters, though it would have been nice to be able to chose a seat besides the one in front of the woman who spent the first hour and a half of the trip gabbing away on her cell phone. Seriously, who even has that much to say?
Abigail met me at the New Carrolton station, which appears to be somewhere in Maryland, though it's hard to say for sure; everything's so close together here. For example, I have been in five states today, and a District, in less time than it takes to get bored of I-5 on the way to LA. We drove back to her apartment, which is definitely in Maryland, in Rockville, to be exact. (The same Rockville that REM advises against going back to? I'm not sure, but the song has been stuck in my head all day.) We spent some time hanging out and catching up, then took the Metro into DC for tapas and some limited sightseeing.
Lot of monuments around here. The Washington Monument was probably the most impressive, especially with the reflection in the reflecting pool. True to form, I choked up at the World War II memorial (I'm such a damn sap for that stuff), but in terms of content and composition the Lincoln Memorial was probably the best. Not exactly the place for quiet contemplation of that dark moment in American history, what with the hordes of tour groups hording around, even at nine o'clock at night. (In those TV shows where the characters are having secret meetings there, they always leave that part out.) It was really just a brief introduction to the sights of the City, but that's okay, there will be time for more tomorrow. Tomorrow we do museums.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Thursday, May 01, 2008
The Edgars
The Edgar Awards (named for Edgar Allen Poe, the founding father of the modern mystery story) are given every year by the Mystery Writers of America to, as they say, honor excellence in crime and mystery writing. I attended last year, in support of my Close Personal Friend Cornelia Read, who was nominated for best first novel and totally should have won. And I had such a good time that I thought it would be fun to go again, since I was in town, and bring Lisa, who is herself a mystery fan. I warned her about the quantities of free books, but I don't think she totally believed me.
The invitation said "dress to kill," so we did, though by the end of the evening I was wishing that my shoes had not taken the instruction quite so literally. (The fact that I had spent the entire day walking several miles may have contributed. Also, the heels.)
At the dinner, I ended up seated next to a very interesting woman who specializes in auditing publishing contracts to make sure that authors are getting paid all of the money they are owed. Generally, she said, they aren't, not due to dishonestly on the part of the publishers so much as complicated systems, faulty data management and the fact that the workforce at all of these companies is primarily composed of underpaid English majors. (That last part was just kind of implied.) I took her card, because if I ever do get published I have a feeling that at some point I may be in need of her services.
As far as the awards ceremony itself, it was nice, if a little overlong, and Al Roker did a fine job as emcee. I have a feeling the best novel winner may have been something of an upset, but I'm not sure. Of course, the highlight of the event was after the ceremony, when everyone was leaving and they rolled out the tables of books.
Do I mean tables? Yes, I mean tables, five or six of them, I think, all completely covered in piled of brand-new books (including Cornelia's latest, which was going fast, of course. I already have it, but I made sure Lisa took a copy.) I was entirely uncouth, filling two bags (thoughtfully provided) like the greedy rube I am. But I mean, come on, right? Free books! Not sure how well this is going to work with Virgin America's strict luggage weight limit, though.
Afterwards, we followed the party down to the hotel bar, where we settled in for drinks and people-watching, along with a small group of HR professionals, who were clearly not expecting this. You've got to hand it to those HR people, they sure can network. I can't, though, and we were both tired, so after we finished our lemon drops, we took our loot and hauled ourselves the four blocks back to the apartment, where I settled in to do some blogging before going to bed. Which brings us to now.
Good night.
The invitation said "dress to kill," so we did, though by the end of the evening I was wishing that my shoes had not taken the instruction quite so literally. (The fact that I had spent the entire day walking several miles may have contributed. Also, the heels.)
At the dinner, I ended up seated next to a very interesting woman who specializes in auditing publishing contracts to make sure that authors are getting paid all of the money they are owed. Generally, she said, they aren't, not due to dishonestly on the part of the publishers so much as complicated systems, faulty data management and the fact that the workforce at all of these companies is primarily composed of underpaid English majors. (That last part was just kind of implied.) I took her card, because if I ever do get published I have a feeling that at some point I may be in need of her services.
As far as the awards ceremony itself, it was nice, if a little overlong, and Al Roker did a fine job as emcee. I have a feeling the best novel winner may have been something of an upset, but I'm not sure. Of course, the highlight of the event was after the ceremony, when everyone was leaving and they rolled out the tables of books.
Do I mean tables? Yes, I mean tables, five or six of them, I think, all completely covered in piled of brand-new books (including Cornelia's latest, which was going fast, of course. I already have it, but I made sure Lisa took a copy.) I was entirely uncouth, filling two bags (thoughtfully provided) like the greedy rube I am. But I mean, come on, right? Free books! Not sure how well this is going to work with Virgin America's strict luggage weight limit, though.
Afterwards, we followed the party down to the hotel bar, where we settled in for drinks and people-watching, along with a small group of HR professionals, who were clearly not expecting this. You've got to hand it to those HR people, they sure can network. I can't, though, and we were both tired, so after we finished our lemon drops, we took our loot and hauled ourselves the four blocks back to the apartment, where I settled in to do some blogging before going to bed. Which brings us to now.
Good night.
Uptown Girl
I think I should admit right now that my attempts to have this trip be any sort of cultural adventure have been an unqualified failure. First there was the whole MOMA/closed on Tuesday thing, and then I didn't make it to even one Broadway show (my original plans had been to try for two, including the much longed-for but yet-unseen Spamalot, currently starring Clay Aiken). And today, my day to explore Uptown Manhattan, during which I planned to visit the Greek and Roman galleries at the Met, which I missed last time, became instead a day of sleeping, smoked fish and turtles. But I did manage to acquire an absolutely tremendous number of free books, so I guess that counts for something.
As I mentioned, last night Lisa and I had an evening of epic super-fantasticness, with the cocktails and the prociuto and the prosecco and the fabulous pizza and the wine, and yet I woke up this morning with only very minimal negative consequences (primarily a somewhat dry mouth, though that may be attributable to the incipient head cold/allergies), which I feel supports my belief of water as the best hangover preventative. Unfortunately, I also woke up rather late, when the alarm on my ipod, which is set for 7:45 California time, went off. So, between that and buying my train ticket to go to DC on Saturday, pretty much took care of my morning and then some. Which meant that, aside from my breakfast Coke, I didn't have anything to eat until I made it to Barney Greengrass ("The Sturgeon King") on the Upper West Side at one. And by then I was hungry enough that I didn't care that I was ordering the same thing as every other tourist there, and there were a lot of them, all eating our bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon. It was good smoked salmon, anyway.
It's true that, had I gone directly there after lunch, I would have had time to do at least a partial museum visit. But, the thing is, it was a nice day, and it seemed like a shame to waste this outdoor weather on indoor activities, so instead I went to Central Park.
I believe I am on record with being relatively unimpressed with what many New Yorkers apparently believe to be the finest display of nature in the known world. The truth is, it's a nice park, a beautiful one, even, but relative to, say, Golden Gate Park, it is small and artificial, with a tragic shortage of redwood groves. But, on the other hand, in a place where a front yard is unheard of and true wilderness is barely a distant dream, I would see how a place like that could take on a certain special appeal.
So I spent most of my afternoon wandering around there, and I enjoyed it. I particularly liked the Turtle Pond which, as its name suggests, is absolutely lousy with turtles. At first you don't see them, and you think maybe it was just a marketing thing, but then you start being able to pick them out and your realize that there are turtles everywhere. It is almost, but not quite, turtles all the way down.
Aside from the turtles, probably the highlight of my Central Park experience was coming across some sort of fashion shoot. Two models, a man and a woman, were standing stiffly in their fashion-y clothes while a group of people in vaguely Sixties/hippie garb came up and leaped behind them and a man lay on a pillow in front of them taking pictures upwards. This scene repeated for a while, and then they picked everything up and moved to a different part of the lawn to do it again.
Tyra can talk about energy and fierceness all she wants, but I think the real key to being a model is the ability to not get bored. That, and being very skinny.
Anyway, by the time I had seen as much as I wanted to see of the park it was too late for any sort of meaningful museum time, so I started to head back, window-shopping in the way-too-good-for me stores along Madison Avenue along the way. I did stop in at one store, where I tried on a pair of teetering four-inch heels with gloriously art-deco style crystal ornamentation. I never had any intention of buying, at eight hundred dollars they were outside even my range of temptation; I just wanted to see what it was like to were something that fabulous. (It was nice, but uncomfortable.)
In the end, I decided that as much as I like looking at this world, I don't belong there, so I got myself a cup of cocoa and a blueberry muffin at a tiny little coffee shop and caught the subway back to the apartment to get ready for the Edgars.
As I mentioned, last night Lisa and I had an evening of epic super-fantasticness, with the cocktails and the prociuto and the prosecco and the fabulous pizza and the wine, and yet I woke up this morning with only very minimal negative consequences (primarily a somewhat dry mouth, though that may be attributable to the incipient head cold/allergies), which I feel supports my belief of water as the best hangover preventative. Unfortunately, I also woke up rather late, when the alarm on my ipod, which is set for 7:45 California time, went off. So, between that and buying my train ticket to go to DC on Saturday, pretty much took care of my morning and then some. Which meant that, aside from my breakfast Coke, I didn't have anything to eat until I made it to Barney Greengrass ("The Sturgeon King") on the Upper West Side at one. And by then I was hungry enough that I didn't care that I was ordering the same thing as every other tourist there, and there were a lot of them, all eating our bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon. It was good smoked salmon, anyway.
It's true that, had I gone directly there after lunch, I would have had time to do at least a partial museum visit. But, the thing is, it was a nice day, and it seemed like a shame to waste this outdoor weather on indoor activities, so instead I went to Central Park.
I believe I am on record with being relatively unimpressed with what many New Yorkers apparently believe to be the finest display of nature in the known world. The truth is, it's a nice park, a beautiful one, even, but relative to, say, Golden Gate Park, it is small and artificial, with a tragic shortage of redwood groves. But, on the other hand, in a place where a front yard is unheard of and true wilderness is barely a distant dream, I would see how a place like that could take on a certain special appeal.
So I spent most of my afternoon wandering around there, and I enjoyed it. I particularly liked the Turtle Pond which, as its name suggests, is absolutely lousy with turtles. At first you don't see them, and you think maybe it was just a marketing thing, but then you start being able to pick them out and your realize that there are turtles everywhere. It is almost, but not quite, turtles all the way down.
Aside from the turtles, probably the highlight of my Central Park experience was coming across some sort of fashion shoot. Two models, a man and a woman, were standing stiffly in their fashion-y clothes while a group of people in vaguely Sixties/hippie garb came up and leaped behind them and a man lay on a pillow in front of them taking pictures upwards. This scene repeated for a while, and then they picked everything up and moved to a different part of the lawn to do it again.
Tyra can talk about energy and fierceness all she wants, but I think the real key to being a model is the ability to not get bored. That, and being very skinny.
Anyway, by the time I had seen as much as I wanted to see of the park it was too late for any sort of meaningful museum time, so I started to head back, window-shopping in the way-too-good-for me stores along Madison Avenue along the way. I did stop in at one store, where I tried on a pair of teetering four-inch heels with gloriously art-deco style crystal ornamentation. I never had any intention of buying, at eight hundred dollars they were outside even my range of temptation; I just wanted to see what it was like to were something that fabulous. (It was nice, but uncomfortable.)
In the end, I decided that as much as I like looking at this world, I don't belong there, so I got myself a cup of cocoa and a blueberry muffin at a tiny little coffee shop and caught the subway back to the apartment to get ready for the Edgars.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Downtown Train
I didn't buy any shoes today. I just wanted you to know that, and I think you should appreciate it. You may not consider this a tremendous achievement since, after all, you didn't buy any shoes today either (unless you did, in which case, yay) but I will have you know that I faced severe temptation and resisted. For the most part, anyway.
Today was my day for downtown explorations, through Nolita, Soho, Greenwich and Chelsea. The odd part is, as wide-ranging as this plan sounds, in total area we are probably talking about something half the size of San Mateo, though with a lot more cabs.
The day started with breakfast with Lisa at Cafe Gitane, a charming Nolita-based hub of francophilia, and them to the Belle by Sigerson Morison for my first great temptation (low-heeled patent pumps with the perfectly rounded pointy toe). Then, a couple of stops later, she had to head off to do some work and I fell hard for a pair of earrings (semi-poll question: how much do you want to know about my aquisitions on this trip? Because they're kind of great but it could get tiresome.)
Post-Nolita I made my way to Soho, which is conveniently located several blocks away (seriously, I walk shorter distances to go to the grocery store than it takes to go between neighborhoods around here.) I made a couple of purchases there, including a birthday present for one reader of this blog, so we won't go into that. (I also saw enough cool home goods as to make me wish I had a permanent-type residence of my own, but that is a topic for another time.) Then it was off to my previously-estabilshed favorite part of Manhattan, the West Village, which I love not because I'm a gay man (I'm not) but because it's the part that feels the most like Berkeley to me, with its trees and its small local restaurants and its free-range craziness. Also, the Lulu Guiness store is there, and that's never a bad thing. (I bought a necklace.) (I might go back and buy another one.)
The Magnolia Bakery is also in the neighborhood, and you can go there and get an overpriced cupcake and a cup of cocoa and eat them in the nearby park, which affords you a great opportunity to watch people, and also pigeons.
All of these things I have mentioned I did two years ago, on my first trip to NYC, and while I was happy to revisit them, this time I was determined to catch the things I had missed before. Which is why, after a late lunch at a corner bistro, I took myself off to a jewelry store in Chelsea that makes frequent appearances in my favorite fashion magazine, for the very very good reason that they have creative and beautiful and ruinously expensive pieces. (We're talking about the kind of place where you try and open the door, and they look at you on their monitor, and then they decide if they will push the button to let you in.) But I was glad to have gone there, if for no other reason than to say I have been.
Eventually, footsore and satisfied with having spent approximately as much money as I saved by not paying for a hotel room, I made my way back to the apartment, where my kind host was diligently working (for her California-based employer) and proceeded to distract her until it was time for us to go out for an evening of Fabulous Food And Slightly Too Much Drinking. (All I have to say is, that Mario Batali runs a fine pizza joint.) Which is why I am writing this blog host while sobering up and drinking four glasses of water, and also why tomorrow's adventures may be slightly less adventuresome, at least in the morning.
No promises, anyway.
Today was my day for downtown explorations, through Nolita, Soho, Greenwich and Chelsea. The odd part is, as wide-ranging as this plan sounds, in total area we are probably talking about something half the size of San Mateo, though with a lot more cabs.
The day started with breakfast with Lisa at Cafe Gitane, a charming Nolita-based hub of francophilia, and them to the Belle by Sigerson Morison for my first great temptation (low-heeled patent pumps with the perfectly rounded pointy toe). Then, a couple of stops later, she had to head off to do some work and I fell hard for a pair of earrings (semi-poll question: how much do you want to know about my aquisitions on this trip? Because they're kind of great but it could get tiresome.)
Post-Nolita I made my way to Soho, which is conveniently located several blocks away (seriously, I walk shorter distances to go to the grocery store than it takes to go between neighborhoods around here.) I made a couple of purchases there, including a birthday present for one reader of this blog, so we won't go into that. (I also saw enough cool home goods as to make me wish I had a permanent-type residence of my own, but that is a topic for another time.) Then it was off to my previously-estabilshed favorite part of Manhattan, the West Village, which I love not because I'm a gay man (I'm not) but because it's the part that feels the most like Berkeley to me, with its trees and its small local restaurants and its free-range craziness. Also, the Lulu Guiness store is there, and that's never a bad thing. (I bought a necklace.) (I might go back and buy another one.)
The Magnolia Bakery is also in the neighborhood, and you can go there and get an overpriced cupcake and a cup of cocoa and eat them in the nearby park, which affords you a great opportunity to watch people, and also pigeons.
All of these things I have mentioned I did two years ago, on my first trip to NYC, and while I was happy to revisit them, this time I was determined to catch the things I had missed before. Which is why, after a late lunch at a corner bistro, I took myself off to a jewelry store in Chelsea that makes frequent appearances in my favorite fashion magazine, for the very very good reason that they have creative and beautiful and ruinously expensive pieces. (We're talking about the kind of place where you try and open the door, and they look at you on their monitor, and then they decide if they will push the button to let you in.) But I was glad to have gone there, if for no other reason than to say I have been.
Eventually, footsore and satisfied with having spent approximately as much money as I saved by not paying for a hotel room, I made my way back to the apartment, where my kind host was diligently working (for her California-based employer) and proceeded to distract her until it was time for us to go out for an evening of Fabulous Food And Slightly Too Much Drinking. (All I have to say is, that Mario Batali runs a fine pizza joint.) Which is why I am writing this blog host while sobering up and drinking four glasses of water, and also why tomorrow's adventures may be slightly less adventuresome, at least in the morning.
No promises, anyway.
Another Cool Thing I Forgot to Mention Yesterday
They're shooting a movie down the street from Lisa's apartment, title unknown, with Denzel Washington and John Travolta. We passed it last night, and we didn't see any stars or sets. but we did see the catering, which was quite impressive.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sleep Deprived in the Restless City
So much to tell, so little time until I lapse into unconciousness. Let's get to it, shall we?
As you may have gathered from my previous post, I spent today in New York City (New York City?!). I arrived at about 7:30 am, having left SFO at 11 last night, on a largely sleepless red-eye flight that definitely lived up to the name. (I can't blame Virgin America for the basic discomfort of sitting for so long, or the guy in my row with the major sinus problems, but I can blame them for the bright video screens at every seat that wouldn't turn off and the total lack of even the minimal amenities provided by Jet Blue. For all its flashiness, VA is basically Southwest with trendier lighting.) And after disembarking, gathering my luggage, and discovering I would not be calling Lisa to tell her I was on my way, I caught the world's slowest subway train into Manhattan. Seriously, it took over an hour. (The conductor came on the intercom several times to explain that we were stuck behind another train which was, apparently, being pulled by snails.) But I did eventually make it to Grand Central, only overshooting my connection by one station, and when I got there I was able to get on the internet and both tell Lisa I was on my way and retrieve her address from my email, then walk the four blocks to her smallish but charming apartment with an Actual View of the Actual Empire State Building, I Am Not Kidding.
I was, of course, delighted to see Lisa, who is one of a disturbingly large and growing trend of people who are foolish enough to leave California for places that are not California, which I do not understand. (There appears to be some sort of fiance involved, but still.) We went out for breakfast at a local diner, and I had delicious homemade blinis, which went a long way towards restoring my faith in the world. Afterwards, Lisa had to go to work (which she can do from the comfort of her aforementioned nice apartment) so I headed off to see the MoMa. Which is closed on Tuesdays, so I just saw the museum store instead, which I figure is pretty ,uch the same thing. Then I poked around a bit in the Fifth Avenue shops, pretending I was fabulous enough to belong there, and had a severely overpriced late lunch/snack at the cafe at Bergdorf Goodman's (though, frankly, if you manage to get out of that store and the only thing you have overpaid for is hummus, then I think you have done pretty well).
By the time I had had my snack the weather (which had been gray and intermittently rainy) had cleared up, but I was fading fast. Which is why it was so nice to have a friend to stay with, because I could come back to the apartment and conk out on her bed while she finished up her workday, and then we could hang out for a while before going out to dinner at a very New York-cool Japanese/Peruvian/Brazilian fusion restaurant for dinner.
So, all in all, a very fine day.
I'm going to sleep now.
As you may have gathered from my previous post, I spent today in New York City (New York City?!). I arrived at about 7:30 am, having left SFO at 11 last night, on a largely sleepless red-eye flight that definitely lived up to the name. (I can't blame Virgin America for the basic discomfort of sitting for so long, or the guy in my row with the major sinus problems, but I can blame them for the bright video screens at every seat that wouldn't turn off and the total lack of even the minimal amenities provided by Jet Blue. For all its flashiness, VA is basically Southwest with trendier lighting.) And after disembarking, gathering my luggage, and discovering I would not be calling Lisa to tell her I was on my way, I caught the world's slowest subway train into Manhattan. Seriously, it took over an hour. (The conductor came on the intercom several times to explain that we were stuck behind another train which was, apparently, being pulled by snails.) But I did eventually make it to Grand Central, only overshooting my connection by one station, and when I got there I was able to get on the internet and both tell Lisa I was on my way and retrieve her address from my email, then walk the four blocks to her smallish but charming apartment with an Actual View of the Actual Empire State Building, I Am Not Kidding.
I was, of course, delighted to see Lisa, who is one of a disturbingly large and growing trend of people who are foolish enough to leave California for places that are not California, which I do not understand. (There appears to be some sort of fiance involved, but still.) We went out for breakfast at a local diner, and I had delicious homemade blinis, which went a long way towards restoring my faith in the world. Afterwards, Lisa had to go to work (which she can do from the comfort of her aforementioned nice apartment) so I headed off to see the MoMa. Which is closed on Tuesdays, so I just saw the museum store instead, which I figure is pretty ,uch the same thing. Then I poked around a bit in the Fifth Avenue shops, pretending I was fabulous enough to belong there, and had a severely overpriced late lunch/snack at the cafe at Bergdorf Goodman's (though, frankly, if you manage to get out of that store and the only thing you have overpaid for is hummus, then I think you have done pretty well).
By the time I had had my snack the weather (which had been gray and intermittently rainy) had cleared up, but I was fading fast. Which is why it was so nice to have a friend to stay with, because I could come back to the apartment and conk out on her bed while she finished up her workday, and then we could hang out for a while before going out to dinner at a very New York-cool Japanese/Peruvian/Brazilian fusion restaurant for dinner.
So, all in all, a very fine day.
I'm going to sleep now.
New York Calling (Or Not)
(I'm on vacation on the east coast for the next week and a bit, in case you didn't know.)
So this morning I staggered off my flight from California to New York (on Virgin America: Putting the "red" in red-eye) and got myself ready to go to my friend Lisa's apartment, because she is kindly putting me up for the duration. It occured to me that I knew generally where she lived, but not exactly, because I had neglected to write down the address. That's okay, I thought, I'll just call... Oh.
You know what you need for calling people? A phone. Like, for example, my phone, which is in my purse. Which is on my bed. Which is in San Mateo.
Damn.
Fortunately, as a modern girl of the twenty-first century, I did bring my wi-fi enabled iPod, and even in New York it is still possible to find an unprotected connection, so disaster has been, for the moment, averted. Stay tuned.
So this morning I staggered off my flight from California to New York (on Virgin America: Putting the "red" in red-eye) and got myself ready to go to my friend Lisa's apartment, because she is kindly putting me up for the duration. It occured to me that I knew generally where she lived, but not exactly, because I had neglected to write down the address. That's okay, I thought, I'll just call... Oh.
You know what you need for calling people? A phone. Like, for example, my phone, which is in my purse. Which is on my bed. Which is in San Mateo.
Damn.
Fortunately, as a modern girl of the twenty-first century, I did bring my wi-fi enabled iPod, and even in New York it is still possible to find an unprotected connection, so disaster has been, for the moment, averted. Stay tuned.
Monday, April 28, 2008
I'm Just A Puppet On A String. . .
Well, I'm not, but one of my stories will be.
Perhaps I should explain. Several years ago, after a weekend in which I watched two episodes of "Relic Hunter" and a late-night showing of "Goonies," I wrote a very silly story about a contractor who specializes in building elaborate traps to protect ancient relics (of course, they aren't ancient yet, but they will be by the time the intrepid adventurers come for them). Much to my delight, the story was purchased by a website and produced as a podcast, which I figured was just about the best thing that would ever happen to it. At least until last week, when I received an email requesting permission to adapt it to a marionette show. (I'll just give you a minute to let that sink in.)
Still with me? Good. So, the idea, as I understand it, is to perform the play next May at Penguicon 7.0 in Romulus, Michigan, in cooperation with the Dreamland Theater of Ypsilanti, Michigan. Details (and, I sincerely hope, video) to follow presently.
Perhaps I should explain. Several years ago, after a weekend in which I watched two episodes of "Relic Hunter" and a late-night showing of "Goonies," I wrote a very silly story about a contractor who specializes in building elaborate traps to protect ancient relics (of course, they aren't ancient yet, but they will be by the time the intrepid adventurers come for them). Much to my delight, the story was purchased by a website and produced as a podcast, which I figured was just about the best thing that would ever happen to it. At least until last week, when I received an email requesting permission to adapt it to a marionette show. (I'll just give you a minute to let that sink in.)
Still with me? Good. So, the idea, as I understand it, is to perform the play next May at Penguicon 7.0 in Romulus, Michigan, in cooperation with the Dreamland Theater of Ypsilanti, Michigan. Details (and, I sincerely hope, video) to follow presently.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Moibus Tempura
Maru Maru
213 2nd St.
San Mateo
I thought I was almost done. I had three more restaurants to try and then I was going to tie this little project up with a bow and call it a day. That was manageable. I could do that. And then, while I was looking for parking near one of them tonight, I found two more. And another one across the street. And one of them had opened within the last month. I can see my future stretching out before me, and it is deep-fried and shrimpy.
As it happened, I found a spot in front of the new restaurant, so I went there. It was definitely on the fancier side of the places I have been, very new and modern, with a lot of dark wood and brushed steel. Like most of the places I've been to lately, it was uncrowded (with four Japanese restaurants within a block, how could it be otherwise?) and an overabundance of staff stood at the ready. It got to the point that I felt bad to drink my tea, because as soon as it was about a third of the way down, the waitress would appear to refill my cup.
Food: For once, I am not going to grade primarily on tempura. Why? Because, that's why. I had a very good dinner with excellent service, and if one of the three dishes I had was only average, then I can live with that. Edamame, still warm, came out as soon as I sat down, which is always a good start. (Fun fact! At one point I thought I hated edamame. Then I tried some and realized I didn't. Apparently, it was something else I hated. Not sure what.) My combo dinner options were little different this time, with two items from column A (I chose the tempura with a beef with onions dish, the name of which escapes me (not pictured)) and one from column B (sashimi, of course). It was a little pricier than other places I've been to, but the reason for that became clear once the food started to come out. Rather than the small portions of a bento, each component was a complete dish, resulting in an amount of food that was approximately dinner for three. What's more, while I was hopelessly plowing my way through this mountain of food, who should appear but the waitress, bearing a special little dish prepared by the sushi chefs, a "new thing they were trying out." This turned out to be a jalepeno, hollowed out and filled with salmon, then baked with a creamy mustard sauce on top and sliced into sushi-sized pieces. My wimpdom when it comes to spicy food is well-documented, but taking out the innards seemed to have defused the power of the pepper, and I found the dish not only eatable, but delicious. And the sashimi was distinctly above average, and the beef dish, whatever it was, was still very good when I heated it up for lunch on Friday, and even the orange slices were extra-good. So if maybe the tempura was a little plain, and the vegetable selection somewhat starchy and uninspired then, well, maybe that isn't the be-all and end-all of restaurant judging. This time, at least.
Tempura Grade: 7/10
Overall Grade: 9/10
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
AAGH!
Said by "Sir" Andrew Lloyd Webber to David Cook during their rehearsal segment on tonight's American Idol:
"Look at me like I'm the most beautiful seventeen-year-old girl in the world. Look into my eyes and sing to me."
GAH!
"Look at me like I'm the most beautiful seventeen-year-old girl in the world. Look into my eyes and sing to me."
GAH!
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Googlebet
I now present to you the alphabet, as generated by the "most searched terms" dropdown from the Google box in my browser:
A is for Amazon
B is for Bebo, apparently
C is for Craigslist
D is for Dictionary
E is for Ebay
F is for Facebook
G is for Gmail
H is for Hotmail
I is for Imdb
J is for John Lewis, who seems to be very famous for someone I have never heard of.*
K is for Kelly Blue Book
L is for Limewire
M is for Myspace
N is for Next**
O is for Orkut
P is for Photobucket
Q is for QVC
R is for Runescape***
S is for Sears
T is for Target
U is for Utube, even though it isn't
V is for Verizon
W is for Wikipedia
X is for Xbox 360
Y is for YouTube
Z is for Zip Codes
*Does this make me old?
**Another reference I'm not familiar with? Or a sign of people who don't know how to navigate through the results pages?
***Okay, now it's just messing with me.
A is for Amazon
B is for Bebo, apparently
C is for Craigslist
D is for Dictionary
E is for Ebay
F is for Facebook
G is for Gmail
H is for Hotmail
I is for Imdb
J is for John Lewis, who seems to be very famous for someone I have never heard of.*
K is for Kelly Blue Book
L is for Limewire
M is for Myspace
N is for Next**
O is for Orkut
P is for Photobucket
Q is for QVC
R is for Runescape***
S is for Sears
T is for Target
U is for Utube, even though it isn't
V is for Verizon
W is for Wikipedia
X is for Xbox 360
Y is for YouTube
Z is for Zip Codes
*Does this make me old?
**Another reference I'm not familiar with? Or a sign of people who don't know how to navigate through the results pages?
***Okay, now it's just messing with me.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Edgars Project
New blog project! (Blogect? Prog?) For my next trick, I will be reading all the books that have won the Edgar Award for best novel in the history of the award. I got the idea from a suggestion for starting a book group to read every Pulitzer winner, which sounded educational but not like a lot of fun. Therefore, The Edgars. And now, for my first trick:
Title: Beat Not The Bones
Author: Charlotte Jay.
Award Year: 1954
Publication Status: Out of Print.
Coming into this, I honestly didn't know what to expect. My knowledge of literary trends of the fifties is limited (by which I mean "nonexistent"), and about this particular book and author I knew nothing at all. According to wikipedia she was a prominant suspense writer, though she only published nine books, most of which were set in Austrailia and Asia. This one is set in Papua New Guinea under the Australian colonial rule. A member of the colonial government shoots himself after returning from a trip into the jungle to investigate claims of gold discovery, his suicide attributed to the gambling debts. But his young widow, arriving from Australia, is convinced there is more to it and is determined to investigate. In the course of the book she manages to transition from a young woman happy to be led passively through life by the people around her (her father, her husband) to an active force in her own right, without any you-go-girl historonics or moments of blinding revelation.
It sounds like a mystery novel, but I'm not sure if I had read it unlabeled, if that's where I would have put it in the bookstore. The plot actually takes up a fairly minor portion of the book, both in terms of words and psychological space, the focus being instead more on the characters and the atmosphere of the setting. A lot of attention is also given to the problems of "modern" colonialism, of bringing "primitive" peoples into the modern world while preserving their rights and treating them with some measure of respect.
I may be making this sound like some sort of ultra-literary polemic, which it isn't. Though I wouldn't say there may not have been some literary liberal guilt motivating this particular award-giving, it's a very well-written book and an interesting one. Also, I read it in a single afternoon, which is as useful a measure of a good book as I know of.
Title: Beat Not The Bones
Author: Charlotte Jay.
Award Year: 1954
Publication Status: Out of Print.
Coming into this, I honestly didn't know what to expect. My knowledge of literary trends of the fifties is limited (by which I mean "nonexistent"), and about this particular book and author I knew nothing at all. According to wikipedia she was a prominant suspense writer, though she only published nine books, most of which were set in Austrailia and Asia. This one is set in Papua New Guinea under the Australian colonial rule. A member of the colonial government shoots himself after returning from a trip into the jungle to investigate claims of gold discovery, his suicide attributed to the gambling debts. But his young widow, arriving from Australia, is convinced there is more to it and is determined to investigate. In the course of the book she manages to transition from a young woman happy to be led passively through life by the people around her (her father, her husband) to an active force in her own right, without any you-go-girl historonics or moments of blinding revelation.
It sounds like a mystery novel, but I'm not sure if I had read it unlabeled, if that's where I would have put it in the bookstore. The plot actually takes up a fairly minor portion of the book, both in terms of words and psychological space, the focus being instead more on the characters and the atmosphere of the setting. A lot of attention is also given to the problems of "modern" colonialism, of bringing "primitive" peoples into the modern world while preserving their rights and treating them with some measure of respect.
I may be making this sound like some sort of ultra-literary polemic, which it isn't. Though I wouldn't say there may not have been some literary liberal guilt motivating this particular award-giving, it's a very well-written book and an interesting one. Also, I read it in a single afternoon, which is as useful a measure of a good book as I know of.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
On The Twelfth Day of Tempura
Fuji Sukiyaki
428 E. 3rd Ave.
San Mateo, CA
I was nearly done with my dinner-- a definitely above-average offering at a mostly-empty place across the Caltrain tracks from the main part of the downtown-- when I started to get the feeling I had forgotten something. But what? I had my tempura and my sashimi. I had finished my miso soup and my somewhat kimchi-like dish of spicy pickled cabbage. So what could I have been missing? Oh, right:
So you're just going to have to take my word for it that my meal arrived as a nicely-presented plate, with three kinds of sashimi (not pictured), a salad (seen above) and a selection of tempura (mostly not pictured, except the broccoli and part of a shrimp). Also not pictured is the staff, who were very friendly and chatty, due to the fact that there weren't a whole lot of people there and they didn't have a lot to do. My dinner arrived before I had even started on my miso soup.
Food: Generally, when I go to a restaurant with a specific food item in its name, I try to try that item (in this case, sukiyaki). But, given my mission, and the lack of an appropriate combo meal, that was not an option. The mission, above all things!
Um, anyway, definitely above-average, if not mind-blowing, tempura here. As I mentioned, there were three kinds of sashimi (all, as far as I could tell, all varieties of tuna, but still), which I appreciated. The tempura batter was crisp and not too heavy, though as usual the sogginess did set in as the temperature dropped.
Somewhere out there, I just know it, somewhere there is tempura that is every bit as tasty at the end of dinner as it was when it was still burning your tongue. A girl can dream, right?
Tempura Grade: 6/10
Overall: 6/10
428 E. 3rd Ave.
San Mateo, CA
I was nearly done with my dinner-- a definitely above-average offering at a mostly-empty place across the Caltrain tracks from the main part of the downtown-- when I started to get the feeling I had forgotten something. But what? I had my tempura and my sashimi. I had finished my miso soup and my somewhat kimchi-like dish of spicy pickled cabbage. So what could I have been missing? Oh, right:
So you're just going to have to take my word for it that my meal arrived as a nicely-presented plate, with three kinds of sashimi (not pictured), a salad (seen above) and a selection of tempura (mostly not pictured, except the broccoli and part of a shrimp). Also not pictured is the staff, who were very friendly and chatty, due to the fact that there weren't a whole lot of people there and they didn't have a lot to do. My dinner arrived before I had even started on my miso soup.
Food: Generally, when I go to a restaurant with a specific food item in its name, I try to try that item (in this case, sukiyaki). But, given my mission, and the lack of an appropriate combo meal, that was not an option. The mission, above all things!
Um, anyway, definitely above-average, if not mind-blowing, tempura here. As I mentioned, there were three kinds of sashimi (all, as far as I could tell, all varieties of tuna, but still), which I appreciated. The tempura batter was crisp and not too heavy, though as usual the sogginess did set in as the temperature dropped.
Somewhere out there, I just know it, somewhere there is tempura that is every bit as tasty at the end of dinner as it was when it was still burning your tongue. A girl can dream, right?
Tempura Grade: 6/10
Overall: 6/10
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A General Request
If I ever show any inclination to do something like this:
Please shoot me with a tranquilizer dart, shave my head, give me fifteen tatoos and drop me off at the Sturges motorcycle rally. I'll thank you later.
Please shoot me with a tranquilizer dart, shave my head, give me fifteen tatoos and drop me off at the Sturges motorcycle rally. I'll thank you later.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Key Lyme Thigh
So, I probably don't have Lyme disease, which is nice. True, there are a lot of diseases I don't have, almost all of them, in fact, but for most of this weekend I thought Lyme disease was one I did, and I'm just as happy to be wrong about that.
It started out with what I thought was a mosquito bite on the back of my right leg, just above the knee, on Friday morning. Damn mosquitoes, I thought, as I scratched it while I got dressed. Then, later that afternoon, after I had finished my run and was changing back into my street clothes, I noticed that it didn't look like a mosquito bite anymore, being as it was the size of a silver dollar and kind of painful. Spider bite? I thought. Better go home and wash my sheets. Which I did, finding no spiders in the process. And the next morning (Saturday) I woke up to find that it had expanded again, having added a ring of lighter pink around the outside. Huh, I thought, That's gross.
As it happened, I was going home that day, so while I was there I asked Mom, who knows more than I do about what it looks like when people get bitten by things, what she thought of it. She didn't know, so we looked it up on the internet and came up with pictures of Lyme disease-indicating tick bites that bore a remarkable resemblance to the thing on my leg. Damn, I thought, That's annoying. Then I read the article and spent the rest of the day developing symptoms.
You have about a month to get treatment for the early stage of Lyme disease (according to the internet) and since it's a major pain to try and see a doctor on the weekend I put it off until Monday. Which is why, when I woke up on Sunday and found that the interior region of the bite was now dark purple, fading to a ring of lighter purple which gave way to one of an almost fluorescent pink, there wasn't much I could do but think, Hope my leg doesn't fall off, and get on with my day.
Of course, this morning I actually did get around to going to the doctor, and if you've read this far I bet you can guess what had happened by then. That's right: my leg fell off.
Okay, no, not really. Actually, my formerly impressive disease indicator had faded to a shadow of its former self, to the point that it looked like nothing more than a faint pinkish bruise and I was left to explain to the doctor (and the student trainee who was trailing along and poking my leg with him) why I had thought it was important for me to seek medical attention for this apparent non-event. (I said I had "heard" that if you have a bite that looks like a bulls-eye you should get it checked out for Lyme disease. I didn't mention that I read it on the internet, because doctors hate it when you look things up on the internet.) He didn't bother doing any blood tests, because it was too early for antibodies to have developed, but he did write a prescription for a single dose of antibiotics, as a kind of general preventive measure. So it was all kind of anticlimactic, but the way I see it, if a part of your body has randomly turned purple, you should seek medical attention, regardless of the potential for embarrassment.
Though I do think weighing me was completely uncalled for. After I had eaten breakfast! With my shoes on! I mean, honestly.
It started out with what I thought was a mosquito bite on the back of my right leg, just above the knee, on Friday morning. Damn mosquitoes, I thought, as I scratched it while I got dressed. Then, later that afternoon, after I had finished my run and was changing back into my street clothes, I noticed that it didn't look like a mosquito bite anymore, being as it was the size of a silver dollar and kind of painful. Spider bite? I thought. Better go home and wash my sheets. Which I did, finding no spiders in the process. And the next morning (Saturday) I woke up to find that it had expanded again, having added a ring of lighter pink around the outside. Huh, I thought, That's gross.
As it happened, I was going home that day, so while I was there I asked Mom, who knows more than I do about what it looks like when people get bitten by things, what she thought of it. She didn't know, so we looked it up on the internet and came up with pictures of Lyme disease-indicating tick bites that bore a remarkable resemblance to the thing on my leg. Damn, I thought, That's annoying. Then I read the article and spent the rest of the day developing symptoms.
You have about a month to get treatment for the early stage of Lyme disease (according to the internet) and since it's a major pain to try and see a doctor on the weekend I put it off until Monday. Which is why, when I woke up on Sunday and found that the interior region of the bite was now dark purple, fading to a ring of lighter purple which gave way to one of an almost fluorescent pink, there wasn't much I could do but think, Hope my leg doesn't fall off, and get on with my day.
Of course, this morning I actually did get around to going to the doctor, and if you've read this far I bet you can guess what had happened by then. That's right: my leg fell off.
Okay, no, not really. Actually, my formerly impressive disease indicator had faded to a shadow of its former self, to the point that it looked like nothing more than a faint pinkish bruise and I was left to explain to the doctor (and the student trainee who was trailing along and poking my leg with him) why I had thought it was important for me to seek medical attention for this apparent non-event. (I said I had "heard" that if you have a bite that looks like a bulls-eye you should get it checked out for Lyme disease. I didn't mention that I read it on the internet, because doctors hate it when you look things up on the internet.) He didn't bother doing any blood tests, because it was too early for antibodies to have developed, but he did write a prescription for a single dose of antibiotics, as a kind of general preventive measure. So it was all kind of anticlimactic, but the way I see it, if a part of your body has randomly turned purple, you should seek medical attention, regardless of the potential for embarrassment.
Though I do think weighing me was completely uncalled for. After I had eaten breakfast! With my shoes on! I mean, honestly.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Temp(ura) Work
Tenka Japanese Restaurant
246 S. B St
San Mateo, CA
I think, at this point, I may have fallen victim to the malaise that seems to strike almost every reviewer after continual exposure to the thing they are reviewing. I still like tempura, I think, and anyway I have come far enough in this misguided project that I feel the need to see it through to the greasy, deep-fried end. It's just that I find the way I approach the food has changed; I can eat something that someone else might consider a perfectly adequate meal and see only the flaws, complaining about predictability and demanding possibly unreasonably high standards of excellence. It's the same thing I have been noticing lately in certain movie critics (*coughcough* Entertainment Weekly *cough*), and I wonder if this sort of thinking is simply an occupational hazard of the reviewing game. On the other hand, I always have been a judgmental bitch.
All of which is to say that I was, again, underwhelmed by the tempura at my latest stop. It wasn't appalling; as usual, when it was hot it was much better, though the fact that the first bite I took of the shrimp netted me only batter. And, as usual, as the food cooled it gradually transitioned from "tasty" to "kinda heavy" to "urgh." As far as the vegetables went, I appreciated the sweet potato and zucchini, but not the green pepper and broccoli. The sashimi wasn't bad, definitely higher quality than some I've had, but not fantastic either. Since this place had as their option for the combo meal a choice of three items from the list, I again added the gyoza, which this time came with an insidiously spicy dipping sauce.
Interestingly, this was the second week in a row that I ate at a Japanese restaurant run by Chinese people. The last one was more upfront about it, with shu mai on the menu and the very un-Japanese names of the sushi chefs on their business cards displayed on the bar. This time I only had the evidence of the TV being tuned to the local Mandarin-language station, but I consider that to be proof enough.
Tempura: 5/10
Overall: 5/10
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Marjorie James, Proud Employee of "Biotech Co."
There are a number of ways a person can change employers. You can quit, staple your letter of resignation to your boss's forehead and ride off to a life of glamor and ease and excellent cafeteria food. You can be fired, for threatening to staple things to your boss's forehead, and eventually get work as a part-time Walmart greeter and learn new ways to prepare ramen noodles. You can even be hit by a car as you are hurrying to tell your friends that you found a producer for your Broadway show, lose your memory and find a new career in advertising until your girlfriend punches you back to your senses. Or, apparently, your employer can decide that what they really want to do is keep the parts of the company that make money, and spin off everything else (that is, the people who actually do things like research) into a new company to be named later.
Never a dull #^@&ing moment.
Friday, April 04, 2008
TempuraWish X10: Hunger is the Best (Tempura Dipping) Sauce
Ni-Mo Japanese Cuisine
73 E. 3rd Ave.
San Mateo
Like any good researcher, I try to be as objective consistent as possible in my collection of data. But sometimes external factors do interfere. Like yesterday, for example. At lunchtime I went down to the cafeteria for my diet-compatible cup of soup, only to find that they were nearly out of the tomato-basil, the most edible option. There was almost, but not quite, enough to make a small serving, which I complemented with some Sun Chips from the vending machine, but it was still a somewhat light lunch. Then I went to the gym in the afternoon and ran four miles on the treadmill, which was all very good for me, but it did mean that by the time I took my seat at the sushi bar in my tenth Japanese restaurant so far, I was absolutely famished. Which I realize may have an influence on my response to the
Food: They got off to a good start by bringing out a dish of edamame, which is never a bad thing. The combo options were a little different here; with the closest to my usual including gyoza and california roll along with the tempura and sashimi. I didn't mind that, though the crab in the cali roll was blatantly fake. Like I said, I was very hungry. Which is why the evaluation of the rest of the meal gets a little tricky. So, yes, I did eat all of the tempura, aside from the broccoli and the last bit of the shrimp, and I did appreciate the vegetable variety (particularly the eggplant and yam). But on the other hand, the last couple of bites (when I was no longer hungry and the tempura was no longer hot) were nearly inedible and I left the restaurant with a feeling like I had consumed a large, deep-fried rock. Also, the sashimi was some of the lowest-quality I have had so far. So, while it looks like the grades I'm giving here are pretty straightforward, some complicated figuring has gone into them (points on for edamame and gyoza, points off for bad sashimi, points on for me eating the whole thing, off for maybe it wasn't really that good, etc.).
Tempura Grade: 5/10
Overall Grade: 5/10
Cincinatti: Soon to Be Safe Driving Capital of the World?
Because if there are no major accidents on a Friday morning...
DANCE PARTY FRIDAY!
Thanks to Popwatch for this one.
DANCE PARTY FRIDAY!
Thanks to Popwatch for this one.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Not That I Would Ever Do This
But there's a site where people send email they get from their moms:
Postcards From Yo Mama
Some of the best:
I suffer. Please be in touch.
Whoa, the tree on your blog sight reminds me of the tree I pictured my acorn people living in!
Who is jessica alba?
Sent from my BlackBerry
You received a letter from the FBI……
If you have some time today, please research whether the Lippizaner stallions appeared in the movie, Sound of Music. Dad swears he remembers them escaping from the Germans, or signing Do-Re-Mi, or something. Please let me know.
This was pretty much your worst fear when I started blogging, wasn't it, Mom?
Postcards From Yo Mama
Some of the best:
I suffer. Please be in touch.
Whoa, the tree on your blog sight reminds me of the tree I pictured my acorn people living in!
Who is jessica alba?
Sent from my BlackBerry
You received a letter from the FBI……
If you have some time today, please research whether the Lippizaner stallions appeared in the movie, Sound of Music. Dad swears he remembers them escaping from the Germans, or signing Do-Re-Mi, or something. Please let me know.
This was pretty much your worst fear when I started blogging, wasn't it, Mom?
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Oh Sure, It Looks Like Fun Now
But when they robots finally take over, they will remember how we used their noble abilities for our amusement and then, well, let's just say that that ride won't have a jaunty soundtrack:
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The Evolution of an Idea
I was surfing through the movie listings on my Tivo (what, like you have something better to do on a Saturday night?) and I came across listings for all five "Death Wish" movies. I would like to share their synopses here, for their instructional value in what they say about the creative process:
Death Wish: "A New York architect turns vigilante hit man after thugs attack his wife and daughter."
Death Wish II: The architect from New York turns vigilante in Los Angeles after more brutality too close to home.
Death Wish 3: The vigilante architect shops by mail for what he needs to waste punks in the streets of New York.
Death Wish 4: The Crackdown: The vigilante architect targets Los Angeles drug rings after the death of his girlfriend's daughter.
Death Wish V: The Face of Death: The New York vigilante goes back to work after a mobster's thugs kill his girlfriend.
Now, laying aside the filmmakers' troubling inability to commit to one numbering system, and the fact that in real life a vigilante architect would be significantly more likely to be targeting members of the city planning department than mobsters, I think they may be on to something here. Frankly, I feel it's a shame that they didn't get a chance to extend their vision to Death Wish 12 and/or XII: The Death of Death Wish, in which the vigilante architect turns even more vigilante to avenge his own murder at the hands of a ruthless graffiti cartel, and also the use of glass bricks in his latest building when he clearly specified cinderblock.
Truly, a loss to the world of cinema.
Death Wish: "A New York architect turns vigilante hit man after thugs attack his wife and daughter."
Death Wish II: The architect from New York turns vigilante in Los Angeles after more brutality too close to home.
Death Wish 3: The vigilante architect shops by mail for what he needs to waste punks in the streets of New York.
Death Wish 4: The Crackdown: The vigilante architect targets Los Angeles drug rings after the death of his girlfriend's daughter.
Death Wish V: The Face of Death: The New York vigilante goes back to work after a mobster's thugs kill his girlfriend.
Now, laying aside the filmmakers' troubling inability to commit to one numbering system, and the fact that in real life a vigilante architect would be significantly more likely to be targeting members of the city planning department than mobsters, I think they may be on to something here. Frankly, I feel it's a shame that they didn't get a chance to extend their vision to Death Wish 12 and/or XII: The Death of Death Wish, in which the vigilante architect turns even more vigilante to avenge his own murder at the hands of a ruthless graffiti cartel, and also the use of glass bricks in his latest building when he clearly specified cinderblock.
Truly, a loss to the world of cinema.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Return to Tempura Island
I realize I allowed my tempura-based obligations to lapse last week; it happened to be a week when life decided to punch me in the face a couple of times, and I thought it might have affected my taste buds. Also, I didn't feel like it.
Hotaru Japanese Restaurant
33 E 3rd Ave
San Mateo
I keep thinking I've covered all of the restaurants on a particular block, and then I will drive by and notice one or two more that I missed. So it is with the first block of Third Street, and this place, plus at least one more. I'm not sure how I missed it-- it's not particularly inconspicuous. A friendly, smallish restaurant, with a good crowd for a Wednesday by the time I was done eating.
Food: The good news: reasonable prices (16.95 for the tempura/sashimi combo), the option of choosing your fish for the sashimi (I went with the salmon), large servings. The bad news: average, overbattered tempura, poor vegetable selection (two pieces each of green pepper and broccoli), severe sogginess when it got cold. Not appallingly bad, and the sashimi was quite good, but the sort of tempura that makes you wonder why some restaurants bother to serve the dish at all.
Tempura Grade: 3/10
Overall Grade: 4/10
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Good Dog, Else
Else (pictured, front, with Caddie) 1995-2008
Not the best picture, perhaps, taken in action on Christmas morning with the traditional gift of a cow femur, cut in half, but definitely Else at her happiest. In fact, I don't think any animal has ever been as happy as Else with a bone. When she had that, it was like nothing else existed in the world.
She was not, perhaps, a good dog, in the sense of being very obedient or calm or quiet, but she was a Good Dog, and she will be missed.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Glengarry Glen Smurf
[Dave Moss explodes at Ricky Roma and shouts]
Dave Moss: You're smurfed, Rick. Are you smurfing nuts? You're hot, so you think you're the ruler of this place.
Shelley Levene: Now wait a minute, Dave.
Dave Moss: Shut up!
Shelley Levene: Okay...
Dave Moss: You want to decide who should be dealt with how, is that it? I come in the smurfing office today, I get humiliated by some smurf-off cop. I get accused of... I get the smurf thrown in my face by you, you genuine smurf, because you're top name on the board?
Ricky Roma: Is that what I did, Dave? I humiliated you? Oh my Smurf, I'm sorry.
Dave Moss: Sitting on top of the world. Sitting on top of the world, everything's smurfin' peach fuzz.
Ricky Roma: And I don't get a moment to spare for some bust-out humanitarian down on his luck lately?
Dave Moss: Oh, smurf...
Ricky Roma: [cutting him off] Smurf you, Dave. You know you got a big mouth. You make a close, this whole place stinks with your smurfs for a week - how much you just ingested. Oh, what a big man you are! "Hey, let me buy you a pack of gum. I'll show you how to chew it." Whoof! You're pal closes, and all that comes out of your mouth is bile. Ooh, how smurfed-up you are!
Dave Moss: Who's my pal, Ricky? Hmm? What are you? And what are you, Ricky? Huh? Bishop Sheen? What the smurf are you, Mr. Slick? Who - what the smurf are you, "Friend to the working man"? Big deal! SMURF YOU! You got the memory of a smurfin' fly! I never liked you, anyway.
Ricky Roma: What is this, your farewell speech?
Dave Moss: I'm going home.
Ricky Roma: Your farewell to the troops?
Dave Moss: I'm not going home. I'm going to Wisconsin.
Ricky Roma: Have a good trip.
Dave Moss: Aw, smurf you! Smurf the lot of you! Smurf you all!
[exits]
Ricky Roma: [to Shelley] You were saying?
Shelley Levene: Huh?
The preceding was brought to you by The League For Getting Some Smurfing Decency Around Here (TLFGSSDAH)
Dave Moss: You're smurfed, Rick. Are you smurfing nuts? You're hot, so you think you're the ruler of this place.
Shelley Levene: Now wait a minute, Dave.
Dave Moss: Shut up!
Shelley Levene: Okay...
Dave Moss: You want to decide who should be dealt with how, is that it? I come in the smurfing office today, I get humiliated by some smurf-off cop. I get accused of... I get the smurf thrown in my face by you, you genuine smurf, because you're top name on the board?
Ricky Roma: Is that what I did, Dave? I humiliated you? Oh my Smurf, I'm sorry.
Dave Moss: Sitting on top of the world. Sitting on top of the world, everything's smurfin' peach fuzz.
Ricky Roma: And I don't get a moment to spare for some bust-out humanitarian down on his luck lately?
Dave Moss: Oh, smurf...
Ricky Roma: [cutting him off] Smurf you, Dave. You know you got a big mouth. You make a close, this whole place stinks with your smurfs for a week - how much you just ingested. Oh, what a big man you are! "Hey, let me buy you a pack of gum. I'll show you how to chew it." Whoof! You're pal closes, and all that comes out of your mouth is bile. Ooh, how smurfed-up you are!
Dave Moss: Who's my pal, Ricky? Hmm? What are you? And what are you, Ricky? Huh? Bishop Sheen? What the smurf are you, Mr. Slick? Who - what the smurf are you, "Friend to the working man"? Big deal! SMURF YOU! You got the memory of a smurfin' fly! I never liked you, anyway.
Ricky Roma: What is this, your farewell speech?
Dave Moss: I'm going home.
Ricky Roma: Your farewell to the troops?
Dave Moss: I'm not going home. I'm going to Wisconsin.
Ricky Roma: Have a good trip.
Dave Moss: Aw, smurf you! Smurf the lot of you! Smurf you all!
[exits]
Ricky Roma: [to Shelley] You were saying?
Shelley Levene: Huh?
The preceding was brought to you by The League For Getting Some Smurfing Decency Around Here (TLFGSSDAH)
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
New Poll: What Do You Hate About Your Hair?
I have what is known as "wavy" hair. You know those TV ads where the women have hair flows in long shiny waves that they flip around in bright sunshiney places full of flowers? That's not what my hair is like. In this context, for "wavy," read "does whatever it damn well pleases, even if it violates one or more laws of physics." So I end up either straightening it (and having it revert to "wavy" at some point during the day) or trying, with products and scrunching, to make it curly (which I have not yet quite mastered, and generally end up looking like I slept under a bench in a windstorm). But, contrary to all evidence, this is not about me. I know that everybody has something they hate about their hair, and because I care so much, I want to know: what bugs you?
(Okay, I guess I need to be at work to put up a poll. Look for it here tomorrow.)
(Okay, I guess I need to be at work to put up a poll. Look for it here tomorrow.)
What Have I Become?
Apparently, the kind of person who makes an LOLcat homage to an XKCD comic:
see more crazy cat pics
The nice men with the van should be here any minute.
(Note: the text looks fine when I preview it; I have no idea why it doesn't work on the blog.)
see more crazy cat pics
The nice men with the van should be here any minute.
(Note: the text looks fine when I preview it; I have no idea why it doesn't work on the blog.)
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday
So, we had this grand plan for our Sunday in the city, involving getting up early and taking the ferry to Alcatraz (I've never been, despite having lived in the Bay Area most of my life) before the lines got long, then coming back in time to have our traditional tea and get Megan back for her yoga lesson.
Well, we made it for tea.
In my defense, I should point out that my modest excesses of Saturday night did not have any noticeable effect on me in the morning, beyond a mild headache (a fact I attribute to the vast amounts of water I drank before going to bed). But even being in perfectly good shape, it is hard to get motivated to leap out of bed first thing in the morning after a late night to go and do something you could do any weekend you happened to get around to it, especially when you've got a nice comfy bed to stay in.
Short version: I still have never been to Alcatraz.
Instead, after the rather standard chafing-dish buffet in the hotel dining room (uninspiring, but included), we made our way out for a day of casual shopping downtown. First stop was back to Macy's, because I needed socks and where I happened to also acquire a pair of shoes. I have no idea how these things happen to me.
I'll spare you the complete blow-by-blow account, except to say that we made an entirely predictable stop at Anthropologie, increasing my ratio of pretty dresses:events to wear dresses to, to about 15:1. But you never know; at any moment my life might transform into a whirl of cocktail parties and gala openings and what-have-you, and if that happens I want to be prepared.
We did make it for tea, at the restaurant at the top of Neiman Marcus, where we were seated next to a group of ladies there for a baby shower. Which was fine, except for the part where one of them, the honoree, I think, got into a detailed description of the urinary habits of her small child, which she clearly found absolutely fascinating.
Remember, folks, children make you insane.
And that, my friends, pretty much wraps up our weekend in the city. Sure, there were things I left out, like me trolling through DSW for shoes for Megan, or the large and inexplicable group of people of all genders dressed in bridal gowns roaming the streets on Saturday, but I think you get the idea.
Next time: Yosemite?
Well, we made it for tea.
In my defense, I should point out that my modest excesses of Saturday night did not have any noticeable effect on me in the morning, beyond a mild headache (a fact I attribute to the vast amounts of water I drank before going to bed). But even being in perfectly good shape, it is hard to get motivated to leap out of bed first thing in the morning after a late night to go and do something you could do any weekend you happened to get around to it, especially when you've got a nice comfy bed to stay in.
Short version: I still have never been to Alcatraz.
Instead, after the rather standard chafing-dish buffet in the hotel dining room (uninspiring, but included), we made our way out for a day of casual shopping downtown. First stop was back to Macy's, because I needed socks and where I happened to also acquire a pair of shoes. I have no idea how these things happen to me.
I'll spare you the complete blow-by-blow account, except to say that we made an entirely predictable stop at Anthropologie, increasing my ratio of pretty dresses:events to wear dresses to, to about 15:1. But you never know; at any moment my life might transform into a whirl of cocktail parties and gala openings and what-have-you, and if that happens I want to be prepared.
We did make it for tea, at the restaurant at the top of Neiman Marcus, where we were seated next to a group of ladies there for a baby shower. Which was fine, except for the part where one of them, the honoree, I think, got into a detailed description of the urinary habits of her small child, which she clearly found absolutely fascinating.
Remember, folks, children make you insane.
And that, my friends, pretty much wraps up our weekend in the city. Sure, there were things I left out, like me trolling through DSW for shoes for Megan, or the large and inexplicable group of people of all genders dressed in bridal gowns roaming the streets on Saturday, but I think you get the idea.
Next time: Yosemite?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Saturday, Part Two: High Times
It was still early in the afternoon when we were done with Pier 39, and since we were being tourists it seemed like an appropriately touristy thing to do to go climb Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower. We saw the parrots fly by, but didn't spot them in the trees along the stairs, though we did see a red-tailed hawk circling with an eye to a parrot lunch.
Coit Tower: Iconic idiosyncrasy of the San Francisco skyline, affording views across the city, the bay and beyond. My comment, upon arriving: "Traffic is pretty light on the bridge today."
We didn't pay the admission and go into the tower, because we didn't feel like it, so after one circuit around the base we went back down by the other stairs and made our way back towards Downtown. On the way, we passed through Chinatown, which has to be one of the few neighborhoods in the city that has totally resisted the encroachment of the new "modern" businesses. There are no ironic hipster bars, no tiny minimalist galleries, no restaurants specializing in "fusion" of any sort. Just groups of old men playing Mah Jong, storefront businesses offering in explicable services, a guy crossing the street with a crate of chickens (dead and plucked) (the chickens, not the guy), and the exact same tourist-trap shops selling the exact same cheap t-shirts, change purses and bamboo back-scratchers as they had when I came here on grade-school field trips.
On our way back we stopped at Macy's, to get Megan some going-out-in-the-evening clothes (she had only packed for tourism) and to take a look at their flower show display. They must spend a lot of time sweeping up petals. Then it was back to the hotel and some rest for our much-abused feet (as much as I love the comfort features of my new shoes, even they can only do so much), at least until it became clear that the walls of our room were too thin to stand up to the conversation of the people next door, and we had to call down and get ourselves moved. Then, back to the resting.
For dinner we settled on Anzu, in the Hotel Nikko, because it got a good write-up in my Zagat's for its sushi and because it was only about a block away. That part was important. So yes, I had Japanese for dinner, and no, I did not have tempura. It wasn't on the menu, for one thing, and I for one was just fine with that. Instead, we both went for the raw option; we each chose a roll, and I had the sushi assortment, while Megan went for the sashimi. Her sushi roll had spicy tuna in it and a thin slice of jalapeno on top, to which she added as much wasabi to each piece as I had in my entire dish of soy sauce. She offered me a piece, but I declined, in the interest of being able to taste the rest of my dinner. My sushi was delicious, with wonderfully fresh and clearly high-quality fish, though the chef did have an unfortunate affection for putting cucumber in things. I don't like cucumber. I don't like it so much that I spent about a third of the time at dinner eating and the rest poking cucumber out of pieces of sushi with my chopsticks. Megan made fun of me, calling me Daisy "Hates Cucumber" James, but as I pointed out, Megan "Hot Enough For Ya?" Sampson really shouldn't be talking.
The whole point of having a weekend in the city being to have, you know, a weekend in the city, our evening did not end with dinner. On Megan's recommendation we made our way to the bar at the top of the Hilton, where the view is as gorgeous as the drinks are overpriced, though at least we were lucky to get in early enough not to have to pay the cover charge. I had gotten a head start on the the drinking at dinner and with no driving to do I saw no reason not to press my advantage. I was not, I should point out, what anyone would consider wasted. Tipsy, I would say, or perhaps somewhat inebriated, but even after we abandoned the Hilton and stopped for one more at the crowded and yuppified Redwood Room in our hotel, I was entirely lucid, if perhaps a little happier than normal. And I will admit that Megan, who was taking it a little easier, declared me to be "cute," which is perhaps not the usual adjective used to describe my personality. But we both agreed that it was a much better idea to do this sort of thing when you are not particularly young and stupid (or at least young). For one thing, you can afford it.
Next: Hmm, weekend day in San Francisco, what will I do? Why, I just can't imagine. . .
Coit Tower: Iconic idiosyncrasy of the San Francisco skyline, affording views across the city, the bay and beyond. My comment, upon arriving: "Traffic is pretty light on the bridge today."
We didn't pay the admission and go into the tower, because we didn't feel like it, so after one circuit around the base we went back down by the other stairs and made our way back towards Downtown. On the way, we passed through Chinatown, which has to be one of the few neighborhoods in the city that has totally resisted the encroachment of the new "modern" businesses. There are no ironic hipster bars, no tiny minimalist galleries, no restaurants specializing in "fusion" of any sort. Just groups of old men playing Mah Jong, storefront businesses offering in explicable services, a guy crossing the street with a crate of chickens (dead and plucked) (the chickens, not the guy), and the exact same tourist-trap shops selling the exact same cheap t-shirts, change purses and bamboo back-scratchers as they had when I came here on grade-school field trips.
On our way back we stopped at Macy's, to get Megan some going-out-in-the-evening clothes (she had only packed for tourism) and to take a look at their flower show display. They must spend a lot of time sweeping up petals. Then it was back to the hotel and some rest for our much-abused feet (as much as I love the comfort features of my new shoes, even they can only do so much), at least until it became clear that the walls of our room were too thin to stand up to the conversation of the people next door, and we had to call down and get ourselves moved. Then, back to the resting.
For dinner we settled on Anzu, in the Hotel Nikko, because it got a good write-up in my Zagat's for its sushi and because it was only about a block away. That part was important. So yes, I had Japanese for dinner, and no, I did not have tempura. It wasn't on the menu, for one thing, and I for one was just fine with that. Instead, we both went for the raw option; we each chose a roll, and I had the sushi assortment, while Megan went for the sashimi. Her sushi roll had spicy tuna in it and a thin slice of jalapeno on top, to which she added as much wasabi to each piece as I had in my entire dish of soy sauce. She offered me a piece, but I declined, in the interest of being able to taste the rest of my dinner. My sushi was delicious, with wonderfully fresh and clearly high-quality fish, though the chef did have an unfortunate affection for putting cucumber in things. I don't like cucumber. I don't like it so much that I spent about a third of the time at dinner eating and the rest poking cucumber out of pieces of sushi with my chopsticks. Megan made fun of me, calling me Daisy "Hates Cucumber" James, but as I pointed out, Megan "Hot Enough For Ya?" Sampson really shouldn't be talking.
The whole point of having a weekend in the city being to have, you know, a weekend in the city, our evening did not end with dinner. On Megan's recommendation we made our way to the bar at the top of the Hilton, where the view is as gorgeous as the drinks are overpriced, though at least we were lucky to get in early enough not to have to pay the cover charge. I had gotten a head start on the the drinking at dinner and with no driving to do I saw no reason not to press my advantage. I was not, I should point out, what anyone would consider wasted. Tipsy, I would say, or perhaps somewhat inebriated, but even after we abandoned the Hilton and stopped for one more at the crowded and yuppified Redwood Room in our hotel, I was entirely lucid, if perhaps a little happier than normal. And I will admit that Megan, who was taking it a little easier, declared me to be "cute," which is perhaps not the usual adjective used to describe my personality. But we both agreed that it was a much better idea to do this sort of thing when you are not particularly young and stupid (or at least young). For one thing, you can afford it.
Next: Hmm, weekend day in San Francisco, what will I do? Why, I just can't imagine. . .
Daisy and Megan in the Big City
Saturday: Part One
Our Monterey Adventure having gone so well, Megan and I decided that our next weekend trip would be to somewhere more urban. So on Saturday morning we travelled by train from Berkeley to the fine city of San Francisco for a weekend of touristy fun. I had come across a deal at the Clift Hotel, which happens to be where my mom used to stay when her family came down to the city. Unfortunately, aside from the still-impressive Redwood Room (the bar paneled entirely with the wood from one redwood tree), I don't think it would be recognizable as the place where she and my uncle Bruce dropped hats down the stairwell. But it was a nice place to stay, in a modernist-hipster, lots of funny chairs sort of way, even if they did charge for internet (hence the blogging delay).
It was only around eleven in the morning when we got there, but we were able to get into our room (somewhat delayed by the pair of girls ahead of us in line at the front desk who clearly didn't think eleven in the morning was too early to start having fun of the chemical sort). But we made it through eventually, dropped our bags off in the room and headed out take a look at the town.
Did you know that it's St. Patrick's Day on Monday? To be honest, it had kind of slipped my mind. Which is why I was surprised and confused by the closed-off streets and the sound of bagpipes, but the giant green novelty hats clued us in soon enough. We walked down along Market, against the direction of the parade so that we got a kind of speeded up version of it going by. It was indeed a parade, with marching bands and fire trucks and the mayor out of his car and walking, so as to prove he was a man of the people, especially those people who really believe that friendship means sharing, and a largely male adult cheerleading squad.
We stopped for lunch at Megan's favorite dim sum place downtown, the first of several intensely calorific meals of the weekend. We didn't really have any set plans for the rest of the afternoon, but since we were headed East we continued in that direction down to the Ferry Building, marveled at that onetime ordinary municipal structure turned-world's largest yuppie food court, then made a sharp left and walked along the Embarcadero to Pier 39. There we threaded our way through the tourist crowds, perused the shops with their goods of marvelous tackiness (since I gave Megan a hard enough time about her love of teh cute in our last adventure, I won't even mention about how we went into the Department 56 store, especially since she didn't buy anything) and stopped to greet the now world-famous sea lion colony, who I must say were shamelessly playing to the crowd.
Next: It's All Uphill From Here
Our Monterey Adventure having gone so well, Megan and I decided that our next weekend trip would be to somewhere more urban. So on Saturday morning we travelled by train from Berkeley to the fine city of San Francisco for a weekend of touristy fun. I had come across a deal at the Clift Hotel, which happens to be where my mom used to stay when her family came down to the city. Unfortunately, aside from the still-impressive Redwood Room (the bar paneled entirely with the wood from one redwood tree), I don't think it would be recognizable as the place where she and my uncle Bruce dropped hats down the stairwell. But it was a nice place to stay, in a modernist-hipster, lots of funny chairs sort of way, even if they did charge for internet (hence the blogging delay).
It was only around eleven in the morning when we got there, but we were able to get into our room (somewhat delayed by the pair of girls ahead of us in line at the front desk who clearly didn't think eleven in the morning was too early to start having fun of the chemical sort). But we made it through eventually, dropped our bags off in the room and headed out take a look at the town.
Did you know that it's St. Patrick's Day on Monday? To be honest, it had kind of slipped my mind. Which is why I was surprised and confused by the closed-off streets and the sound of bagpipes, but the giant green novelty hats clued us in soon enough. We walked down along Market, against the direction of the parade so that we got a kind of speeded up version of it going by. It was indeed a parade, with marching bands and fire trucks and the mayor out of his car and walking, so as to prove he was a man of the people, especially those people who really believe that friendship means sharing, and a largely male adult cheerleading squad.
We stopped for lunch at Megan's favorite dim sum place downtown, the first of several intensely calorific meals of the weekend. We didn't really have any set plans for the rest of the afternoon, but since we were headed East we continued in that direction down to the Ferry Building, marveled at that onetime ordinary municipal structure turned-world's largest yuppie food court, then made a sharp left and walked along the Embarcadero to Pier 39. There we threaded our way through the tourist crowds, perused the shops with their goods of marvelous tackiness (since I gave Megan a hard enough time about her love of teh cute in our last adventure, I won't even mention about how we went into the Department 56 store, especially since she didn't buy anything) and stopped to greet the now world-famous sea lion colony, who I must say were shamelessly playing to the crowd.
Next: It's All Uphill From Here
Friday, March 14, 2008
Going. . .Going. . . Going . . .
It's been about a week and a half since the big layoffs announcement and the exits are well and truly underway. Some people send out goodbye emails, some wander around the building saying their farewells, some I don't even know they're going until they're gone. We had a kind of mass going-away party in the conference room for all the Research layoffs yesterday, with beer and food and a slide show of photos from happier times, and it was all very depressing. Maybe once you've been through a few of these you get better at it, but right now, asking people what they're going to do next, listening to myself say cliche crap like "you'll probably look back and think this was the best thing that could have happened," I don't think I want the practice. Making it worse was the fact that I wasn't totally clear on who all was going causing situations like when I was having a conversation with someone for about ten minutes before I found out she was leaving, at which point I started backpedaling like it was an Olympic even and I had a shot at a medal. So, yeah, not a fun party, but I guess I shouldn't be complaining. I can think of some people who probably enjoyed it a lot less than I did.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Tempura Thursday IIX: Back to San Mateo
Restaurant Mutsu
279 Baldwin Ave.
San Mateo, CA
Tonight my primary criterion for choosing a restaurant was parking. It was starting to rain and, being me, I hadn't bothered to wear any sort of jacket, so I wasn't about to take a spot three blocks away from where I was going. Which meant the main drag downtown was out, so I ended up wandering a little farther afield. The restaurant was on the corner of a relatively quiet street, and it wasn't exactly crowded, but I didn't necessarily consider that a bad sign. The decor was midcentury-family room, with fake wood panelling, formica tables, well-worn chairs upholstered in floral plastic. Hipster bars spend thousands trying to achieve this level of authenticity.
Food: So I wanted to like this place; it was exactly what you would expect your secret special find of a great hidden restaurant to be. But things started looking down when the food started coming, beginning with the pickles, which were more like chunks of cucumber in vinegar dressing, and continuing with the uninspiring soup. So by the time my dinner arrived my expectations had been readjusted, in a more realistic direction, as it happened.
First, the good news. The selection of vegetables in the tempura was large and varied and the lychee sorbet they had for dessert was delicious. The tempura itself, unfortunately, not so much. As usual, it wasn't bad at first, but it was heavy and greasy (the napkin they put down under it was entirely soaked in oil by the end of the meal) and became nearly inedible when it got cold. Also, the batter kept coming loose from the pieces, and you really should pull the strings from green beans before you serve them. So the place wasn't exactly a winner, which was why I was surprised to overhear one of the other people there say that they come here all the way from San Ramon (!) for the sushi. So I'll give it the benefit of the doubt on that, though I will say that the sashimi they served me was unexceptional. (I wonder if ordering a tempura/sashimi combo marks you out as someone who doesn't know their stuff, and therefore gets you the lesser pieces of fish.)
A pity, really; it would have been nice to find a good place with parking.
Tempura: 4/10
Overall: 4/10
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
There Were Chaps, Who Did Taps. . .
It's easy to despair for the kids these days, with their text messaging and their Miley Cyruses and their light-up sneakers, but I am here to tell you that I have found a redeeming aspect to today's youth culture: This generation, if given a chance, could be the ones to save modern dance.
No seriously. There's the ballroom cheese of "Dancing With the Stars," the highly technical criticism on "So You Think You Can Dance" and now, on MTV, that bastion of trash-culture, the over-named and ludicrously padded-for-time "Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew" feeding the kids complicated choreography with a tasty hip-hop coating.
My personal favorite team is the highly-skilled if poorly spelled "JabbaWokkeeZ" (Lewis Carroll: The original gangsta? Discuss.) who I think could give any NEA-funded, body-painted arm-wavers a run for their money:
Admit it: change the music to something plonking and tuneless and dress those guys in pink body-stockings and the highbrow-artsy people would be going nuts for them.
And then there's "BreakSk8" who, um, breakdance on rollerskates:
Okay, that's not art. But damn if it isn't fun.
No seriously. There's the ballroom cheese of "Dancing With the Stars," the highly technical criticism on "So You Think You Can Dance" and now, on MTV, that bastion of trash-culture, the over-named and ludicrously padded-for-time "Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew" feeding the kids complicated choreography with a tasty hip-hop coating.
My personal favorite team is the highly-skilled if poorly spelled "JabbaWokkeeZ" (Lewis Carroll: The original gangsta? Discuss.) who I think could give any NEA-funded, body-painted arm-wavers a run for their money:
Admit it: change the music to something plonking and tuneless and dress those guys in pink body-stockings and the highbrow-artsy people would be going nuts for them.
And then there's "BreakSk8" who, um, breakdance on rollerskates:
Okay, that's not art. But damn if it isn't fun.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
New Poll: How Many Drinks Would It Take To Get You To Sing Karaoke?
(Update: Polling is fixed. Please answer responsibly.)
Last Saturday I went to my friends Wes and Mayanka's shared birthday party, held at a karaoke bar in the city. It was an agreeably dive-y place, with a full-on karaoke setup in the front, and packed to the gills with people. There was a well-thumbed book of songs available for singing, with classics like "Don't Cha" and the entire Neil Diamond oeuvre.
I am not a singer, at least not in public. What happens in the safety of my car is nobody's business but my own. But my only previous experience with karaoke was singing backup for "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" at a pub in Edinburgh, and I felt no need to add to that. At most, by the third drink I was receptive to Jora's suggestion that we do a group rendition of "Free Falling", but the facts that I was driving home and the bar was so crowded that you had to wait about an hour and a half between when you put in your song and when you got your chance to sing meant that by the time our turn came around the idea was significantly less appealling. And I have to tell you, there are few things duller than a karaoke bar when you are sober.
So, my question to you is (or will be, when the aforementioned techincal difficulties get straightened out): How many drinks would it take to get you to sing karaoke?
Last Saturday I went to my friends Wes and Mayanka's shared birthday party, held at a karaoke bar in the city. It was an agreeably dive-y place, with a full-on karaoke setup in the front, and packed to the gills with people. There was a well-thumbed book of songs available for singing, with classics like "Don't Cha" and the entire Neil Diamond oeuvre.
I am not a singer, at least not in public. What happens in the safety of my car is nobody's business but my own. But my only previous experience with karaoke was singing backup for "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" at a pub in Edinburgh, and I felt no need to add to that. At most, by the third drink I was receptive to Jora's suggestion that we do a group rendition of "Free Falling", but the facts that I was driving home and the bar was so crowded that you had to wait about an hour and a half between when you put in your song and when you got your chance to sing meant that by the time our turn came around the idea was significantly less appealling. And I have to tell you, there are few things duller than a karaoke bar when you are sober.
So, my question to you is (or will be, when the aforementioned techincal difficulties get straightened out): How many drinks would it take to get you to sing karaoke?
Friday, March 07, 2008
Friday Bonus Tempura
Sugata Japanese Restaurant
1105 Solano Ave.
Albany, CA
As you may have noticed, this week's tempura tasting is taking place outside of my usual range. As it happens, this week was rather busy, and before I knew it, it was Friday (today). And since I had an appointment to get my hair cut today in Berkeley (hey, a good stylist is hard to find), I met my parents for dinner at the Japanese restaurant we used to go to a lot when I was a kid. It's a tiny place and we had to wait about ten minutes for a table, but the people were friendly, if somewhat disorganized.
Food: Tonight was somewhat different than usual, since I was eating somewhere I had been before and I wasn't dining alone. The latter part was a definite improvement, as I could give the pieces I didn't want to my dad and because we could also order some sushi to start. We had the "special California roll", made with real crab (I asked) and topped with tobiko, which all by itself added a point to the overall score. (Mainly for the crab. It's hard to find real crab in sushi, and I don't see any point in eating the fake stuff.)
The first difference, the one about having been there before, actually made the judging a little harder. I knew as soon as I took a bite of the tempura (combo with tekka sashimi, 19.95) that this was the tempura of my memory, and I had trouble getting away from that to judge the dish objectively. Ultimately, I thought it was fairly good, crisp batter, good selection of vegetables, generous amount of shrimp, but hampered by overbattering and ultimately a little bit heavy. The sashimi was also fine, if not spectacular (incidentally, this was the restaurant where I first tried raw fish, in the form of tekka sashimi when I was twelve or thirteen).
There's another restaurant, way down San Pablo Ave. in El Cerrito, where my family used to go when I was even younger, and where I believe I did most of my early tempura-eating (according to my mom, who would know, what I primarily had in Japan was tonkatsu). I'll try and get over there at some point and see how that one holds up.
Tempura Grade: 7/10
Overall: 8/10
ADDENDUM, because I know you care so much:The haircut I drove to Berkeley to get. I like it. (It's more interesting than in this picture.)
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Canned Food Items I Would Not Know Existed If I Had Not Spent the Evening Volunteering at the San Carlos Food Bank
1. "Beef in Juices"
2. Lasagna*
3. Herring with Tomato Sauce
*I was aware of the existence of this before, but not in canned form.
2. Lasagna*
3. Herring with Tomato Sauce
*I was aware of the existence of this before, but not in canned form.
Hello? Hell No.
Thanks to last night's American Idol I, like so many other people, was reminded of Lionel Richie's video for the song "Hello", a video I remembered primarily for the hilariously awful clay bust of the singer featured therein. But when I pulled it up to show to Laura, who did not understand my reaction, I discovered there was so much more wrong in it. So very much that I had to share it with you, inexplicable spoken intro and all:
So, let me get this straight, Mr. Richie. You are a teacher, stalking your blind student to all of her classes, ogling her in a leotard and drunk-dialing her in the middle of the night*, and your idea of a happy ending is to have her pawing at your face? That's so creepy, it's an insult to the word "creepy".
*Yes, I know there was no mention of the fact that he was drunk in that scene, but come on.
So, let me get this straight, Mr. Richie. You are a teacher, stalking your blind student to all of her classes, ogling her in a leotard and drunk-dialing her in the middle of the night*, and your idea of a happy ending is to have her pawing at your face? That's so creepy, it's an insult to the word "creepy".
*Yes, I know there was no mention of the fact that he was drunk in that scene, but come on.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Here We Go
This is the fan:
Today, something is going to hit it. I have it on good authority that it will not be me. Stay tuned for further updates.
UPDATE FOR THOSE PEOPLE ACTUALLY READING THIS OUT OF INTEREST IN MY EMPLOYMENT SITUATION*: The thing that everybody knew was going to happen, happened, and the upshot is that my employer is shortly to become the employer of many fewer people one of whom (fortunately) (for me, anyway) will be me. So for my part not much is going to change, except for maybe shorter lines in the cafeteria, but for about half of my fellow workers this has been a truly sucky day.
*Mom
Today, something is going to hit it. I have it on good authority that it will not be me. Stay tuned for further updates.
UPDATE FOR THOSE PEOPLE ACTUALLY READING THIS OUT OF INTEREST IN MY EMPLOYMENT SITUATION*: The thing that everybody knew was going to happen, happened, and the upshot is that my employer is shortly to become the employer of many fewer people one of whom (fortunately) (for me, anyway) will be me. So for my part not much is going to change, except for maybe shorter lines in the cafeteria, but for about half of my fellow workers this has been a truly sucky day.
*Mom
Monday, March 03, 2008
Reason #385 Why We Need Some Furniture in this Damn Place
Because there are many fine things that can be eaten why sitting comfortably up in your bed, but barbecued pork ribs are not among them.
The World: Going Insane or Already Beyond Saving?
Britain considers warning labels for cheese.
I know one person who is going to be opposing this measure:
I know one person who is going to be opposing this measure:
More Politics
I know, this is getting repetitive, but I just can't help it. You should just be proud of me for not posting them all. (More are available here, if you, like me, just can't get enough of the real issues in this election.)
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