tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-252157702024-03-16T18:41:23.711-07:00No Middle InitialCathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-67239876342915057372016-08-16T15:43:00.001-07:002016-08-18T17:07:55.359-07:00Neighborhood Watch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last week it happened twice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was stopped on a sidewalk near home in the evening hours (between 10pm and midnight) by tall white men, confident and handsome, each a little angrier than the situation would warrant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Where do you live?" they say to me. They aren't asking in a neighborly way. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2014/08/waiting-for-rainy-season.html" target="_blank">They are the self-deputized neighborhood watch</a>. Because I won't fess up my exact address, they usually end the conversation by telling me to get the hell out of their neighborhood and stay out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>They picture themselves as cinematic steely-eyed vigilantes</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me describe myself. I'm small<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>slightly under 5 feet tall on a good day<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>with long messy brown hair; I'm wearing jeans, a plain long-sleeved t-shirt (sans logos, pictures, obscenities, band names, affiliations), and Asics running shoes, the kind with reflective stripes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm no taller than the average 10 year-old and I'm dressed like one too, an unfashionable 10 year-old. I'm no <a href="http://www.thestylerookie.com/2008_12_01_archive.html" target="_blank">Tavi Gevinson</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Did I mention that I haven't been 10 for decades and decades?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm also an insomniac, apt to be awake late at night. When I was very young I would lock myself in the bathroom and read <i>Mad Magazine</i> when I couldn't sleep. Or I'd lie in bed and balance a pillow on my feet. But as I got older, I started walking. I've been rambling around the neighborhood<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>whichever neighborhood I happen to be sleeping in<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>for many years now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The funny thing is that it's different when I walk several hours later, at 1 or 2 AM, when it's truly late at night. At 1 AM these guys are usually snug abed, the hum of their air conditioners concealing my quiet footfalls. They don't lose any sleep over me, these opportunistic </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">guardians of the </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">neighborhood.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But this time, it wasn't so late. It was 11:30 at night on a recent Wednesday. I was walking in my parents' neighborhood, <a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/LA_Stories.pdf" target="_blank">a peacock-infested suburb</a> south of LAX. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RjWKPdDk0_U" target="_blank">Gordita Beach-adjacent</a>, if you will. The neighborhood has always been on the xenophobic end of the spectrum, a hotbed of surfer localism and long-time card-carrying John Birch Society membership.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'd gotten as far as Plainfield Drive. Plainfield is a long, gentle descent: under the bright streetlights, you can see all the way from the top of the hill to the bottom. Blocks in this neighborhood can be almost a mile long.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Although there are a few mature trees<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>the houses are about 50 years old<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>the view from where I'm standing is mostly unobstructed. Big shade trees just don't grow in the rocky alkaline soil around here. On one side of the street is a steep iceplant-and-ivy covered hill, on the other, midcentury houses. The side of the street with houses has a sidewalk; the iceplant-and-ivy side doesn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'd actually noticed a house midblock on Plainfield the night before. A small grave marker near the sidewalk had caught my eye. I'd hoped it was a memorial for a hamster or a goldfish; the thought of the family German Shepherd buried so close to the sidewalk made me shudder. I'd also clocked new artificial turf, matching ram's head ornaments on either side of the driveway, and an American flag affixed to the front of the house. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxStL_8KTV9c30kkqB6OYK_uy4uBqs0UOnQ82cg4PVPEHV91WveUA4J6xYYXmjdX5AuZaGrf-Umaf7oPQWIYD5MZf2v99zokAgOEfGC3jBEu9Nz6BuBWucowDJcbpWA8cMILC/s1600/pet-grave-markers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxStL_8KTV9c30kkqB6OYK_uy4uBqs0UOnQ82cg4PVPEHV91WveUA4J6xYYXmjdX5AuZaGrf-Umaf7oPQWIYD5MZf2v99zokAgOEfGC3jBEu9Nz6BuBWucowDJcbpWA8cMILC/s320/pet-grave-markers.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I love spotting this kind of stuff when I walk, but I know better than to pause or take a photo (although I might allow myself this luxury around Xmas time, when the decorations are lavish and strange: crèches with a giant baby Jesus and itty-bitty wise men, inflatable Santas and spooky 12 foot tall snowmen, moving merry-go-rounds and animated reindeer).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anyway, I was walking downhill<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>purposefully<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">—</span>listening to a several-year-old episode of <a href="http://cupodcast.com/" target="_blank">Catching Up</a> on my mp3 player. A white Mercedes passed me and swung over to park behind another white luxury car on the iceplant-and-ivy side of the street (the side without houses). A third car was already parked directly across the street, in front of the house with the tiny grave marker. It's rare to see so many cars parked on the street here. By this time, I saw that the trunk of the third car, the one nearest me on the sidewalk, was popped open.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A tall figure got out of the Mercedes and started moving stuff in fancy shopping bags from the backseat of his Mercedes into the open trunk of the other car. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even so early it's unusual to see other people out when you're in this part of LA. We're all of 270 or 280 blocks from downtown. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In San Francisco at this hour, I might see someone having a smoke, walking a dog, staggering home from a party, or getting out of an Uber, rolling suitcase in hand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here I rarely see a soul, even at 11:30. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I kept walking. The figure had resolved itself into a man, well-dressed. Perhaps he lived in the house with the pet grave and statuary out front. Normally I would've tried to avoid him, but really unless I wanted to turn around and go back the way I came, I couldn't. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In my ears, <a href="http://traffic.libsyn.com/cupodcast/84.mp3" target="_blank">Joe was telling a story about his cousin Richard's Instagram feed</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I drew even with the man. He'd stopped transferring shopping bags and was saying something to me. I reached up and took one of my earbuds out. I could still hear Joe talking in one ear. The other earbud leaked podcast into the night air.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Having a nice evening?" the man asked. His voice was aggressive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Yes. I am." I said. "And you?" I turned to face him as a 'see? I mean no harm' gesture.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the man wasn't satisfied with exchanging greetings; he evidently decided to get to the heart of the matter before he let me get back to the podcast.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Where are you going?" he asked.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I'm on a walk," I said. "I grew up around here." I smiled at him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There. I'd given him enough information to reassure him. No funny business. I'm not writing on the sidewalk or peeing on the artificial turf. Maybe he'd even be delighted by this fit of nostalgia (for who doesn't walk around their childhood neighborhood, marvelling at how memory exaggerates things?). Or perhaps he'd even say he grew up around here too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"But where do you live NOW?" he said. His face was angry. I realized he'd decided I didn't belong in his middle-class professional neighborhood. </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Do these pants make me look poor?</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Around here," I said. "I live around here." I didn't want to explain that I was visiting my parents.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Then what's your address?" He was a nice-looking blond dude, but now his face was contorted with rage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"What's wrong with you?" I said. "You're asking a small woman, walking alone, where she lives? Get a grip, mister!" I noticed that my voice had developed an edge too. I always feel like I'm back in high school when stuff like this happens. I had to tell myself that I wasn't doing anything wrong, because somehow I felt like I was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He started saying something else, something angry, but I didn't want to keep listening. I put my other earbud back in. Joe was still talking about <a href="https://www.instagram.com/emilioton/" target="_blank">Richard's Instagram feed</a>, but I couldn't focus on the story. I walked away fast, willing myself not to run. I wondered if this man was going to call the cops on me, or whether he had a gun stashed in the glove compartment of one of the cars. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The trouble with these mile-long blocks is that you can't turn off on a side street and take a different route. You just have to keep going. So I kept walking. My heart was pounding. I thought he might be watching me, but I didn't want to turn around and check.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hate confrontations. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I said, I usually walk much later, when the skunks and raccoons are rifling through the black trash toters and the humans aren't out. By the time I go out, the recycling scavengers have already sifted through the blue toters, careful not to leave a mess. The skunks and raccoons aren't so careful; they just flip over the bins to see what's inside. But the skunks and raccoons never ask me where I live.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What's wrong with these crazy white men? Is it so outré to take a walk at night?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I turn left on Monero to check out the view. The moonlight cuts a wide white swath across the dark ocean. You can see the outline of a palm tree. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It looks like a fucking postcard. </span>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-20396221156542378552014-08-17T00:11:00.000-07:002014-08-17T10:32:20.353-07:00Waiting for the rainy season<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoXS3ME2vgqM6o15QRaCcqMnOnwbEzIcIFiRlDiBBAB0wp40pxhuscl95tAGF0X19KpHpYsr8uyiBR8yL_a2IW-PMd9WBuyb4xJEV38lx_tElXxzKZSGeiXBhcjZbe1rUx6s0/s1600/LOTSL_stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoXS3ME2vgqM6o15QRaCcqMnOnwbEzIcIFiRlDiBBAB0wp40pxhuscl95tAGF0X19KpHpYsr8uyiBR8yL_a2IW-PMd9WBuyb4xJEV38lx_tElXxzKZSGeiXBhcjZbe1rUx6s0/s1600/LOTSL_stairs.jpg" height="132" width="160" /></a>
The other night I was taking my walk earlier than usual, not
long after midnight, and a CEO type, a tall man with forgettable WASPy features
and recently coiffed brown hair, approached me.
He was perhaps 40 and dressed too formally for a late-night stroll
around the block.<br />
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He said, "I know you've got chalk in your hand. I want
you to stop writing on the sidewalk." He was so angry his voice quavered.<br />
<br />
He was right. I had chalk in my hand. I wasn't about to
write though. I was inspecting a hunk of wire on the street, a remnant from a
sloppy construction jobsite. This is a place on my route where I frequently
pick up nails. I do it in memory of Uwe Dobers ("Fine European
Construction"). When Mr. Dobers's crew was working on the place next door
to us, our Hondas suffered an abnormal number of flat tires. There'd always
be stray nails on our driveway, fallout from lax oversight. Twice nails
punctured the sidewalls, and we had to buy new tires. Since then I've
been compulsive about picking up nails and sharp things from the street.<br />
<br />
I had taken the piece of chalk out of my pocket, lest it
would fall out while I was picking up the wire. But I dropped the wire when I
saw him, startled by a big guy walking toward me fast so late at night. I
should add, I'm small and feral-looking. I don't pose much of a physical
threat.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDhwFcj0r_9H737TvZSAN8vb7_kMUiz54n33kABDGJHfJ2fRsaDx59Wyq9VHxE33x1vF1qh9Qkm3El2NIC3XtHjRFHoAusBsmslA1Mv7F6b-Ot37TxCFRbA-dz34oMzBx8Lfb/s1600/Major_Hoople.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfDhwFcj0r_9H737TvZSAN8vb7_kMUiz54n33kABDGJHfJ2fRsaDx59Wyq9VHxE33x1vF1qh9Qkm3El2NIC3XtHjRFHoAusBsmslA1Mv7F6b-Ot37TxCFRbA-dz34oMzBx8Lfb/s1600/Major_Hoople.jpg" height="320" width="307" /></a>But he was right. I have written on the sidewalk, here and
there, always something small—a <a href="http://lotsl.podbean.com/" target="_blank">LOTSL</a> (a podcast I think many of you would
enjoy) or a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Boarding_House" target="_blank">FAP!</a> (a homage to Major Hoople, a long-running comic about the
gouty Major Hoople, a fat man with a bulbous nose who can often be found
wearing a Shriner's cap). More occasionally, I'll draw a small <a href="http://cl49.pynchonwiki.com/wiki/images/4/45/MutedPosthorn.png" target="_blank">muted post horn</a>,
in the hope of thrilling a <a href="http://cl49.pynchonwiki.com/wiki/index.php?title=Main_Page" target="_blank">Pynchon </a>fan.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I do it. It's a compulsion. I don't do it
often, and the marks aren't particularly noticeable. They come off with the
scuff of a tasseled loafer.<br />
<br />
It would've been disingenuous of me to deny his rage-fueled
accusations. Instead I said, "Okay. I'll stop now. But I think you'll find
I'm not the only one who writes on the sidewalks around here." <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgDysj0ooPXtKmBoFR0sFXZmeG4HzvC50XxNT-jz8L8XRFK8EwMsTciVaTFtGb19vQ6sEW9Sv7knrINok_hhpDH6fA1NNmtX_leDkQlN-FPHOIm94sKgc1JNhyphenhyphenZ67TH-cKWIg/s1600/poot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgDysj0ooPXtKmBoFR0sFXZmeG4HzvC50XxNT-jz8L8XRFK8EwMsTciVaTFtGb19vQ6sEW9Sv7knrINok_hhpDH6fA1NNmtX_leDkQlN-FPHOIm94sKgc1JNhyphenhyphenZ67TH-cKWIg/s1600/poot.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>
He seemed too angry, given the nature and scope of the
crime. I also thought he was way too optimistic that he'd singlehandedly
brought down a major graffiti ring by hunting me down.<br />
<br />
Lots of other chalk marks besmirch his lovely white
sidewalks, including huge dense scribbles made by the young spawn of our
neighbors. Their drawings are far cuter than mine (some are even lovely and
show artistic promise). But often these children—despite the hovering
ministrations of their parents—don't color inside the lines. They won't <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/education/archive/2014/06/how-to-get-into-harvard/373726/" target="_blank">get into Harvard</a> if they can't learn to color neatly.<br />
<br />
And not to nitpick, but my usual marks despoil an area about
3" by 8" or 24 square inches. The kids cover vast swaths of sidewalk
with their hopscotch games, desultory drawings of happy families and marching
elephants, and messages to daddy. An average drawing fills an area of about 3'
by 8', or 3456 square inches, <i>144 times
my chalk footprint</i>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1I5KpQroi6BWGqGTUQbVvR-1hxy8EgXBU-80-F0TgIejokJcE44p5q3d0g5C_pjcaZ5Xn9mKH7X0c0yX_LZieF4fu_9ADysWCwpfQ-ClmrwKOX4FJBsgoJF_6Gkk5C89dDzK/s1600/mixed+nuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1I5KpQroi6BWGqGTUQbVvR-1hxy8EgXBU-80-F0TgIejokJcE44p5q3d0g5C_pjcaZ5Xn9mKH7X0c0yX_LZieF4fu_9ADysWCwpfQ-ClmrwKOX4FJBsgoJF_6Gkk5C89dDzK/s1600/mixed+nuts.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>
Nor am I the only grown person with the temerity to write in
chalk. There are occasional messages. I don't know who writes them, but I love
it when I find one. I spent hours following a trail of arrows a couple of years
ago. At the end, whether by design or coincidence, I found a half-eaten
container of mixed nuts.<br />
<br />
Mr. Angry CEO said the whole thing again as we parted, word
for word. This time I said, "Okay. Fine. I hear you." I was polite
and conciliatory.<br />
<br />
To be honest, I was more than a little embarrassed. I
thought, "Aw, I should just knock it off. This guy is genuinely
upset." In retrospect, it seems clueless on my part to think people who
park their new Jaguars and high-end German luxury cars—cars with finish as hard
and shiny as a rhinoceros beetle—on the street, wheels carefully turned in to
the curb, would have a sense of humor about sidewalk chalk. I was treating the
sidewalks of my neighborhood as if they were public.<br />
<br />
"I'll stop," I added.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZv5Ca0Dl8-d6JNcWjZh2D-VfeUAeL-utY9r_4JL0pd8sVyVxqJv9YumWNZiqi-HHPiDs-P_GgViBHoqbOofV4KC-5SsDzQJ98_dnz2x8TNRJmOulWM1ZtLzADGZsNvFTPgbp/s1600/MP3_player.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZv5Ca0Dl8-d6JNcWjZh2D-VfeUAeL-utY9r_4JL0pd8sVyVxqJv9YumWNZiqi-HHPiDs-P_GgViBHoqbOofV4KC-5SsDzQJ98_dnz2x8TNRJmOulWM1ZtLzADGZsNvFTPgbp/s1600/MP3_player.jpg" height="200" width="151" /></a>
Then, much to my relief, we parted. He said something else
as he was walking away from me, but I'd returned to my MP3 player, my constant
companion when I go on walks. I listen to podcasts. As I said, the LOTSL I had
written was an advertisement for a podcast. You can search for LOTSL on the
web, and you'll easily find the podcast so you can download it and give it a listen
too. <br />
<br />
It's much more dangerous to chalk up a "<a href="http://bigfattyonline.com/" target="_blank">Big Fatty</a>"
on the sidewalk, and to expect the search to go well.<br />
<br />
I should mention, this was a gay neighborhood, and these are
gay podcasts. I really did think some of my neighbors would enjoy listening to
LOTSL. But I probably should have attended to the steady rise in property
values and noticed the changes afoot in the neighborhood; it's just not the
neighborhood I moved into at the tail end of the 1990s.<br />
<br />
You don't see "<a href="http://www.ebar.com/pride/article.php?sec=pride&article=71" target="_blank">Keep the Castro Queer</a>" bumperstickers
anymore. I miss them.<br />
<br />
The confrontation unnerved me. But I walked on. My walk is
often the best part of my day. It's reduced my tendency to insomnia; it calms
me down; and it makes me feel good, exuberant, alive. I'd even love to go back
to running, but I'm old, and I'm certain my knees (which click and lock with
every step) wouldn't allow it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nsFNi4jXTS4XmKEXO9nfHWj3JBrA5PrPBZ_gJhYDJWFJRyULURLh1UM1GcTFN2-rfVUt9veFaf1OaUhDywoq1aMnSulybwVkbS2yJeM0OSWWaoPL2Ln0mSQJm9RKj2vp6ZKm/s1600/map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nsFNi4jXTS4XmKEXO9nfHWj3JBrA5PrPBZ_gJhYDJWFJRyULURLh1UM1GcTFN2-rfVUt9veFaf1OaUhDywoq1aMnSulybwVkbS2yJeM0OSWWaoPL2Ln0mSQJm9RKj2vp6ZKm/s1600/map.jpg" height="298" width="320" /></a>
But something was making my <a href="http://marvelanimated.wikia.com/wiki/Spider-Sense" target="_blank">Spidey-sense</a> tingle. I turned
around quickly. Although we’d originally been walking in opposite directions,
now Mr. Angry CEO was following me, about a half a block behind me.<br />
<br />
It was creepy.<br />
<br />
I haven't had a stalker in many years. But I do remember
that feeling, that creepy, creepy feeling that someone might be right behind
you.<br />
<br />
When he saw me look back, he turned the corner and
disappeared down another street. Weird. I continued on my way, stopping only to
check for a Duncan yoyo, the kind that lights up. It had been left atop a
retaining wall. I was planning to stop and give it a few yos as I walked by,
then return it to its nest when I was done. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACh2ZFxo2ETjXCJrpclLrMbCy3v0jHuuV1YmpemVMBrcoXPMTPeIh8CGM7CjFleElXXJbHguomctdkjFeMWu5h6G8w1te50fqgG-DZ-Z58fYH3NvA66nlE-DEzDqDJnsc3gQm/s1600/duncan-fh-zero-yo-yo-clear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACh2ZFxo2ETjXCJrpclLrMbCy3v0jHuuV1YmpemVMBrcoXPMTPeIh8CGM7CjFleElXXJbHguomctdkjFeMWu5h6G8w1te50fqgG-DZ-Z58fYH3NvA66nlE-DEzDqDJnsc3gQm/s1600/duncan-fh-zero-yo-yo-clear.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>
For the first time in a couple of weeks, it wasn't there. It
occurred to me that I was sufficiently rattled that I wasn't listening very
carefully to the podcasts. I usually have out-loud conversations with them.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, at the next corner, Mr. Angry CEO stepped out
of the shadows, primed for another confrontation. Apparently I was supposed to
leave <i>his </i>neighborhood immediately after our first conversation, so he had
walked around the block in the opposite direction to intercept me. Did he think
I was going to just ignore his fury and blithely keep walking and chalking? <br />
<br />
I was about a block from home.<br />
<br />
He delivered his speech AGAIN, verbatim. He'd been
rehearsing it. This time he followed it up by saying, "Where do you live?"
He said this in a way that I found wholly provocative.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbShfHAE10KAInsn3ebPfpQ4Lw_TTjZFRgPC1lY_hsdSROi30vTUZyYtCtSWYJN6p-f1Fizx_rx5z5MNByaSV1DsIANwWlQGZxcqztu06BzF6I_GwyoExiaMRFe_7hMySuRF5/s1600/Lovable_Douchebag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbShfHAE10KAInsn3ebPfpQ4Lw_TTjZFRgPC1lY_hsdSROi30vTUZyYtCtSWYJN6p-f1Fizx_rx5z5MNByaSV1DsIANwWlQGZxcqztu06BzF6I_GwyoExiaMRFe_7hMySuRF5/s1600/Lovable_Douchebag.jpg" height="156" width="200" /></a>
I said, "None of your business, mister." It was
late at night. Was he planning to follow me home? <br />
<br />
He said, "Well, I'm a homeowner around here. You write
ALL OVER this hill."<br />
<br />
What had he seen when our paths diverged? I don't usually
walk the route he'd just taken. Last time I'd gone that way, there was nothing,
save some spray paint symbols that the utility company used to mark something
they'd installed underground. Had he mistaken me for PG&E?<br />
<br />
I said, simply, "I don't know what you're talking
about." This couldn't be truer. His rage seemed to be turning psychotic.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CnhU1_pDUVFTyrdAn0De6QZzSxHqI3mNcAliZgEe7DJdxt-4gHCfUeoqAEG8txt54azVAd5ahVIauwqTOw51Kl1R5XFR-IkvkOdzbHIexWk8Fbrj7AyRqy1J8ej5f1f-5S8W/s1600/PGandE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9CnhU1_pDUVFTyrdAn0De6QZzSxHqI3mNcAliZgEe7DJdxt-4gHCfUeoqAEG8txt54azVAd5ahVIauwqTOw51Kl1R5XFR-IkvkOdzbHIexWk8Fbrj7AyRqy1J8ej5f1f-5S8W/s1600/PGandE.jpg" height="200" width="128" /></a>He said, "Your writing is all over the walls, all over
the sidewalks. Everywhere!"<br />
<br />
This is a surprise to me. I've never written on a wall, nor
haven't I seen writing on walls around our neighborhood. <a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/Graffiti_War.pdf" target="_blank">The last wall chalk I'd seen</a> had been painted over
with dark gray anti-graffiti paint in 2012 in a dramatic flourish that left the
wall blotchy. Water would have done the trick.<br />
<br />
I said, "Please tell me which wall you mean. I've NEVER
written on a wall." Now I was invigorated by anger too. Any sympathy I'd
felt for him vanished.<br />
<br />
He drew himself up to his full 6'3" CEO-ness and said
(and this thoroughly shocked me): "I want you to stop walking in this
neighborhood. Go walk your dog somewhere else."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm1PBelgtQIKtydwkQvW2_hJLNABPCF_cqU3THYgMtnqqSD1s5SYJpauAEo-cTifn2As5qqXCwy1qEtLHfkyBK3F5MOourxbkNzih5ZEvuXhjd22SobK9J3uLlZ73pYve4ZxN/s1600/balmy_alley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGm1PBelgtQIKtydwkQvW2_hJLNABPCF_cqU3THYgMtnqqSD1s5SYJpauAEo-cTifn2As5qqXCwy1qEtLHfkyBK3F5MOourxbkNzih5ZEvuXhjd22SobK9J3uLlZ73pYve4ZxN/s1600/balmy_alley.jpg" height="320" width="259" /></a>
Now I was confused and offended. I don't have a dog. Was he
telling me that I'm ugly? There was a tinge of racist hate and entitlement to
his voice. The last time someone told me to get out of my own neighborhood, I
was a child. That time, the speaker was worried about an influx of Jews, and he
thought a couple of 12 year old girls were a threat. Mr. Angry CEO was just worried
about rubbing elbows with the poor: if I wasn't a homeowner, I should get lost. And I clearly didn't
own a home in HIS neighborhood.<br />
<br />
I walked away quickly, shaken, taking an alternate route
home lest he follow me further. I stuck to the shadows and turned left, then
right, then right, then right again.<br />
<br />
There hasn't been much graffiti in this part of town, not in
the last 25 years or so. And... we live in a city. It's one of the reasons I
moved here. You used to see cool sidewalk stencils. You'd see
chalk drawings and cartoons. You'd see all kinds of stuff on the sidewalk
(besides gum, phlegm, and urine). But not anymore. There are lots more angry men
like this angry man. Entitled guys used to imposing their own will on everything they
see.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbxJc1xq_XUHc0as8IJBNbT-yp9ubfbTDGV1h4pOPQpfJL1kwd6SEt0ihS1o1DcDz_jUqQ3-8hIlUPoGjNDFbCQI-_XloGMbAimMSmqrIK4EK7SBX_HFznmjTjTvcYYhb2qY2/s1600/humphrey_bogart_smoking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEbxJc1xq_XUHc0as8IJBNbT-yp9ubfbTDGV1h4pOPQpfJL1kwd6SEt0ihS1o1DcDz_jUqQ3-8hIlUPoGjNDFbCQI-_XloGMbAimMSmqrIK4EK7SBX_HFznmjTjTvcYYhb2qY2/s1600/humphrey_bogart_smoking.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a>
At this point, I wish I had a punchline for you. I wish I'd
gone back the next night and... and... and... what? Written on the sidewalk?
Spray-painted on the wall? Defecated on his doorstep? Or just gone for my walk and confronted him, if just to say, “I live here too, Buster.”<br />
<br />
In my mind's eye, I walk my normal route, see him again and
say to him (as I walk through swirls of fog and darkness like Humphrey Bogart),
"You know sweetheart, you're beautiful when you're angry."<br />
<br />
Don't succumb to the temptation to reverse it in your mind's
eye. I'm saying this to him. He needs a quick burst of role-reversal. He needs
to spend some time as a small woman, when his rage would be empty, impotent, perceived as ridiculous, the stuff of YouTube videos. <br />
<br />
Then I start to wonder: Was he the same man who had yelled
at me several years ago for refusing to cross the street in front of his car at
night. That man—maybe the same guy—had stopped at a stop sign near <i>his</i> hill. I was standing on the corner; I couldn't tell whether he
saw me or not. So I stayed on the sidewalk, waiting. And he rolled down the
window—no, that's wrong—he pressed a button and the window silently slid
down. And he yelled at me with conviction (and not even a hint of humor)
"Cross. Cross! Don't you trust me? Cross already!" I stood on my corner and didn't
budge. After a few more seconds, he drove by, furious. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ae0moUndjw90CPj8SS5ZRou4x8ey6BBw4c7EqMVrzRSq77gZGsKwltZ0WEwBDQzvcog5zJ1TwPTWpT8HW7nch__lgneBchyMZXV8p2BZd5k3QWXh0SmfWq9-Brs825lvLG6H/s1600/koi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Ae0moUndjw90CPj8SS5ZRou4x8ey6BBw4c7EqMVrzRSq77gZGsKwltZ0WEwBDQzvcog5zJ1TwPTWpT8HW7nch__lgneBchyMZXV8p2BZd5k3QWXh0SmfWq9-Brs825lvLG6H/s1600/koi.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>
If he said any more, I didn't hear it. When his car had gone
through the intersection, I crossed the street.<br />
<br />
Of course, I do live in this neighborhood; I own a house too.
I've lived here a long time. I've paid my fair share of property taxes. It's
true that I could no longer afford to live in this neighborhood if I hadn't
bought my house many years ago. <i>But it's too late, Mister: I already live here.
On your hill, in your neighborhood</i>.<br />
<br />
And what about that sidewalk graffiti, missy? I step outside
of myself, turn 180 degrees, face myself with a stern expression, and ask
myself that. What's the deal with sidewalk? Can't you leave it alone?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6eCGxYRlzEXCyu5F7lhS2_Uq7tN5S0jfmQrqVEEi17-bEeCtom6UiuLyGp2Srj4mdjJ9a_waxMQwq8suHp5zzns0e4xODurpG0C8PQUH0VHuIYtgafavw1CAzhDe1e5nYJQ8/s1600/street+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA6eCGxYRlzEXCyu5F7lhS2_Uq7tN5S0jfmQrqVEEi17-bEeCtom6UiuLyGp2Srj4mdjJ9a_waxMQwq8suHp5zzns0e4xODurpG0C8PQUH0VHuIYtgafavw1CAzhDe1e5nYJQ8/s1600/street+tree.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>
It's a tic. I'm always doing something while I'm on my walk,
some kind of strange project. It might involve counting things, planting
things, weaving things, or—as now—periodically making a small mark on the
sidewalk. During the rainy season, the marks on the sidewalk disappear almost as
quickly as they are made. I don't expect them to stick around. My marks, the
marks of the hashers, the kids' hopscotch games, a drawing of a macaw: they all
swirl down the storm drain to the sea. But they've stuck around recently. It's
been a drought year.<br />
<br />
A stick of pink sidewalk chalk taunts me from my desk.
But I've parked it there for now, waiting for the rainy season.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-60674042028296629162011-10-05T22:14:00.000-07:002011-10-06T17:14:59.175-07:00To the cat cave, Catman!<div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DHQ2JRWLDgPv5gjrIGlMQDEwhxzaHlxVJAmSfp_ri5QoGB9kl8u7n2aFXHU9kK_0UGYLY4A0tYmh2H2ZYrPUUiVW5VbN8oxhLFPsNW6onDaQybdpLYaTsYDl9CWmAciNxHmB/s1600/two-cats-one-chair-b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 281px; height: 320px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660261040395640098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DHQ2JRWLDgPv5gjrIGlMQDEwhxzaHlxVJAmSfp_ri5QoGB9kl8u7n2aFXHU9kK_0UGYLY4A0tYmh2H2ZYrPUUiVW5VbN8oxhLFPsNW6onDaQybdpLYaTsYDl9CWmAciNxHmB/s320/two-cats-one-chair-b.jpg" /></a>The two cats run our lives.<br /><br />Lumpy’s been in charge for more than a decade. Last spring, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2011/01/polyamory-cat-on-side.html">he hired an intern</a> to take up the slack, to do some of the scut work for him. That’s young Sophie, a tiny brindled cat with under-fur the colors of a melted creamsicle.<br /><br />Sophie is as energetic as a kitten even though she turned two a few weeks ago. When she’s indoors, she surfs the rugs into a heap and terrorizes my Tillandsias. One minute, she’s nestled in the bathroom sink; the next minute, she’s rocketed to the top of a potted ficus tree, testing the tensile strength of its spindly branches.<br /><br />Lumpy moves slowly, deliberately. With dignity. With clarity of purpose. When he eats, his tail moves back and forth like a metronome. He demands food on principle, but must be coaxed to eat it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWFIKctkeahWCHtIwfAg2DQpELMZ2C1bE5G9PqnAjPFR3nVIkudAvPUy3xFEq1agNzN8ojLnXhmprk8uZ3mnOwlHBldynWAOfnwEclH1qIib03laTuhRqWBjtkHt5PRxF2lYT/s1600/cat-1-hurricane-b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 187px; height: 239px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660261775569902610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWFIKctkeahWCHtIwfAg2DQpELMZ2C1bE5G9PqnAjPFR3nVIkudAvPUy3xFEq1agNzN8ojLnXhmprk8uZ3mnOwlHBldynWAOfnwEclH1qIib03laTuhRqWBjtkHt5PRxF2lYT/s200/cat-1-hurricane-b.jpg" /></a>When fast-moving Sophie pokes her head into his food bowl, he backhands her and glares.<br /><br />“He’s an affection eater,” Mark says, as he kneels next to Lumpy at his food bowl. Mark’s theory is that Lumpy won’t eat without human company.<br /><br />Mark works at <a href="http://www.sfspca.org/adoptions/cats">the animal shelter</a>, and has lots of technical terminology to describe the cats’ habits. He prepares intricately-structured meals to tempt Lumpy, parfaits of expensive cat food that comes in tiny cans. The pate-style turkey and giblets goes on the bottom; the shredded chicken (with one small cube of carrot and a single pea) goes in the middle; the chicken appetizer (white meat chicken in aspic) on top.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL9bdDrD15vLKV1eGMgt_WUw04E2HZtUzRyL7a7K6x2yZdnhJJ4sJv5QmszRFMf4VA50_369SYl8mNtrbnv0i6AGuxyvW-cXAYhcPNO7i_X5WMlk3-97P5EPkIcYhC-JBmaWwz/s1600/timmys-in-the-well-b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 191px; height: 239px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660262280016864242" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL9bdDrD15vLKV1eGMgt_WUw04E2HZtUzRyL7a7K6x2yZdnhJJ4sJv5QmszRFMf4VA50_369SYl8mNtrbnv0i6AGuxyvW-cXAYhcPNO7i_X5WMlk3-97P5EPkIcYhC-JBmaWwz/s200/timmys-in-the-well-b.jpg" /></a>You do have to sit with Lumpy and convince him to take the first few bites. You have to rub his white-and-grey muzzle, massage his grey flanks, and whisper sweet nothings about tasty gravy into his torn-up ears.<br /><br />At the same time, like any good intern, Sophie eats as much as she can as fast as she can from as many different bowls as she can.<br /><br />Kee-runch. Kee-runch. Kee-runch. She dips her entire head into a bowl of crunchies. The brittle sound of crunchies being pulverized fills the kitchen. Kee-runch. Kee-runch.<br /><br />Then, once Lumpy has walked away from his still half-full bowl, that’s fair game for her too.<br /><br />She inhales his leftover food, then noses her way around the kitchen, hoovering up crumbs from the floor.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcP-j4Uq2aKtMGjOX5J1I6n6WzxBv_u05Vt_rch7gt89WHW46g-VjXaZ3iU8rm1o3Ll0qlQEqhWWicQYLPUIfn8GaCfNjHmwCuJBupGysBMsYw7h0UmCBZT5duV21iZx3yW4U/s1600/mouse_pelt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 126px; height: 320px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660454658192469970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUcP-j4Uq2aKtMGjOX5J1I6n6WzxBv_u05Vt_rch7gt89WHW46g-VjXaZ3iU8rm1o3Ll0qlQEqhWWicQYLPUIfn8GaCfNjHmwCuJBupGysBMsYw7h0UmCBZT5duV21iZx3yW4U/s320/mouse_pelt.jpg" /></a>Because she’s an indoor-outdoor cat, Sophie also dines on a snack-pack of urban rodents. Mousies, rats, voles, gophers, moles, trolls—anything she finds rustling through the vast tracts of ivy is on the menu.<br /><br />Should he catch a mouse, Lumpy brings it into the house to eat. He delicately cracks its skull and sucks out the brains, leaving the eviscerated body at the foot of the bed.<br /><br />“Here’s a project for you. You can use those pelts to make a vest,” he advises me. “A tailored mouse fur vest can be very stylish.”<br /><br />“It’s not healthy to eat the fur,” he tells Sophie a few minutes later. “You’ll get a tapeworm.” She looks at him blankly.<br /><br />“Oh, you might eat a mole liver once in a while,” Lumpy continues, “But—take it from me—it’s a bad idea to eat the whole animal, even if it’s organic AND local.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiPnOsfpo3TH3IRYz3dM9XepkiGOtBrI60i44ASewO27l1DTMY9ST24QXgXKM-iCc1gQtQmgaQtQ-lM3b6UR5juwKBjkwr8BGDjon_NUrQwDyRdeAvnDB30r5NN53yqhw8FgBy/s1600/vole-whole.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 212px; height: 236px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660488424603089122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiPnOsfpo3TH3IRYz3dM9XepkiGOtBrI60i44ASewO27l1DTMY9ST24QXgXKM-iCc1gQtQmgaQtQ-lM3b6UR5juwKBjkwr8BGDjon_NUrQwDyRdeAvnDB30r5NN53yqhw8FgBy/s320/vole-whole.jpg" /></a>Sophie listens to Lumpy’s lecture, but her expression is set, stubborn. Later, when she’s outside she eats a vole, whole. Then she swallows a baby field mouse and, along with it, an ivy leaf, some rosemary needles, and a cigarette butt.<br /><br />Undeterred by the digestive battle in her gut, she vigorously downs the dinner Mark has prepared for her.<br /><br />Fifteen minutes later, she has vomited in the hallway with the skill and accuracy of a practiced bulimic. The pile of vomit is enormous, almost impossibly large for an eight pound cat. The body of the mouse is unmistakable amid leaves, kibble, Lumpy’s leftover dinner, and an unfamiliar brand of cat food, one we do not feed her.<br /><br />I try to pretend I don’t know that the mountain of undigested food and prey is there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZEP6SgMguFboUYq8b6i8vmbyC7Rl3WoDaY0eMCtP588yM_S5lT7ONetgfkUsyVSmmaj1pd2V0qyR0vb8QWn39dtRlIjSNixZ7qxFiHAnBtyWA6zm24gGUeAH1DOHQrPO2uOMX/s1600/vomitting-dolphin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 198px; height: 182px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660489534639659586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZEP6SgMguFboUYq8b6i8vmbyC7Rl3WoDaY0eMCtP588yM_S5lT7ONetgfkUsyVSmmaj1pd2V0qyR0vb8QWn39dtRlIjSNixZ7qxFiHAnBtyWA6zm24gGUeAH1DOHQrPO2uOMX/s320/vomitting-dolphin.jpg" /></a>“I think I might’ve heard Sophie barfing,” I say to no-one in particular, hoping Mark is within earshot. “She might’ve eaten something that disagreed with her.”<br /><br />It’s just too gross; I can’t look. I skirt the pile and lock myself in the bathroom.<br /><br />By this time, the vomit has removed a layer of finish from the hardwood floor, and Sophie has trotted back over to the food bowls, double-quick, for a refill. Because now she’s empty, ready for more.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD0ZkavmuvvL0inOy3GPwHtC7_ve6l9RjQ1hwOoxkOsofcpKsAxj8Kh41sGHdaytKL5RnnlID988VxMpd0aBBEQ1aeGiRvsjVnU1RQiI5hbJLP5ZhyS2inu_BzB-IJsVJYQEi/s1600/Sophie-kitten.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 209px; height: 184px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660516852610927186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD0ZkavmuvvL0inOy3GPwHtC7_ve6l9RjQ1hwOoxkOsofcpKsAxj8Kh41sGHdaytKL5RnnlID988VxMpd0aBBEQ1aeGiRvsjVnU1RQiI5hbJLP5ZhyS2inu_BzB-IJsVJYQEi/s320/Sophie-kitten.jpg" /></a>Maybe she’s just nervous; maybe that’s what makes young Sophie vomit. When he was a kid, my brother used to barf into the bushes on his way to elementary school, just from nerves. A case of nerves can make you sick.<br /><br />It’s easy to pinpoint the source of Sophie’s anxiety: two cats her age, but much larger—her ex-housemates, wild-girl Juliette and big grey Copernicus—pick on her every time they see her. They used to follow her into the house, primed for a snack and a scuffle. In fact, it was not unusual to encounter an indoor cat fight, one in which Juliette would have loosed great tufts of Sophie’s creamsicle-colored fur.<br /><br />“Juliette! Sweetheart! You don’t belong in our house. Hit the road!” I said, helpless to intervene in any useful way. But Juliette respected my superior size in a way that not many people do. Startled, she looked up from the dry cat food, spraying soggy kibble out of her mouth onto the floor around the dish. Then she composed herself and eyed me disdainfully with those saucer-round eyes. She slithered down the stairs, around the corner into the garage, and out the cat door, which at the time was just a mailbox-shaped hole in the garage wall.<br /><br />To be fair, Sophie always stood her ground when her larger rivals attacked. But it surely couldn’t have been much fun for her.<br /><br />Mark fretted. “They’re beating up on poor Sophia! She has no place that’s safe.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxh66RkwwYWpRgwAJUgXq2DT4Q5ztDTfIxE2_Js7gLgimuaVomhF3oCcn_1QCWemiSibjX8TWnBSpRpKpiw9S9YNBSSoFY3yiOymV5a9MAINPkZywkZ5MORDsZfa6kksFH0S75/s1600/cat-furniture.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 165px; height: 288px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660492793601636322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxh66RkwwYWpRgwAJUgXq2DT4Q5ztDTfIxE2_Js7gLgimuaVomhF3oCcn_1QCWemiSibjX8TWnBSpRpKpiw9S9YNBSSoFY3yiOymV5a9MAINPkZywkZ5MORDsZfa6kksFH0S75/s320/cat-furniture.jpg" /></a>What he meant was that even the cats at the animal shelter have a safe place to hang out: each cat has its cat-tree, one of those hideous pieces of cat-specific carpet-covered furniture with a dark hidey-hole the kitty can retreat to in times of stress.<br /><br />We’d already duplicated that. Sophie had a deluxe four-level cat-tree, a sturdy one, covered with the kind of carpeting you’d find in an apartment circa 1985. It was exactly the type of thing I’d vowed NEVER to have in the house.<br /><br />Sophie’s cat tree is in front of the dining room window and has an amazing view of the San Francisco skyline, 180 degrees of view, from downtown to Candlestick Park.<br /><br />And from the dining room table, we have an amazing view of a cat tree.<br /><br />But Mark was undeterred in his compassion for Sophie. And thus began the multi-thousand dollar cat door project, an effort designed to keep both cats safe from interlopers. Safe from mean girl Juliette, safe from the larger vermin—the raccoons, possums, and skunks—that roam our neighborhood in gangs at night.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZM2_aInpPrsx7WCyy6Jf1f4uA18v-9M_7vErE3EyHtel-E5B7wwy5k3Bsfxkohm0-fpVo5wVW4Efklfa3aIYyk03D3zSdaH-TjWpEUO6ept9scAcJBAW90hBo1U-1WTbiMY9/s1600/DwellMagazineCover.png"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 191px; height: 263px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660494409278671362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZM2_aInpPrsx7WCyy6Jf1f4uA18v-9M_7vErE3EyHtel-E5B7wwy5k3Bsfxkohm0-fpVo5wVW4Efklfa3aIYyk03D3zSdaH-TjWpEUO6ept9scAcJBAW90hBo1U-1WTbiMY9/s320/DwellMagazineCover.png" /></a>Most of all, Lumpy and Sophie would be safe without sacrificing style: no <em>Dwell</em>-subscribing cat wants to emerge into the world from a door that looks like a truck’s mud-flap or one that looks like it’s been appropriated from a hamster’s habittrail.<br /><br />“Multi-thousand dollars?” I hear you ask. “Are you kidding? Are you those Californians we read about? The ones who schlep their cats to psychiatrists, nutritionists, and aromatherapy? People don’t do that here in ________”<br /><br />I’d like to say that we’re not; I’d like to deny the allegation in full.<br /><br />But then I’d be lying.<br /><br />Mark has spent much of the last two months designing, debugging, and tweaking the performance of the fanciest cat door I’ve ever seen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfb_QsaY62pB8RKGADuM8X0nsiT9VSznxv8H0YTOJPBLLw8ojSQH5nEsZaXAmXWdu0N492MaA2d6KWHgLcnb4FBkDcOH4SbmvhsPKGBfsW_-aoN7nNud6W6qggW6Tg3eiz3nON/s1600/Flo-control.png"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 260px; height: 185px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660495129750607506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfb_QsaY62pB8RKGADuM8X0nsiT9VSznxv8H0YTOJPBLLw8ojSQH5nEsZaXAmXWdu0N492MaA2d6KWHgLcnb4FBkDcOH4SbmvhsPKGBfsW_-aoN7nNud6W6qggW6Tg3eiz3nON/s320/Flo-control.png" /></a>Oh, I know <a href="http://www.quantumpicture.com/Flo_Control/flo_control.htm">people have implemented cat doors</a> that can distinguish cats with birds and mice in their mouths from unburdened cats, but that’s just a matter of image processing. All you need to do is write some code that compares your cat’s normal silhouette with the silhouette of a cat with something in its mouth. So if a cat approaches the door with nothing in its mouth, the door unlatches. And if a cat with a half-dead pigeon in his mouth approaches the door, the door stays locked.<br /><br />Simple, right?<br /><br />The project I’m thinking of was originally called ‘Flo Control’, named after the cat in question (i.e. Flo). From the look of the door (and the expression on Flo-the-cat’s face), I believe Mark started with an off-the-shelf setup similar to the one those guys used. But I'm afraid we had to factor in cats who are considerably less compliant than Flo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fnJhGQfJxLG0OjuL0MPP-eOsxQKyKj1rR6-1YUYKX2k99kCKWPC-2UbxCMrZsO2E7ypa7O7PJdH5lXLRRdCv4y6Z-W_W5eY631vfQPkJWPGzBODPoHwSuqL47_Ezfos_ZHDK/s1600/rfid-cat-door.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 227px; height: 229px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660504223196965042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fnJhGQfJxLG0OjuL0MPP-eOsxQKyKj1rR6-1YUYKX2k99kCKWPC-2UbxCMrZsO2E7ypa7O7PJdH5lXLRRdCv4y6Z-W_W5eY631vfQPkJWPGzBODPoHwSuqL47_Ezfos_ZHDK/s320/rfid-cat-door.jpg" /></a>In fact, if you didn’t know our cats, you might think that the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Mate-Elite-Selective-Door/dp/B001D6RSMS/">off-the-shelf setup</a> would’ve solved our problem: it’s an RFID-controlled door that unlocks as the cat wearing an RFID tag approaches. The cat then just needs to push open the flap—perhaps bump it with his or her nose—like it would a normal cat door. Then the door locks again after it swings shuts behind the cat. Pretty straightforward. You can buy one on Amazon.<br /><br />Cats use doors like this all the time.<br /><br />Mark spent months trying to desensitize both cats to the electro-mechanical sounds of the door as the motor unlatched it. Several times each day, he walked up to Lumpy with the door in his hand.<br /><br />“Lumpy,” he’d say. “Lumpy. Lumpy. Look. Lumpy. Look. This is your door. See?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqf1XSBrhsdItT3Tn3RXW6xz9WKQdE5GFE0SSFYJC7V5lGMjmLs_L_1uCcHi-hQoMysVFx7BSVhgPkXZVNp0n4HCzuj7jkdC06lvYnrvYJt9seDvKIYiS0iYMYx3anAp-s_NO_/s1600/stepper-motor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 235px; height: 167px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660518280110417074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqf1XSBrhsdItT3Tn3RXW6xz9WKQdE5GFE0SSFYJC7V5lGMjmLs_L_1uCcHi-hQoMysVFx7BSVhgPkXZVNp0n4HCzuj7jkdC06lvYnrvYJt9seDvKIYiS0iYMYx3anAp-s_NO_/s320/stepper-motor.jpg" /></a>And with that, Mark activated the door’s small stepper motor. It made its electro-mechanical noise.<br /><br />Lumpy raised his head. A look of annoyance crossed his face. He sighed. Then he put his head back down on his paws and continued his nap.<br /><br />You’ve got to admit, when a door is brought to you apart from the wall, it doesn’t seem very relevant.<br /><br />After he’d demoed the door’s mechanism to Lumpy a couple of times, Mark would walk up to Sophie.<br /><br />“Sophie,” he’d say. “Sophie. Sophie. Look. This is your door. Sophie. See?”<br /><br />Intern Sophie looked up, first startled, then confused. She whipped around and noticed that her extra-long tail was once again following RIGHT BEHIND her. This, she reasoned, was probably the source of the strange electro-mechanical noise. She pounced on it, sinking her sharp white teeth into her own striped tail.<br /><br />You noisy thing! That’ll teach you! Ouch! Ouch!<br /><br />It’s rough being an intern.<br /><br />The longer Mark spent <a href="http://www.petdoors.com/pet-door-training.html">training the cats to use the door</a>, the bolder Juliette and Copernicus became. I’d be sitting in the living room and I’d hear the Kee-runch. Kee-runch. Kee-runch of a cat eating at the crunchy buffet.<br /><br />“Soph. Sopher. Is that you?” I’d call out.<br /><br />Nothing. Just Kee-runch. Kee-runch. Kee-runch.<br /><br />Of course it wasn’t Sophie. She didn’t come around during the day unless she was spoiling for a fight.<br /><br />If it was Juliette, she acted like she’d been busted smoking in the girls’ room. She’d leave upon confrontation, sullen and quiet.<br /><br />But if it was Copernicus, he’d growl at me when I entered the kitchen, a low throaty growl. And although his growls were merely youthful bravado, it did seem like the last straw.<br /><br />“We have to keep them out of here.” Mark was beside himself. “Poor Sophia! She has no safe place. Her enemies can come in after her.”<br /><br />Mark seemed more upset than Sophie did. I don’t know whether Sophie actually thought of the other two cats as her sworn enemies, but certainly Lumpy thought of them as invited guests. He would go outside and keen so they would come around to visit, calling them with a strange ululating sound.<br /><br />“Rrrrrrowwwwwooooooo-ooooooo-rrrooow,” he’d say, sitting on the driveway in back of our house. Then he’d give a happy chirp when they finally showed up. “Welcome, you guys. Here, eat my food so I can get something fresh.”<br /><br />The RFID door should’ve taken care of this issue. That’s what it was designed to do—use the tags to sort between your cats, and the cats who aren't yours.<br /><br />Eventually Mark decided the cats were acclimated to the door’s electro-mechanical noise, and he installed the RFID-activated door in place of the old hole-in-the-wall door. Then he gave the two cats classes on how to use their new cat door in context.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2FgQjdYcm0ZWwNqXjd-bcW7V6nzTP6kKTSjvPafxWMVCHgsoIGdhX60tFzPxBCS3m_LKyhK_FBVfQkra9MXtYeDNaKtAYGf0eMszOqAhtWISYnm-6_ixsBHUP-YWv8rNGSkl/s1600/comedy-traffic-school.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 181px; height: 212px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660518930521258402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2FgQjdYcm0ZWwNqXjd-bcW7V6nzTP6kKTSjvPafxWMVCHgsoIGdhX60tFzPxBCS3m_LKyhK_FBVfQkra9MXtYeDNaKtAYGf0eMszOqAhtWISYnm-6_ixsBHUP-YWv8rNGSkl/s320/comedy-traffic-school.jpg" /></a>Lumpy and Sophie exhibited the same kind of disaffected enthusiasm that scofflaw jaywalkers do when they go to Comedy Traffic School on a summer weekend. Lumpy contorted himself and nibbled abstractly at his butthole with one leg straight up in the air. Sophie watched a cranefly land on the workbench, then scratched her ear double-quick, then watched the cranefly take off again.<br /><br />“They’ll get it,” I told him. “Lumpy’s smart. He’ll get it right away. He’ll get it and he’ll teach it to Sophie.”<br /><br />I wasn’t wrong. Lumpy got it. He got it, but he didn’t like it.<br /><br />“I’m not pushing any damn door with my nose,” he said. “You can forget it.”<br /><br />Instead he stood ululating at the front door. He wasn’t making the noise he uses to call Juliette and Copernicus. No. He was making the noises of injustice, the keening he uses when it’s raining, and he wants to test his theory that it’s only raining in the back of the house, not in the front. So he ululates until someone—me, or more likely Mark—tires of the awful noise and walks down the two flights of stairs to let him out.<br /><br />Sophie got it too, kind of.<br /><br />Instead of teaching her to push the door with her head, Mark had taught Little Miss Sophie to push on the door delicately with her paw to activate it. Just use a ladylike push, and the door will swing open. So when she wanted to go outside, she gave the new cat door a tentative push. It swung open obligingly, out into the mild summer air.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAsvDsc7hQPAUPUOycv5bJ_CCh8tQLdvQO2ZrB3u6vn_D1XzuiYS5YYDS5XHd_H_EfLgPV1SoXm-ChVQ8oAUyx5D3zsZhhPVhAoFxoI_X-rPyHaRIcieHUCe-5cck4ZZiSBtM/s1600/corgis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 227px; height: 230px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660521363251938514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzAsvDsc7hQPAUPUOycv5bJ_CCh8tQLdvQO2ZrB3u6vn_D1XzuiYS5YYDS5XHd_H_EfLgPV1SoXm-ChVQ8oAUyx5D3zsZhhPVhAoFxoI_X-rPyHaRIcieHUCe-5cck4ZZiSBtM/s320/corgis.jpg" /></a>The thing about being a cat is, you don’t just open the door and go outside. That doesn’t work. You go to the door, and you look out. You test for weather. You sniff the air for the scent of Juliette, for the scent of a mouse, for the smell of your people, for other cats’ food, for barbequing meat, for big dogs, for <a href="http://cute-n-tiny.com/tag/corgi/">small dogs</a>, for medium-sized dogs, for unfamiliar car exhaust: the list goes on and on.<br /><br />And you don’t just take one gulp of air; you really do some sampling. It can take a while.<br /><br />Then, perhaps, you change your mind.<br /><br />You retreat, tail first, back into the garage. The new door flap begins to close.<br /><br />Soon you find the door descending far more quickly than you can back into the garage. And you get stuck.<br /><br />Mark found Sophie hanging from one paw.<br /><br />He freed the unhappy intern and disconnected the automatic door immediately.<br /><br />“Poor Sophie,” he told me. “That door isn’t going to work. She could’ve hurt herself.”<br /><br />Sophie, who was apparently unharmed, headed off double-quick to re-check the never-empty crunchy buffet. She vomited expansively on her way up the stairs to make room in her tiny tummy for some fresh food.<br /><br />For the next two months, Mark worked on the new door. He worked obsessively, day and night. He worked when he’d normally be napping with Lumpy; he worked and worked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MEDR-YOkb-NZ_Hol-HuXGX0aqGT3HESdUaVNqt7d_VNNQINoW6IO1vX1HQpGLM5dvMir843ObpGcR45f4nh_RI0AlzhSFBVeHurUXcjxpOWg_0Kh9MxnNohjxMCt-KN9wu0N/s1600/Oscilloscope.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 156px; height: 228px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660524830311495410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MEDR-YOkb-NZ_Hol-HuXGX0aqGT3HESdUaVNqt7d_VNNQINoW6IO1vX1HQpGLM5dvMir843ObpGcR45f4nh_RI0AlzhSFBVeHurUXcjxpOWg_0Kh9MxnNohjxMCt-KN9wu0N/s320/Oscilloscope.jpg" /></a>By the time he was finished, he’d changed the design from a swinging flap door to a counterweighted sliding door. He soldered a new controller to a board, and spent days debugging the new circuitry. He used hot glue on it to keep things neat. He took it apart and started again. He consulted data sheets. He dragged an old oscilloscope home, and then bought a second old oscilloscope when the first one overheated. He bought chips. He bought stepper motors.<br /><br />He bought transistors, resistors, capacitors, wire.<br /><br />The garage began to look like a repossessed Radio Shack, minus the unhelpful developmentally challenged employees.<br /><br />Here’s the sign that things are going from bad to worse: The cabinet of tiny drawers. As long as there’s no cabinet of tiny drawers, the components can be managed with a few reused extra-small Ziploc bags, the kind the pot club uses to sell you a couple of grams of Train Wreck or Pineapple Express.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3o7L-scZRgNRdA740alKffFlENPeIBNc69OIGBfhN9qTADydS-0irtAZy8ompVFZpJShCF2TOgwxULUUNGBz8rtzj7iSb4ITtO6oRlrkv-ATZZ6TS4F0MZMyT3NMTcsLdpVB/s1600/cabinet-with-small-drawers.gif"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 274px; height: 133px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660525526461220034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm3o7L-scZRgNRdA740alKffFlENPeIBNc69OIGBfhN9qTADydS-0irtAZy8ompVFZpJShCF2TOgwxULUUNGBz8rtzj7iSb4ITtO6oRlrkv-ATZZ6TS4F0MZMyT3NMTcsLdpVB/s320/cabinet-with-small-drawers.gif" /></a>Once the cabinet of tiny drawers arrives and the Dymo Labelmaker comes out of storage, you know a threshold has been crossed.<br /><br />But two months later, when the new cat door was finished, I had to admit it was spiffy.<br /><br />“Let me show you how it works,” Mark said.<br /><br />We stood inside the garage. He had constructed two pressure plates that were like steps. The idea was, the weight of a climbing cat would activate the door.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbFlBERLEfp4hvwsI194e6nx2SVOkaYtDzfkkRN5StpSrSSMpH0jBi98dY9vsX6zBIbMZSAhXfWNd1DaHAdcT4QL5bm9XkT8Bc3KVLSgZEQTvbWYmJOI6v_BfRzniLuDzxHbj/s1600/cat-door-rev2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 214px; height: 297px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660526189127797266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJbFlBERLEfp4hvwsI194e6nx2SVOkaYtDzfkkRN5StpSrSSMpH0jBi98dY9vsX6zBIbMZSAhXfWNd1DaHAdcT4QL5bm9XkT8Bc3KVLSgZEQTvbWYmJOI6v_BfRzniLuDzxHbj/s320/cat-door-rev2.jpg" /></a>He pushed on the upper plate with his fingers. A counter-weighted clear Lucite door slid upward silently, much like the entrance to a James Bond villain’s lair.<br /><br />He took his hand away from the pressure plate. The door lowered just as silently as it went up.<br /><br />“See. They don’t have to have the RFID tag on the way out. That way if Juliette comes in, she can get back out.”<br /><br />Then he flipped a switch on the wall. “And this disables it. That way once they’re in at night, they can’t go back out if it’s after curfew.”<br /><br />He flipped it again. “See. There’s a light on when it’s disabled.”<br /><br />“Isn’t that backward?” I said.<br /><br />“No. No. I’m going to teach Lumpy that it means he can’t go out.” Mark said. “Do you want to see how it works from outside?”<br /><br />He tapped on button and activated the big automatic garage door. It banged open, seeming clumsy after the smoothly sliding Lucite cat door.<br /><br />“Why don’t you just teach the cats to use the garage door?” I said. “You could give them both tiny garage-door openers.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtNpJ6nIq_4shGDPnHSV9lKw2B8WzSOk_RFgy1Us25WHxdwqaZbl8jWUsrk1gopG_Y2Az-sI93A8IvtwX7p1IX2BSNvtIa3XmKxyNMWK3D4MlF5H8gGx0Hdh7EAUfHx9jsnz0/s1600/cat-door.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660526620328181266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtNpJ6nIq_4shGDPnHSV9lKw2B8WzSOk_RFgy1Us25WHxdwqaZbl8jWUsrk1gopG_Y2Az-sI93A8IvtwX7p1IX2BSNvtIa3XmKxyNMWK3D4MlF5H8gGx0Hdh7EAUfHx9jsnz0/s320/cat-door.jpg" /></a>Mark ignored me. He had already built and painted a cleated staircase that matched the colors of the outside of our house.<br /><br />He pressed on a third weight-sensitive pressure plate, this one at the top of the outdoor ramp.<br /><br />“See. If it’s somebody with an RFID tag, it opens. And if it’s somebody else, nothing happens.”<br /><br />He took his hand off the pressure plate and the door slid shut.<br /><br />I had to admit it was slick.<br /><br />For the first week or so, Mark propped the door open with a stick so the cats wouldn’t get freaked out, so they’d get used to it. At night, he closed it, according to normal policy.<br /><br />Unfortunately the door’s plastic was all but invisible. Lumpy thudded into the closed door head first in an ill-fated attempt to use it after-hours.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiW5-B2bvt4rYCj_94-CBfWGpcVXPp9omuOTceZzZ6hjzUeOsY_tODFCp3_ydVbPdxwKDWVo-07bceFeg6-r_8yJpZ8WpfYHJrogXC6lSAgZYeMdpqquPazR6ZodQRQllEUqX_/s1600/cat-wearing-helmet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 277px; height: 197px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660527557778573058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiW5-B2bvt4rYCj_94-CBfWGpcVXPp9omuOTceZzZ6hjzUeOsY_tODFCp3_ydVbPdxwKDWVo-07bceFeg6-r_8yJpZ8WpfYHJrogXC6lSAgZYeMdpqquPazR6ZodQRQllEUqX_/s320/cat-wearing-helmet.jpg" /></a>“Maybe you should make him wear a helmet,” I said.<br /><br />Mark ignored me. “Do you think he’ll see this?” he said. He’d put a piece of masking tape on the door. “Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten clear plastic.”<br /><br />He continued to control the door’s up-down position on a per-cat per-use basis. I harbored some doubt whether they’d ever use the new door once it was fully cat-controlled, although I knew I should keep my skepticism to myself.<br /><br />Eventually Mark decided that it was time. He flicked the switch to activate the door, and took away the stick that was propping it open.<br /><br />The next time I went into the garage, I found Lumpy deep in the throes of experimentation. He’d stick a paw on the pressure plate. The door would go up. He’d remove his paw. The door would go down. He’d put a paw back on the plate. The door would go up. He’d take the paw off. The door would go down.<br /><br />I pulled my Blackberry from my pocket.<br /><br />“I’m going to take a video of him using it. I’ll post it on YouTube,” I told Mark.<br /><br />But Lumpy was stubborn. Once he saw me get my phone out, he wouldn’t activate the door. Even after I’d stowed it back in my pocket, he became self-conscious. He went out the people door with me, and was waiting there to thread himself between my feet when I came back in.<br /><br />For several days, the pattern was the same. He went out when I went out, and came in when I came in.<br /><br />“Is he actually using the door?” I finally said. “I don’t think he is. He’s always waiting for me. Don’t you open the door for him in the morning?”<br /><br />Mark was at the workbench, screwing around with the door’s programmed behavior profile. He’d change something in the program, compile it, and download the compiled program onto the controller.<br /><br />“Yes, he’s using the door,” Mark said.<br /><br />“I haven’t seen him do it. Have you? Have you seen him actually open the door himself and go through it?” I said. I walked out the garage door with Lumpy at my feet. “See? See what I mean?”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1I3tVpIr3yoWEEgkCLmwsEt7flGSvohIlYcfCE4cUHtFT4YrrgcO0ig4KdVA5DXlWiuZ_JhXchDUPzUSUCQsxiUmXAKgquPhQE18a317iQSYVL7VYHtqfkRc2xR-ARbAzwYgd/s1600/bird-of-paradise.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 203px; height: 271px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660528603211362658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1I3tVpIr3yoWEEgkCLmwsEt7flGSvohIlYcfCE4cUHtFT4YrrgcO0ig4KdVA5DXlWiuZ_JhXchDUPzUSUCQsxiUmXAKgquPhQE18a317iQSYVL7VYHtqfkRc2xR-ARbAzwYgd/s320/bird-of-paradise.jpg" /></a>The next day, I was sitting in the garden. It was a Monday and Michael our housecleaner was inside cleaning the house. On Mondays, I stay out of the house, out of the way. Usually I just go to work, but this time I had the day off. So I was outside, in the front of the house, pretending to garden.<br /><br />I was sitting on the ground between a woody rosemary bush and a stand of plumed grasses, hacking the dead leaves and flowers from an old and overgrown bird of paradise.<br /><br />Lumpy was in the house with Michael. Lumpy mostly stays inside when Michael is cleaning.<br /><br />“It’s my territory. You can do what you want to, but it’s still my territory,” Lumpy says.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_8lggHm660Azn1zVLn4m9Bu9MY5-vFogwX0676eRrD7ZfSsPIfWnU4ycdglLk3yRZlTZjVuuwXr3jto_KuXSaYTfHBk5QkLTHNiNTX2WlHMGdvnPZkt4uAKuWMq50cqRSVTc/s1600/Lumpy-on-the-couch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 238px; height: 245px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660529331487974834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_8lggHm660Azn1zVLn4m9Bu9MY5-vFogwX0676eRrD7ZfSsPIfWnU4ycdglLk3yRZlTZjVuuwXr3jto_KuXSaYTfHBk5QkLTHNiNTX2WlHMGdvnPZkt4uAKuWMq50cqRSVTc/s320/Lumpy-on-the-couch.jpg" /></a>I’ve watched them together. Lumpy glares at Michael balefully as Michael vacuums the fine web of grey fur and creamsicle-colored fur from the cushions. As soon as the vacuum cleaner is silent, Lumpy returns to the couch to re-apply fur to the exact same place on the cushions. But I don't think either of them is frustrated by the ritual; it's the way they interact and they've been doing it this way for years.<br /><br />I continued to hack aimlessly at the bird of paradise; I could hear the hum of the vacuum cleaner through an open window. I’d been working on the plant for more than a half hour when I felt something warm on my arm.<br /><br />A moment of confusion elapsed. More warm liquid showered on my shirt and on the leg of my jeans. Bugs? Maybe it’s those spit bugs. Don’t they emit a warm liquid? But it’s never this much. Bees. Karen keeps bees. Perhaps it’s bees. It must be bees. I looked up from the bird of paradise. There were no bees nearby. Then perhaps it’s sap. But sap is sticky.<br /><br />A long disoriented moment passed before I realized that Lumpy was absent-mindedly urinating on me, the way an older gentleman might who had mistaken a seated occasional gardener for a urinal.<br /><br />He wasn’t marking me. He wasn’t engaging in some kind of cross-species fetishistic golden showers.<br /><br />He was simply peeing in a spot he probably peed every day at about this time. Making his rounds after a hard morning of supervising the vacuuming.<br /><br />“Lumpy. Lumpy! For christsakes! Stop it!”<br /><br />It was too late.<br /><br />Lumpy looked over his shoulder at me, nonplussed.<br /><br />“I don’t think you should sit there,” he said. “Not now. And probably not ever.”<br /><br />He wasn’t dismayed. Nor was he embarrassed. Nor sorry. He simply moved on to the next stop on his rounds as if nothing had happened.<br /><br />He’d apparently used the new cat door without any difficulty and now he was outside.<br /><br />“Oh. I guess you CAN use the cat door,” I said to him. And he did not follow me to the people door when I went in the house to take a rare midday shower. With water. And soap.<br /><br />It’s now been almost a month since both cats started using the door. They seem to be completely unfazed by it. Sophie comes in late at night, even while the door is locked for Lumpy. Lumpy is able to open and close the door several times while he makes up his mind whether to go outside, as is his habit. Neither cat has lost the RFID tag that hangs around its neck.<br /><br />Sophie has gotten her tail trapped by the door once, and she was able to extricate it all by herself with only minimal embarrassment. And I haven’t looked up to see either Juliette or Copernicus chowing down on the crunchies in the kitchen. Nor have I seen fur flying from a cat fight in the house.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdqoNr3NlDWhx9AshoR8zt6uXyHv1-lO2rEygrGT89Q9jJ8PtyVE9_fC06OIOTTTfW5sO_KS79wa9lBiv_130qNMqElesXV2wdSI8ivuwYL5DfrOzQEDhF4w_zjpVGF1KHv7S/s1600/star-trek-door.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 234px; height: 165px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660531777039795682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdqoNr3NlDWhx9AshoR8zt6uXyHv1-lO2rEygrGT89Q9jJ8PtyVE9_fC06OIOTTTfW5sO_KS79wa9lBiv_130qNMqElesXV2wdSI8ivuwYL5DfrOzQEDhF4w_zjpVGF1KHv7S/s320/star-trek-door.jpg" /></a>The fancy James Bond door to the Cat Cave seems to be working.<br /><br />That is, until yesterday morning.<br /><br />Yesterday morning I heard Lumpy calling to Juliette. As I said before, it’s an unmistakable ululating sound, quite distinctive. I looked out the bedroom window, which is right over the cat door. Lumpy emerged as Juliette approached from over the fence. He descended the cleated ramp and chirped hello to her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjceVMjQppPCyUpreaOOXN3DeADzvTE5gSWmf6kAJwMf1NMbxLpzC1ttpcHeA_h-jcFd3Z5CpzB74Yo7eJfrs9y9mUoBn0xNcLkeRGeIl4GeGg6miz1d6e8GUG-Ho2zWkZctQe/s1600/lumpy-in-the-grass2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 272px; height: 198px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660532404160628898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjceVMjQppPCyUpreaOOXN3DeADzvTE5gSWmf6kAJwMf1NMbxLpzC1ttpcHeA_h-jcFd3Z5CpzB74Yo7eJfrs9y9mUoBn0xNcLkeRGeIl4GeGg6miz1d6e8GUG-Ho2zWkZctQe/s320/lumpy-in-the-grass2.jpg" /></a>“Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays,” he said.<br /><br />Juliette looked at him with her round, saucer-like eyes and batted her eyelashes.<br /><br />Then I saw it: he went back up the ramp and in the door. Then he sat on the pressure plate inside the door to hold it open for Juliette. She followed him up the cleated ramp and disappeared into the garage.<br /><br />The door is still the most stylish cat door I’ve ever seen.</div></div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-65028060307720384962011-02-25T11:13:00.001-08:002011-03-14T21:51:29.944-07:00the freshman: confessions of a caltech beaver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6w1o_KZLZeOVTZ7Y-YpKOZZOc8Mxk6sKDnlL8DnZywSdey6KGqRmng4_zMAA2Cgoxs_QDr1w-4cXRoLRZcZcvIeQmZZGvgWlSQvAIMAlq3AqMsbqv_CAHJ4DujZfw6jFeVCm/s1600/caltechmodifiedlogo.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6w1o_KZLZeOVTZ7Y-YpKOZZOc8Mxk6sKDnlL8DnZywSdey6KGqRmng4_zMAA2Cgoxs_QDr1w-4cXRoLRZcZcvIeQmZZGvgWlSQvAIMAlq3AqMsbqv_CAHJ4DujZfw6jFeVCm/s320/caltechmodifiedlogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583449579434231970" border="0" /></a>At the end of my 16th summer, I went off to college at Caltech. The California Institute of Technology. <a href="http://www.lettersofnote.com/2010/10/cal-tech-students-are-primitive-little.html">A bastion of science and engineering</a>.<br /><br />It was only a handful of years after the school went coed.<br /><br />“The Truth Shall Make You Free” said the school’s motto.<br /><br />“Caltechnicality” said Leslie, who would never go to a place like <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178298">Caltech</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3N0z5HILM0rl0AYFAVZDyDkrx2dwD_wxHSF2b5Rtl1m9mZDWtFx3y-u-4sfLJS0bfRBqKMaEfzYG1bL90KMg5IkYwPt9T_QlgKkS9L6shWoEZlA59GrX8TQ_I6OvNCfzKsc-/s1600/220px-Beaver_logo_NEW.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3N0z5HILM0rl0AYFAVZDyDkrx2dwD_wxHSF2b5Rtl1m9mZDWtFx3y-u-4sfLJS0bfRBqKMaEfzYG1bL90KMg5IkYwPt9T_QlgKkS9L6shWoEZlA59GrX8TQ_I6OvNCfzKsc-/s320/220px-Beaver_logo_NEW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581554658881769666" border="0" /></a>But just like that, in the late September heat, as the smog erased the San Gabriel Mountains from Pasadena’s skyline, I became a Caltech Beaver.<br /><br />That’s right: Caltech’s mascot is a beaver.<br /><br />That year the Caltech bookstore, in an unironic effort to be inclusive, carried a line of women’s t-shirts that declared right across the wearer’s breasts, <span style="font-style: italic;">I’m a Caltech Beaver</span>. The joke eluded me at the time. I was a naïve 16-year-old.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rhITwuhfKicrqnTgURkfRD7nka3yPf0nH0_a25vpqdh1rLuFpZElEYUP1Zy8cg7yt6A60Q5WtXKoqqFwOYY1w7OjugNX94Uh0oSPxhpSujRXKw_8yuS0wJDd3-AqGRGe-ZWm/s1600/giant-beaver.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0rhITwuhfKicrqnTgURkfRD7nka3yPf0nH0_a25vpqdh1rLuFpZElEYUP1Zy8cg7yt6A60Q5WtXKoqqFwOYY1w7OjugNX94Uh0oSPxhpSujRXKw_8yuS0wJDd3-AqGRGe-ZWm/s320/giant-beaver.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583483783434216066" border="0" /></a>When I let on that I was going to Caltech, my high school English teacher was shocked. My high school guidance counselor was shocked. Even my high school physics teacher was shocked. To all of them, it seemed to be a peculiar decision.<br /><br />But my high school chemistry teacher, a man who’d accidentally set fire to his desk during class, wasn’t at all shocked. It’s not just that nothing surprised him after 20 soul-numbing years of teaching adolescents about valence electrons; he also thought I was Matt Marshall’s younger sister. Matt was a fine chemistry student who’d gone to Caltech not long before. My chemistry teacher had no recollection of me, but when Caltech contacted him, he recommended me as a young scientist of great potential.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Must run in the family</span>, he thought.<br /><br />But I was not Matt’s younger sister. The reason my chemistry teacher had forgotten me was that I’d taken chemistry in summer school so I could concentrate on macramé and focused absenteeism during the regular school year. Even though I’d gotten an A in his class, the desktop fire Mr. B had started—he was showing us how to make our own fireworks—was far more memorable than anything I did.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.maryfleener.com/home.html"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCWYDBF2qS4xVv2of9u6Gf3g80RuvEgYrvoY417luJjFbgsEyeFFRO9HcYjVXtDFLq0RTa39liGoGXEZWPNx4ilhEP5TbwgpYkmpnuTLDN8b7nU84AYoizQ2OQBrnwDkGN8hIX/s320/fleener-surfer-comic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584074243055076770" border="0" /></a>My lab partner Cynthia and I had spent the summer flirting with the surfer who sat next to us in the last row. Through our heroic coaching efforts (and by letting him copy our tests), we’d raised his grade to a C. That was our real chemistry project; it was as challenging any synthesis. The surfer had absolutely no aptitude for chemistry, and—what’s worse—he was an inaccurate and haphazard copyist.<br /><br />He was cute though. Blond. And he was the scion of a prominent family (what passes for old money in LA) and, <span style="font-style: italic;">s</span> orbitals aside, he had nothing to worry about. His last name should’ve tipped me off, but I was too oblivious to figure it out. The ____ Pavilion. The <span style="font-style: italic;">Times </span>masthead. I saw his last name everywhere.<br /><br />He didn't have to worry about where he was going to go to college.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimqy6trr0UPioPdmmgmfy_lyLNmrQ08ZOQJgtFDZO616oqbIPSiSBwmbrWTilpF8hFhfgt0pZyXbozj9GHzoy-l6eM1K1aQXJ4MvbsLoFzO0zOtmiZRaJegqlcLfwmegaJTXX5/s1600/Rochester-catalog.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimqy6trr0UPioPdmmgmfy_lyLNmrQ08ZOQJgtFDZO616oqbIPSiSBwmbrWTilpF8hFhfgt0pZyXbozj9GHzoy-l6eM1K1aQXJ4MvbsLoFzO0zOtmiZRaJegqlcLfwmegaJTXX5/s200/Rochester-catalog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584075166617825586" border="0" /></a>My friend Carol had started studying college catalogs our freshman year (and probably had begun imagining what it’d be like to walk through a leafy quad, textbooks in hand, with several attractive, laughing companions at her side, although she never said so). What could be sillier, I thought at the time. College catalogs. No way.<br /><br />It was like looking at the <span style="font-style: italic;">Rochester’s Big and Tall Men’s Catalog</span>. Completely irrelevant.<br /><br />To be sure, when I applied to colleges, I only knew the names of especially prominent Ivy League schools, and especially proximate Southern California schools. Harvard, Cal State Dominguez Hills, Yale, Cal State Long Beach, MIT, Harbor Junior College, UCLA, and El Camino Junior College. Oh, and Stanford, if just because they were reputed to like only tennis players with big shiny white teeth.<br /><br />At 15, I was unathletic and demonstrated no leadership potential. I wasn’t a Candy-Striper, nor was I a 4H-er, milking goats in my backyard. I wasn’t musically gifted. I had no fashion sense nor social grace.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HEi_k2FBkaalVelKAzAVuFO78aTS3YqUe17EQl7yIZIFnjAgMqyse32Fg5LxFAgqMpQLhzxTC7xZgQdktfiYLVaBF0Sz3YIS0mKNyuA1wfXwHhfBxKFffr-vSc2zMQ8GGCA-/s1600/octopus-and-dragon.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-HEi_k2FBkaalVelKAzAVuFO78aTS3YqUe17EQl7yIZIFnjAgMqyse32Fg5LxFAgqMpQLhzxTC7xZgQdktfiYLVaBF0Sz3YIS0mKNyuA1wfXwHhfBxKFffr-vSc2zMQ8GGCA-/s200/octopus-and-dragon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584080463314168050" border="0" /></a>You know those kids who aren’t conventionally smart, but who are rather ‘blessed with an acute emotional intelligence’? The kids who are graffiti artists, <a href="http://www.catholicboy.com/bd1.php">who can shoot hoops and write poetry</a>. Or who, as at-risk tech-savvy youth, can address the California Assembly about pressing educational issues?<br /><br />That wasn’t me either.<br /><br />When (with no small amount of dread) I applied to Caltech, I was a 15-year-old junior in high school. Getting a driver’s license was more interesting to me than applying to college.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://rockefeller.uchicago.edu/announcements/gargoyles.shtml"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKrxpyX59pvbfw7Oga0qzUnYUdN9DMmZZz0y-ofKTIA54EIW7coTfsC0ZkbQRbLAzj5UyNlKAjTiThty3jQAWYH77ReNgcfbEeqJHXS4elWPClYQqjdpIFw9fjfDE_saYnKBb/s200/University-of-Chicago-Gargoyles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584085934509681570" border="0" /></a>When Carol finally opted for the <a href="http://rockefeller.uchicago.edu/announcements/gargoyles.shtml">University of Chicago</a>, I asked her why she wanted to move to the East Coast. Chicago was adjacent to New Jersey, was it not? Besides, by my reasoning at the time, wouldn’t you want to go to a school that was named after a state, and not a city?<br /><br />By my rules, the University of Illinois beat out the University of Chicago just as surely as the University of California beat out the University of San Diego.<br /><br />That’s just the way it worked.<br /><br />Caltech I regarded fatalistically, like an act of god or a sneeze—unstoppable, inevitable, and <a href="http://fleming.caltech.edu/">phlegmy</a>. If I got in, I’d have to go there. Best to just let it happen and deal with it afterward.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyQfHOTYJiei3xnFMkB-2MhdgR2Rrk86RCOIt5_hfmCgER1oZmY2AKp2ukKWBx-ID_025g1vfrjCpw1LF-PV4yqzkKzAQ4BvjClrzDrNhFPDSk6Kfmn66GoU4zgnii7UlTknH/s1600/mercedessurrogate2.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHyQfHOTYJiei3xnFMkB-2MhdgR2Rrk86RCOIt5_hfmCgER1oZmY2AKp2ukKWBx-ID_025g1vfrjCpw1LF-PV4yqzkKzAQ4BvjClrzDrNhFPDSk6Kfmn66GoU4zgnii7UlTknH/s200/mercedessurrogate2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584088997897783026" border="0" /></a>I took <a href="http://tinyurl.com/4v9xgsc">one trip to Pasadena</a> over Christmas break my junior year in the company of a boy, Tim, who drove an old Mercedes and insisted you close the car’s doors just so, softly, but decisively, without slamming them; he was the ex-boyfriend of Carol’s older sister, and he’d been a student at Caltech for three years already. I was mildly intimidated, so I focused on closing the car door properly and not asking too many questions.<br /><br />Classes weren’t in session, and the campus was quiet. Tim took me to one of the student houses (<a href="http://www.armory.com/tests/dabney.html">Dabney</a>, the student house I would later live in).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrVfKMDjAsHjkNbF8yp5Aa2YaykrSSGQ-xGyyW6AiLbPkxVAtAyx8u_5A_RwoiXBfsoXc3HkuKu89QFAd184H7_56p49BzqxrH99g_L6RBUmJQPKGP53UpX59xQVjNq9q262C/s1600/Dabney_courtyard.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxrVfKMDjAsHjkNbF8yp5Aa2YaykrSSGQ-xGyyW6AiLbPkxVAtAyx8u_5A_RwoiXBfsoXc3HkuKu89QFAd184H7_56p49BzqxrH99g_L6RBUmJQPKGP53UpX59xQVjNq9q262C/s200/Dabney_courtyard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584089200830916786" border="0" /></a>I examined the living situation as if it were a life-size diorama. Two palm trees and a brick courtyard were visible from the Room 8 window. Outside there was a vague whiff of pot smoke and squashed oranges. A textbook lay open on the floor.<br /><br />So this was college.<br /><br />The metal-framed beds and thin blue-striped cotton mattresses fit my conception of summer camp, or perhaps a low-to-medium security prison. The room’s floor was polished cement; the dressers and desks were oak, with scars inflicted by generations of students.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVS5-Yps9RNSjZZI5_5eLRlQwjZz6mt9teGztaiUfK2QTc7CjA6nsNz0PgAsGbyWBhC-4arR3nTnSaVpMZc3MPwsgK2BIdZ32m3NQejdnWLNKWnyoxaBBQH3uSqk5_x8mTIx4/s1600/dontCrushThatDwarf.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPVS5-Yps9RNSjZZI5_5eLRlQwjZz6mt9teGztaiUfK2QTc7CjA6nsNz0PgAsGbyWBhC-4arR3nTnSaVpMZc3MPwsgK2BIdZ32m3NQejdnWLNKWnyoxaBBQH3uSqk5_x8mTIx4/s200/dontCrushThatDwarf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584089686363482066" border="0" /></a>We didn’t stay long. We drove the 40 miles back across LA just a few hours later. Tim recited a faithful rendition of the B-side of <span style="font-style: italic;">Don’t Crush that Dwarf (Hand Me the Pliers)</span> as he drove down the Pasadena Freeway. I got out of the Mercedes in front of Carol’s house and closed the car door carefully.<br /><br />“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for driving me out there.”<br /><br />He didn’t ask me whether I was still planning to apply to Caltech, and it didn’t occur to me not to. I was mildly relieved by what I'd seen. Nobody'd said anything about science.<br /><br />The summer before college—the summer after my junior year in high school—my diffidence turned into a monotonically-increasing sense of panic. What was I supposed to do to get ready? I'd never studied for anything. Not the SAT. Not finals. Not even a high school math test.<br /><br />During the early part of the summer, I just let all the pre-college stuff wash over me, like you would waves at the beach. You turn sideways for most of them, and you duck under the big ones. You deal with them one at a time. You just show up and stand there.<br /><br />That was my plan: I would just show up and stand there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p0LmmqWVEPsI_0vA9f0eyUD0yUEEORfKC4hMqidR7wz10FNBuv5eP6y-mYStkCRNw4kkjE0YxzwXSHQZyhyBsqpv3WkD5BhQkIYWEONID6ewOdHeLKf4K6IDtWxQZl3er3Di/s1600/footlocker.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p0LmmqWVEPsI_0vA9f0eyUD0yUEEORfKC4hMqidR7wz10FNBuv5eP6y-mYStkCRNw4kkjE0YxzwXSHQZyhyBsqpv3WkD5BhQkIYWEONID6ewOdHeLKf4K6IDtWxQZl3er3Di/s200/footlocker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584103040254597170" border="0" /></a>About a week before I was supposed to go, I started to pack an old footlocker. It was army-green and had big brass fittings. I don’t think it was authentic—it was flimsier than you’d expect from its color and general demeanor—but I did have the sense I was in the army now.<br /><br />My boyfriend Brian and I sat on the living room floor, and wrote my name and my parents’ address in my books, a Funk-and-Wagnall’s dictionary (“Look that up in your Funk-and-Wagnall’s!”), an ancient CRC Handbook filled with log tables, chemical properties, and solutions to common differential equations, and a Roget’s Thesaurus. These we stacked in my footlocker along with my clothes and some vinyl records (records that I already had the sense were relics of my childhood rather than music a college student would play).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilz-31NpMDO5U6dIbtrg9FQAv815DqMbgWy9vmhmohHYGByZp2LzAURvhG6Majl7RWBTRu6L-5jPSiFK55QsmqfF0WJaSY3nR6f48wotIv3zWfLdxB2n8ZOj-E5dOhFKuGrc4p/s1600/royal-parade-blue-portable-typewriter.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilz-31NpMDO5U6dIbtrg9FQAv815DqMbgWy9vmhmohHYGByZp2LzAURvhG6Majl7RWBTRu6L-5jPSiFK55QsmqfF0WJaSY3nR6f48wotIv3zWfLdxB2n8ZOj-E5dOhFKuGrc4p/s200/royal-parade-blue-portable-typewriter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584103655802439170" border="0" /></a>I had a baby-blue ROYAL portable manual typewriter, one where you’d raise the entire carriage when you pressed the shift key. You had to have STRONG fingers to type capital letters. We used a Dymo label-maker, and put my name on that too.<br /><br />We stopped just short of sewing name tags in my underwear.<br /><br />I ate compulsively all summer and got my first UTI.<br /><br />Most kids who left high school after their junior year will say, “Oh yeah. I just had to GET OUT. I couldn’t wait to go to college.”<br /><br />Me, not so much. I was a pussy. I knew I had it good in high school, and I had no particular desire to leave. Most of my friends weren’t leaving. They were looking forward to their senior year even if they hated high school. If I stuck around, I could work on the literary magazine with my friends, ditch classes here and there, and fill my schedule with electives, since I had all my science classes out of the way. <span style="font-style: italic;">That’s why I took chemistry during the summer</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">forgodssake</span>.<br /><br />I had a bad feeling that once I went to Caltech, there’d be more science classes. I didn’t need the catalog to know that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj051QrT5mAQvbqkVVdrO-q_PwZRca7oafx6aKBzqlu66t4s17Adss6Vr2W37CqVa4aY0PBF81PvRrftCRXjiOg5UL9xdN-vD_srP08UMeHmyKkcfq03L4Oh3No3lCwN9xgGWmk/s1600/farrah_fawcett.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj051QrT5mAQvbqkVVdrO-q_PwZRca7oafx6aKBzqlu66t4s17Adss6Vr2W37CqVa4aY0PBF81PvRrftCRXjiOg5UL9xdN-vD_srP08UMeHmyKkcfq03L4Oh3No3lCwN9xgGWmk/s200/farrah_fawcett.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584104999592268466" border="0" /></a>Mid-July a form arrived in the mail, a form that asked a number of personal questions. My age. My weight. My height. My interests. My hobbies. The clubs I’d belonged to. The offices I’d held. A photo was requested, to be affixed on the top right of the form.<br /><br />I filled it out with all due earnestness, without thinking about who would read it, and what it could possibly be for. Perhaps someone would discover that I wasn’t devoted to science, and they’d revoke my admission.<br /><br />For some reason, some inexplicable, paradoxical reason, I feared some kind of post hoc rejection, even though I had no particular desire to go to Caltech. Each question deserved a snarky answer. Some could’ve been left blank. I could’ve rounded up or down on others, and not been embarrassed.<br /><br />But that’s not what I did. Instead I answered as if the questionnaire were a trick, a form designed to reveal that I was not an inchoate Nobel Prize winner, and that I was a sham.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cr9ew7-B8uc2BhpKsq-XoZt7ovAxHDruq9ikjJhV6a39uUtqeZU7mybVur1D3GbWen4d_mZO522AvmKvQHuV6gyceerdYaY0zPAn5Uy0pHcEMrE-te5B4X7NY60DMZ_w6BBh/s1600/Rocky-Horry-Roxy-Milford-Curry.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cr9ew7-B8uc2BhpKsq-XoZt7ovAxHDruq9ikjJhV6a39uUtqeZU7mybVur1D3GbWen4d_mZO522AvmKvQHuV6gyceerdYaY0zPAn5Uy0pHcEMrE-te5B4X7NY60DMZ_w6BBh/s200/Rocky-Horry-Roxy-Milford-Curry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584107528638498098" border="0" /></a>Did I really have to say that I was vice-president of the ping pong club? Did I have to maintain that lie I told on my application that I’d worked on building a laser? (The former office was a joke. I’d feigned interest in the latter, but I’d never done a thing about it, beyond checking a book out of the library on the topic and keeping it until it was way overdue.)<br /><br />Worse yet, did I have to hide what I was actually interested in that summer (Bunuel. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Rocky Horror Show</span>. JD Salinger. <span style="font-style: italic;">Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">King Lear</span>)?<br /><br />I filled out the form as if I were applying all over again.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiONpGCv-_g3qwqs0obwj-TrPf7G9FHkvn6-2VekU9afwthwGdoAlKo6IUThFNxBHsGTJsh84Gpb0cfaaTaWgzXAxxMndUASFu-mE_6vjsVs5iv-O501C-dYjvALOC5cz_zlme/s1600/personals.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiONpGCv-_g3qwqs0obwj-TrPf7G9FHkvn6-2VekU9afwthwGdoAlKo6IUThFNxBHsGTJsh84Gpb0cfaaTaWgzXAxxMndUASFu-mE_6vjsVs5iv-O501C-dYjvALOC5cz_zlme/s200/personals.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584109065028447842" border="0" /></a>Later I’d learn that the forms were for the student houses (which were a cross between frats and dorms), not for the admissions office. Upperclassmen scrutinized these forms—especially the ones the scarce frosh girls turned in—looking for whatever it is that forms like this reveal (say, girls who look like Megan Fox, but who have a strange fixation on guys who really know the X-Men canon). When I matriculated (and the word sounds appropriately dirty here), the male to female ratio was still something like 10:1; the twenty-odd freshman girls were conspicuous, and could be fully analyzed in advance of their arrival on the scene.<br /><br />Probably I should’ve left the form blank and sent in a much better picture, possibly a picture of someone else.<br /><br />No wonder the boy (he must’ve been a junior or senior at the time) who introduced himself to me that first week as “Scott ____, the Unit Toad” gave me such a disgusted look when I made up a pseudonym for myself. He already knew my real name. He’d seen The Form. And here’s the humiliating part: he’d figured I was the kind of girl that was within his social reach.<br /><br />I was within the social reach of Scott _____, the Unit Toad. I’d done something very, very wrong.<br /><br />Caltech was a small school. With 700 or so undergrads, Caltech was about a quarter the size of my high school, which was large, socially forgiving, and more or less anonymous. The form was only a small measure of my cluelessness.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The odds are good, but the goods are odd</span>, the saying went.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzTSP0ksNbEoaIuv8pji8-QkfjLDUo9BsOdp9Plk7AYToVQK4Xd54f78UevdMomkJk7ANjiDifsMZJS39mfCY6DouHtoT5YDO6iPdsEsDeIw3QoX6fogHp8_xAzzkuRzBiU3R/s1600/birth_control_pills.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzTSP0ksNbEoaIuv8pji8-QkfjLDUo9BsOdp9Plk7AYToVQK4Xd54f78UevdMomkJk7ANjiDifsMZJS39mfCY6DouHtoT5YDO6iPdsEsDeIw3QoX6fogHp8_xAzzkuRzBiU3R/s200/birth_control_pills.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584114209327804514" border="0" /></a>The Caltech Health Center worked very hard to convince all the freshman girls to go on birth control pills. You went to the Health Center with allergies, and left with birth control pills. A sprained ankle? Birth control pills couldn't hurt. Tonsillitis? You left the Health Center with a small brown paper bag of birth control pills.<br /><br />I still have my freshman facebook. I looked horrible. Horrible! It was hot in Pasadena when I arrived to register for classes, when those mug photos were taken. My face was shiny and broken-out, and my nose looked broader than ever. In short, I looked like I fit in perfectly.<br /><br />But I didn’t.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixHa_9KGMMUczmObGW-oU_7OUMeVtR8Mz_cGE2_Qc7opK802n-bx46Ht6dJGzjGIoKjcLcUGHIpLiKyBUCnEmuTFLNX8R2nxvSGirsPcPuTtEftdZ7p_SKA3LoflftY8QpAGU6/s1600/basic-graphics.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixHa_9KGMMUczmObGW-oU_7OUMeVtR8Mz_cGE2_Qc7opK802n-bx46Ht6dJGzjGIoKjcLcUGHIpLiKyBUCnEmuTFLNX8R2nxvSGirsPcPuTtEftdZ7p_SKA3LoflftY8QpAGU6/s200/basic-graphics.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584114412750580802" border="0" /></a>I registered for the normal slate of classes. Math 1. Physics 1. Chem 1. Chem lab. An English class. And an odd elective, Basic Graphics, an engineering drawing lab that was phased out of the curriculum before my sophomore year.<br /><br />I liked Basic Graphics; I dutifully learned lettering, architectural drafting, and how to draw (freehand) a variety of knobs and dials to control instrumentation. It was a swell class.<br /><br />I liked my English class too. The assignments and novels were recognizable. Essays I could write without breaking a sweat. Mostly books I’d read already. The first class meeting, one of my classmates, Alan Silverstein said, “Why do we have to read fiction? It’s a waste of time reading about something that didn’t even happen!”<br /><br />I was stunned and reported the incident to my high school friends. They were, needless to say, not planning to go to Caltech anyway. This just sealed the deal.<br /><br />The other classes at Caltech—the math and science classes, the bulk of my schedule—were hard and inhospitable. Midway through my first term of math, I realized I was struggling. Drowning. I’d never asked for help in high school. I never needed it. But now I was in Math 1, the first year of two years of required math, and everybody else had already taken a year of calculus in high school. I hadn't.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkx9Cb-_TLs7rc-k7GWXoT_PqycqNb0kaGV5MQuVk3ZjMOLeNoI7IjDyPjViJ9WZ6sjOouVkKrobYtcaDM0PS4hBsZFZcMzNyODLjh0O791yzd3bgwGMoAWFWb8m-pVdaS1cmP/s1600/Winding_Number_Animation_Small.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkx9Cb-_TLs7rc-k7GWXoT_PqycqNb0kaGV5MQuVk3ZjMOLeNoI7IjDyPjViJ9WZ6sjOouVkKrobYtcaDM0PS4hBsZFZcMzNyODLjh0O791yzd3bgwGMoAWFWb8m-pVdaS1cmP/s200/Winding_Number_Animation_Small.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584117920426660402" border="0" /></a>We were learning about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winding_number">winding numbers</a>. That’s what the two professors who taught the class thought we should know. Winding numbers. Winding numbers were crucial to their own research. <span style="font-style: italic;">Winding numbers</span>.<br /><br />I've heard people complain about high school math. “I’ll never use any of that stuff,” they whine (and re-assert as adults). “Who needs to know trigonometry? Or algebra? There are no Xs and Ys or adjacent angles in the real world.” I never complained about high school math. I liked high school math and have even used much of what I learned before I took Math 1.<br /><br />But winding numbers? No. I could not foresee a use for them when I was a freshman and <span style="font-style: italic;">I was right</span>.<br /><br />And I wasn’t even alone on that one. Someone—Terry Sheehan, perhaps, a freshman from Chicago who wore a cowboy hat and had the great good sense to drop out by the end of his sophomore year—stuck up his hand in lecture and asked, “What’s the winding number of a buttfuck?” He said it with the perfect aplomb of someone who was passing the class.<br /><br />“Ha-ha!” responded the class.<br /><br />“Ha-ha!” I laughed too, although I did not have the luxury of perfect aplomb.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFyRUZTNwUcL9UKWi4PDeKpIw3e6B8WjBgIR7GiB6iWDBy7DxR6qWnwv41dVpiNnP0jV7C5UKnASZycu8HtLdmsTwXZxy56MWRVq2T27L3i6YEWBG3UtN9YhF2xpO7P5aaXfu/s1600/SCREW.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFyRUZTNwUcL9UKWi4PDeKpIw3e6B8WjBgIR7GiB6iWDBy7DxR6qWnwv41dVpiNnP0jV7C5UKnASZycu8HtLdmsTwXZxy56MWRVq2T27L3i6YEWBG3UtN9YhF2xpO7P5aaXfu/s200/SCREW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584118818096085394" border="0" /></a>“Just think of winding numbers as an infinite screw!” my TA Henry said in section. He said it earnestly, by way of explanation, but then realized that without much effort, he’d made a little joke.<br /><br />“Ha-ha!” went the rest of my section, albeit a little less heartily than they’d laughed at Terry’s outburst. Henry would burst out crying on occasion, so it seemed best to laugh at his jokes.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">An infinite screw</span>. Right. I knew that if I’d understood winding numbers, I’d know why Henry thought he’d come up with a perfect joke.<br /><br />The professors—two of them taught the class—were remote figures, flesh obelisks, one squat, and one tall, scrawling integral signs and Greek letters on the board. <span style="font-style: italic;">An infinite screw</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">The winding number of a buttfuck</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3yHk4llq2Sb7Dsl4oOn8bKFrsBDMJOXJ2AtnSCtJqgngS9DwsUJzywFkP97Q8qrXHF_tNibWC4hnvUIkSXeoHRlnTQu4FmidFvtJAWkgkqK5dhDLussw8tU7Z3556h6K2br9/s1600/Greek_alphabet.png"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq3yHk4llq2Sb7Dsl4oOn8bKFrsBDMJOXJ2AtnSCtJqgngS9DwsUJzywFkP97Q8qrXHF_tNibWC4hnvUIkSXeoHRlnTQu4FmidFvtJAWkgkqK5dhDLussw8tU7Z3556h6K2br9/s200/Greek_alphabet.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584119451795010994" border="0" /></a>I couldn’t do the problem sets. I’d look at them and draw a complete blank. I’d scrawl page after page of meaningless symbols in the hope of gathering enough partial credit to pass the class. At worst, I’d learn the Greek alphabet.<br /><br />Finally, about six weeks into the term, I gave up. I’d ask for help; that's what I would do. That’s what office hours were for. For help. Knowing the Greek alphabet probably wasn’t going to be enough.<br /><br />I trudged up the stairs of the Sloan Laboratory of Mathematics so I could talk to the squatter, more fatherly-looking of the two professorial obelisks during his office hours. I explained to him that I hadn’t understood much of the past few lectures.<br /><br />Another lie. That implied I’d understood some portion of the last few lectures when in fact I’d simply taken notes as fast as I could—there was no real textbook for the class, just Xeroxed pages of an incomprehensible book the two profs were writing—and I’d understood NONE of the past few lectures.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEIupb3tdL3Kyeg-uFriRqxNrJs0oOpUNXgAPxNiclyZYrOOopRVYqUyYJshyphenhyphenh5v3PIbMqH-pZQ3extsZPWcuJ9xvmQXrBK30oAOVHGxo1kWsS_TsmuOH4UrP3YjNuQkUZhPR/s1600/math-for-coffee.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEIupb3tdL3Kyeg-uFriRqxNrJs0oOpUNXgAPxNiclyZYrOOopRVYqUyYJshyphenhyphenh5v3PIbMqH-pZQ3extsZPWcuJ9xvmQXrBK30oAOVHGxo1kWsS_TsmuOH4UrP3YjNuQkUZhPR/s200/math-for-coffee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584120963511344290" border="0" /></a>Sometimes I even stopped taking notes and instead drew cartoons of the squat professorial obelisk and tall professorial obelisk. In my cartoons, they had visible nose hairs. The squat one I made squatter and more walrus-y; the tall one was more like a bowling pin. A bowling pin with a crewcut. But even this didn't make me feel better.<br /><br />And now I was standing in front of the squat professor in his honest-to-god professorial office. He was not a cartoon; he was much bigger than he looked from the very back row of the lecture hall.<br /><br />In an out-of-body moment, I could hear myself asking him a question.<br /><br />It was as if I were in a foreign country and had just summoned the temerity to order TWO broiled tractors from a street food vendor. <span style="font-style: italic;">I’ll have TWO broiled tractors. TWO BROILED TRACTORS. Por favor. On toast</span>.<br /><br />“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” the squatter math professor asked me without even the slightest hint of compassion in his voice. We’d reached the end of our conversation. I understood even less than when I'd walked in. “Maybe you should be a housewife,” he added. “Maybe that would be better for you.”<br /><br />He had given up on me before he’d even tried to help me.<br /><br />I left his office without reply.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mTjILUlIoVLkzqKwZpr58iabi1a3a2hczTj9Q6DWBzmmjv0OY3zAvA_XDncF1TntpTCkHBQKreZ93S0rKy1zpB59n_wE7Kzh-nHdAvh5hz4SNHZ0iCaBXaKNNjvc45vO8f1e/s1600/trying-to-iron.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4mTjILUlIoVLkzqKwZpr58iabi1a3a2hczTj9Q6DWBzmmjv0OY3zAvA_XDncF1TntpTCkHBQKreZ93S0rKy1zpB59n_wE7Kzh-nHdAvh5hz4SNHZ0iCaBXaKNNjvc45vO8f1e/s200/trying-to-iron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584123841394015234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">I wouldn’t be a very good housewife either</span>, I thought, my flip-flops slapping time as I descended the stairs. <span style="font-style: italic;">I don’t even know how to iron.</span><br /><br />There were probably other freshmen who were just as confused as I was, but none of us wanted to be the first victim of the intellectual eugenics program the faculty seemed so proud of. Some years later, a Hispanic classmate who’d gone to <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094027/">high school in East LA</a>, and who was at Caltech on a minority scholarship told me, “They said they’d give me help, and get me caught up with everyone else. But they never did.”<br /><br />By spring break I was more than desperate. I dropped acid immediately before my Physics final so I’d have an excuse for how badly I was about to do. My bluebook was full of drawings, figures, and irrelevant annotations.<br /><br />My parents gave the okay, and I transferred to UCSD to finish my freshman year. Through some burst of good luck, the schools’ spring breaks aligned, and the transfer went through quickly and without much ado.<br /><br />The dorms at UCSD were not funky. The students lived in suites, tidy, anonymous suites. Two girls in one room; two girls in another. The four of us shared a common room and a bathroom. The three other girls in my suite were pre-meds, and I was evidently taking the place of a fourth pre-med who couldn’t cut it.<br /><br />I could tell they’d liked her, and that they didn’t much like me.<br /><br />“Don’t smoke that in here,” my roommate said when I lit up a joint at my desk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQluV0VEPjyUdxbEqzaHfz44BWvBFOlj34jCuDidHPULRFq-pddAgL2bQrqmh7mO-w7jsq56jltR849PFOKHH3_YVWKMM__-dbHmB6WaTYrXwHe9QOvnlo9lTNjf23C9ODYgn/s1600/eucalyptus.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifQluV0VEPjyUdxbEqzaHfz44BWvBFOlj34jCuDidHPULRFq-pddAgL2bQrqmh7mO-w7jsq56jltR849PFOKHH3_YVWKMM__-dbHmB6WaTYrXwHe9QOvnlo9lTNjf23C9ODYgn/s200/eucalyptus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584125937204686498" border="0" /></a>I moved to the stairwell. It was spring in La Jolla, balmy and eucalyptus-y. It was not unpleasant to be sitting in an open-air stairwell smoking a joint. A nearby stereo boomed out <span style="font-style: italic;">Truckin’</span>.<br /><br />“Hi,” I said to a guy who brushed past me on the stairwell.<br /><br />He didn’t say anything. He headed toward the suite with the music.<br /><br />“Fuck you too,” I said under my breath. I waited for the suite’s door to close, then I started to cry. Very quietly. I finished smoking my joint and went back to my suite to sit at my desk. I stared at my bulletin board. Nothing was posted on it yet.<br /><br />I was evidently a space alien here too.<br /><br />I stayed at UCSD for a week, maybe only most of a week, maybe less than 7 days. I don’t remember going to very many classes. I just remember feeling like I was interrupting something that was already well underway. Everyone already had friends, a sense of purpose, and had taken 114b together last term.<br /><br />I smoked most of the pot I brought with me. It wasn’t very strong, and no-one ever joined me in the stairwell. I cried a few more times, but not in front of my roommates. I spoke to no-one. My roommates dressed neatly (too neatly, I thought) and went to their biology classes. They were serious, and it was all too clear to them that I was a goofball and a geek. And a loser. All those things, all at once, and those were my assets, my A-game. I was not a pre-med: that much was clear.<br /><br />I didn’t dare say anything to them. I overheard one of them tell her boyfriend that I was only twelve years old.<br /><br />At the end of the week, I called my parents, and they drove me back to Pasadena. I was a week late, but could add all of my classes and catch up. Catch up. As if I would’ve been caught up had I been there for that lost week.<br /><br />At least I had an excuse for being a week behind. I sat on a saggy couch in the courtyard and started the LA Times crossword puzzle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjUyET0w_90gRdasUwbVemGWHwIwp0se4qyi4eSm3Pxc8oTzydP39oNR7qiugunVlpIdiKddXbfYY_cWeOqgbXmWRb8DuVpC9ijpoGlD3tHkqwb48j4KG2PBL4t7v4fP9sADR/s1600/kgl-ccm.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKjUyET0w_90gRdasUwbVemGWHwIwp0se4qyi4eSm3Pxc8oTzydP39oNR7qiugunVlpIdiKddXbfYY_cWeOqgbXmWRb8DuVpC9ijpoGlD3tHkqwb48j4KG2PBL4t7v4fP9sADR/s200/kgl-ccm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584128040182413746" border="0" /></a>“Hi Cookie,” Gesine said. “You’re back!” She was wearing bright yellow bell-bottoms and a hot pink t-shirt.<br /><br />“I’m glad you came back,” Gary said. Gary was a skinny boy who drank Dr. Pepper. He didn’t eat anything, just drank Dr. Pepper. Six or eight bottles a day, according to the rumor mill. Every time you’d see him, he’d be tipping back a bottle of Dr. Pepper. He was a junior, a chemistry major.<br /><br />Before he told me he was glad I came back, I didn’t even think he’d noticed me.<br /><br />“I’m glad I came back too,” I said. And just then, I was.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-52060172920197811662011-01-12T16:47:00.000-08:002011-01-17T18:46:12.800-08:00polyamory (a cat on the side)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCFwb55aK97HjtjnaH5aXUvEM4E_W0fpOyXEnkxsuO6MLPL5cPg6CQ5LDeSQ-fnAV6tYTU7jBbeSG3Vgr66hs4SuMCzf2unqMZzY2dfp8P7l8D1fkLZkCSrIA1LNVh2tuX6Ek/s1600/polyamoryComix1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 265px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 263px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562259378202866722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCFwb55aK97HjtjnaH5aXUvEM4E_W0fpOyXEnkxsuO6MLPL5cPg6CQ5LDeSQ-fnAV6tYTU7jBbeSG3Vgr66hs4SuMCzf2unqMZzY2dfp8P7l8D1fkLZkCSrIA1LNVh2tuX6Ek/s320/polyamoryComix1.jpg" /></a> <div>The last time I visited Marcia, I met Bob.<br /><br />Bob’s her new love. He turns out to be big and muscular. Big and muscular, with short white hair that stands straight up.<br /><br />“Just wait ‘til you meet Bob,” she’d said to me over the phone. “You’ll really like him.”<br /><br />“I’m sure I will,” I said.<br /><br />“He drools though,” she added.<br /><br />“Bob drools,” I said. “Bob drools? I’m sure he’s just excited.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNlVd2d4vsAI-3GTvU2Rv3Xr9H3V9Oq1hmr05pCJg079dsN2NMgh1fOiLBA9ZqniTeGPxCZd93DW1ulXZu4sH0FkQ5LnoS2A9q0mJBoDg5h1nhyrn7ugoN8xw9ndPs3p9-zjH/s1600/slobber.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 134px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561946172587684050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNlVd2d4vsAI-3GTvU2Rv3Xr9H3V9Oq1hmr05pCJg079dsN2NMgh1fOiLBA9ZqniTeGPxCZd93DW1ulXZu4sH0FkQ5LnoS2A9q0mJBoDg5h1nhyrn7ugoN8xw9ndPs3p9-zjH/s200/slobber.jpg" /></a>“Yeah. It’s really disgusting. But you’ll like him anyway.”<br /><br />“He must have many other fine qualities.” I wasn’t quite sure what to think.<br /><br />These are days of full disclosure. Everyone tells everyone everything. It’s not enough to come out as gay anymore; now you must come out as a Bear or an Otter. Or as a Power Bottom. Or as an Adult Baby.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA2eitGkLVHKcmjuZEpGIj1SjnG2NuEgbBM_hwd5zJ6aqGXruiFkTlydqs9hsxzgDk2A0VGv7CHgD8rpeDKa4-cHzSXEFcco8MisF_IOfzVaCNMTbVSONQzKfSKBHSoyo8dnx/s1600/stilletto.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561951929913340466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgA2eitGkLVHKcmjuZEpGIj1SjnG2NuEgbBM_hwd5zJ6aqGXruiFkTlydqs9hsxzgDk2A0VGv7CHgD8rpeDKa4-cHzSXEFcco8MisF_IOfzVaCNMTbVSONQzKfSKBHSoyo8dnx/s200/stilletto.jpg" /></a>Daughters squabble with their mothers about who’s qualified to be a pro-domme and who gets the keys to the dungeon this weekend. Acquaintances prattle on about Golden Showers weekends in Marin and about Puppy Play in the East Bay.<br /><br />It’s gone pretty far: I see entire <a href="http://furries.meetup.com/">families of furries</a> at Whole Foods.<br /><br />“<a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15306">What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!</a>” as Allen Ginsberg would have it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoE0_eXKwg8I_LA0BB23MlrEK2ag8lMDNRUq_jRX4hRbVUxdazO9GICzqngouVJsvTqngt32jbkadYvlWggMg_VOtgE_9Y-MHXAEivHTIhrPKaRfi4LHdWja2LvOjIaMpdfCw/s1600/secrecy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 195px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561956997769638322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoE0_eXKwg8I_LA0BB23MlrEK2ag8lMDNRUq_jRX4hRbVUxdazO9GICzqngouVJsvTqngt32jbkadYvlWggMg_VOtgE_9Y-MHXAEivHTIhrPKaRfi4LHdWja2LvOjIaMpdfCw/s200/secrecy.jpg" /></a>Secrecy is out. <a href="http://mirror.wikileaks.info/leak/twitter-subpoena.pdf">Wikileaks is in</a>.<br /><br />Kinks that have always existed now have names and social networks.<br /><br />Marcia and I sit in her living room. It is barely after 5, but it’s already dark. There’s a noise on the front porch. Marcia jumps up as if she were expecting a visitor.<br /><br />“That’s Bob,” she says. “I’ll let him in. Or maybe we should go see him outside. He does drool.”<br /><br />“He drools that much?” I say. “He drools so much that you don’t want him to sit with us in the living room?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmQaaAqEH0nZKMz1PYyZcLzQynWFaOFJ7d6xswAYEjLcgM3bDUpCUej80w5jb8sBt7ROw4ZRyTVMvRTXHhn4pBQ0C4een_HHGKvVNtphPhJoy8VV9P_SScw9HfdoaIIdiGVsN/s1600/moosedrool.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 227px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 184px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561957316297983330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmQaaAqEH0nZKMz1PYyZcLzQynWFaOFJ7d6xswAYEjLcgM3bDUpCUej80w5jb8sBt7ROw4ZRyTVMvRTXHhn4pBQ0C4een_HHGKvVNtphPhJoy8VV9P_SScw9HfdoaIIdiGVsN/s200/moosedrool.jpg" /></a>I picture the living room filling with Bob’s saliva. Of snorkeling down the hall to the bathroom in a sea of drool. Of strange underwater creatures—feathery anemones, nine-armed octopuses, and phosphorescent crabs—evolving in her dining room, nipping the yarn hair on her Jerry Garcia doll and sidling up to investigate the radioactive red Fiestaware and antique postcards in her china cabinet.<br /><br />We go out into the cold Palo Alto evening so I can meet Bob.<br /><br />“If we visit with Bob out here,” Marcia says, “he can do his flopping thing.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ_4wHUYUhecziYsa0VmB3Afzo1Px3cuMQD_E-IxPJeBbzRbScmGK5SXGgVOqKIhCFwLkAN0wZLDNV2lq2UB62yAzwg-HMwVzA9610I5rbFS4I-6w6fMvd9nM9hWXzK0YNYCd/s1600/bigcat.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 132px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561958254074868034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwJ_4wHUYUhecziYsa0VmB3Afzo1Px3cuMQD_E-IxPJeBbzRbScmGK5SXGgVOqKIhCFwLkAN0wZLDNV2lq2UB62yAzwg-HMwVzA9610I5rbFS4I-6w6fMvd9nM9hWXzK0YNYCd/s200/bigcat.jpg" /></a>Bob is THE BIGGEST CAT I’ve ever seen. His haunches have the musculature of a cheetah. Of a bobcat. Oh. Bob Cat. Oh. I almost missed that. <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/2011/01/14/funny-pictures-meno-paws/">Not a LOL cat</a>. <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/2009/08/26/funny-pictures-me-is-just-an-expression/">A Bob Cat</a>.<br /><br />Yet I’m not sure that the name was intentional. I often see more than is there, but these days, even more is just disclosed, unbidden.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDm-NnpnyciagbAXTKZsO2iB1tY9zhNrBRN94VfFC3PR2ze0WhFts6E_huKeCpQaM-UkfhJpO-W_sUXDWmhXLYJR3xlsT5GodY11F2Eyn74JqrUEbjsBPO90fsmpYLgdb-pnDw/s1600/BOBCAT.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 112px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561964969866173458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDm-NnpnyciagbAXTKZsO2iB1tY9zhNrBRN94VfFC3PR2ze0WhFts6E_huKeCpQaM-UkfhJpO-W_sUXDWmhXLYJR3xlsT5GodY11F2Eyn74JqrUEbjsBPO90fsmpYLgdb-pnDw/s200/BOBCAT.jpg" /></a>Marcia has developed something of a proprietary attitude toward Bob, even though he has a collar and a tag, and presumably a nice warm home down the block. I squat down to stroke him. He’s big enough to eviscerate me if he has the mind to. He seems placid though. Satisfied. Solid.<br /><br />“You guys feeding him?” I ask.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ABHmz2_rlGgXWVlM6TL-64PYIfUN0-QJ_HYxxgoaBMaY7jH6PjbaHa4UkDENOO7VrLlRCPGON1WFAHT2UmIOs7uXtXJS8KRyFVYsUpVu2DtQXf6bGN5tzgJzoz8IGJB13nJ-/s1600/turkey-treats.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561966632003122082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ABHmz2_rlGgXWVlM6TL-64PYIfUN0-QJ_HYxxgoaBMaY7jH6PjbaHa4UkDENOO7VrLlRCPGON1WFAHT2UmIOs7uXtXJS8KRyFVYsUpVu2DtQXf6bGN5tzgJzoz8IGJB13nJ-/s200/turkey-treats.jpg" /></a>“Bobby needs his treats.” Marcia says. “Bobby, do you want turkey? Some nice Christmas turkey? Does Bobby want some nice turkey treats?”<br /><br />The cat does not say yes. But he doesn’t say no either. Bob looks like the kind of guy who wouldn’t mind a treat or two here on the doorstop, right in front of everyone, should one care to materialize.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNvNzTxJu7WXDqzUC79uG9x2-n2PKOSgkLVmfcfc3ndiWwe0hwRWMDR8aIglKYZ7f3N9ipIGMYa8Npro9Qvl9rhlGBPxoXQ4TvgLgPN56LV9uKpYfJKk2ACg4LLgE4bb8Xa895/s1600/doormat.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 229px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 174px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561968286624861682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNvNzTxJu7WXDqzUC79uG9x2-n2PKOSgkLVmfcfc3ndiWwe0hwRWMDR8aIglKYZ7f3N9ipIGMYa8Npro9Qvl9rhlGBPxoXQ4TvgLgPN56LV9uKpYfJKk2ACg4LLgE4bb8Xa895/s200/doormat.jpg" /></a>Marcia disappears inside the house, leaving me to commune with her new boy. So far, no drool is in evidence. No lakes have formed on the doormat, although Bob is casually sharpening his claws on it. Then he stands up tall on his hind legs and tries to open the door with his front paws. His ears are cocked toward Marcia, and her audible doings in the kitchen.<br /><br />“Hey, Bob.” I say. His winter coat is coarse and thick. His front claws are sunk high up on the screen door, waiting for Marcia to re-emerge. “Wassup, Bobby? Wassup Dawg?” I scratch the back of his neck, under his collar. He drops to the ground.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHA5MEpN1dx6un8kEWI7HabIzfIrZ677RImu6K8sR_OjBI1tbDthh6-DQR7tKwvtGIn3cRqUthe6R1pLYC0bshsHT5j6NVZ2sEm5n9X4o2rdg6yN8wfeIhVKjza_gyA7tB-a1p/s1600/RoastTurkeyforBob.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 226px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 215px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562242483620517458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHA5MEpN1dx6un8kEWI7HabIzfIrZ677RImu6K8sR_OjBI1tbDthh6-DQR7tKwvtGIn3cRqUthe6R1pLYC0bshsHT5j6NVZ2sEm5n9X4o2rdg6yN8wfeIhVKjza_gyA7tB-a1p/s200/RoastTurkeyforBob.jpg" /></a>Marcia comes back out with an aluminum foil packet, a bindle of treats for Bob.<br /><br />“Now he’s going to flop,” she says.<br /><br />“Flop? What do you mean flop?” I say.<br /><br />“Watch. He’ll flop.” She unwraps the pieces of turkey and arranges them in a pile on the aluminum foil. Bob looks at the turkey and swings his tail back and forth. He seems almost freakishly large. He’s white with undertones of orange. Hints of tabby markings show on his forehead, chest, and tail.<br /><br />“He’s not flopping.” I look skeptically at Bob, who doesn’t seem inclined to do any flopping. Not now anyway. “And he’s not drooling.”<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/040506/cat-ass.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 238px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 209px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562250562841068018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cfxKOU3n6CDpKL1FsGHwwVIFR4Vdtaz2JTUnPcFLg6AGShZMULE3yOTwIdKtseHApUnnWGtZo2MFoQJ2HZTIL66c0WP2rDj4mzjhD3bINIO_kE1b_TVDDds9maNbsG5oruOP/s200/cat-ass.jpg" /></a>“He’ll flop,” she says. “He doesn’t drool so much anymore.” Bob sniffs at the turkey. He turns and puts his broad butt in my face.<br /><br />“I don’t think he likes the turkey,” I say.<br /><br />“He does. He’ll eat it. Won’t you, Bobby? Bobby likes his turkey treats.”<br /><br />I try to pick up Bob so I can hold him in my arms. He is more than solid, more than broad-beamed. He must be at least 25 pounds. He squirms and jumps from my hold, then loves up the edge of the screen door with his cheek. Still no drool.<br /><br />“He wants to go in. Can I let him go inside your house?” I say. “I’m getting cold.”<br /><br />“Mike lets him in all the time,” Marcia says, and the three of us go into the living room, the turkey scraps forgotten for now. Bob leads.<br /><br />“Bobby likes it here, don’t you Bobby?” Marcia walks down the hall, closing doors. The TV room. The girls’ bedroom. Her bedroom. The bathroom. The cat flops down on the hallway runner. Flop left. Flop right. Flop left again. It’s warm and he’s made himself right at home.<br /><br />“Why’re you closing the doors?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtP6-ZUPjmxyVXaAcFNNQZIzOObqu8K1MBPTBp1zbZQWgiujlaZg67RkZl8E5cPh5POPNWpW1Ey1Fr9mhJw7t5vLU0Gr_ud6PPjTOeFI4itdSM021wIm9q894e1K7h8Tj_2UQE/s1600/nosy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 239px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 269px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562254547067755650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtP6-ZUPjmxyVXaAcFNNQZIzOObqu8K1MBPTBp1zbZQWgiujlaZg67RkZl8E5cPh5POPNWpW1Ey1Fr9mhJw7t5vLU0Gr_ud6PPjTOeFI4itdSM021wIm9q894e1K7h8Tj_2UQE/s200/nosy.jpg" /></a>“Bobby’s snoopy. He’s like you are, Cath. He loves to nose around.”<br /><br />I don’t take offense, although I never go back there into the bedrooms, and I doubt the cat looks in the medicine cabinet; we’re snoopy in entirely different ways. Anyway, to me it seems nastier to say someone is incurious.<br /><br />“Cats are naturally curious. Where do you think that cliche about curiosity and cats came from?” I ask Marcia. “Besides, what do you think he’s going to do back there?”<br /><br />“You know. And he drools.” She has picked up a towel. A big bath towel. As if Bob plans to become extra-moist.<br /><br />After he’s done flopping, she follows him around the living room, towel in hand.<br /><br />I watch the two of them tour the room. “A cat doesn’t shit on your pillow unless he’s your cat and he’s mad at you. Bob’s just visiting. He’s just looking around.”<br /><br />“Bob slept here the other night,” Marcia says. “He was curled up with Mike.”<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nippertown.com/dog-photos-2"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 207px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562256682719537042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgElEJ0P3wK7e75r1a35f6JgfET-sgwUh3O6j90YzBJienz1yWyfPCuFM7UxaEjP5x07HThGNv_4s7IXC5xYOCSKeUAoeEjHaxeAkQl-ioi1GXYEq-IKFn_blbSI-DToK20v5gn/s320/doggieTreats.jpg" /></a>Oh. So that’s how it is. Bob slept here; Bob spent the night. Bob has become Marcia’s cat-on-the-side. And she’s secretly hoping to lure him away from his people, who live down the street. The people who had the great good sense to name their big white cat “Bob”.<br /><br />In this era of Full Disclosure, I have now learned that Marcia and Mike are having three-ways with Bob. With Bobby. <em>He spends the night</em>.<br /><br />But I’d be hypocrite if I gave her any shit about it.<br /><br />“Did he drool?” I ask. “I mean, when he spent the night.”<br /><br />“No. Bobby was a good boy. Bobby didn’t drool.” Nonetheless, Marcia continues to trail Bob with the bath towel. “He meowed when he wanted to go out.”<br /><br />Perhaps he drools out of the simple indignation of being called Bob. Bob is not a good name for a cat, although Bobby might be worse.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzaOEZmphdMPPnVzVRsO1Ptg4B7_mnMkQRXrE9La0NICvU9vDDWFb2qcR7ymscV-6Wr64ydVT2ApBUQBqzpfqMBicZki-KbqrnTXe9EJ1GVrlGeM-X0pjXhcub-sww9EHoykX/s1600/Saxophone.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 214px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562258616516865266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpzaOEZmphdMPPnVzVRsO1Ptg4B7_mnMkQRXrE9La0NICvU9vDDWFb2qcR7ymscV-6Wr64ydVT2ApBUQBqzpfqMBicZki-KbqrnTXe9EJ1GVrlGeM-X0pjXhcub-sww9EHoykX/s320/Saxophone.jpg" /></a>I once had a boss named Bob. Bob played the saxophone. He traveled with it, his saxophone, and played it in the middle of the night when jet lag got the better of him. He’d cajole the flight attendants in the first class cabin into dealing with the instrument as part of his six-piece suite of carry-on bags.<br /><br />“Please, please, Dr. ____” the flight attendant would say. “Please. Let me gate check some of these bags. I promise I’ll give them back to you the second the nose wheel is on the ground. Cross my heart!”<br /><br />That Bob wheedled. That Bob flirted. That Bob was a million-mile flyer on United. That Bob was able to keep his sax—and his five other bags—with him in First Class.<br /><br />Bob tortured those flight attendants.<br /><br />Once when he was playing the saxophone, tunelessly and not at all quietly at 3am in the Rochester Marriott, the front desk called up to his room and told him his neighbors were complaining about the blatting and bleating of the saxophone. They apparently couldn’t sleep either.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv1SaB4EztIEL2a7PBKnEd8IL1_-2tJKdRIgyrp4KLKKgv2APLK1UccA85NJNBs4S3X5UBKwbpzGyylnIA_j8Nvy_AwVeTBg-r80l9qe9WrKdnhymhRALYc45HQK4QT-ocack/s1600/walrus-and-the-saxophone.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 250px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562258929972411842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv1SaB4EztIEL2a7PBKnEd8IL1_-2tJKdRIgyrp4KLKKgv2APLK1UccA85NJNBs4S3X5UBKwbpzGyylnIA_j8Nvy_AwVeTBg-r80l9qe9WrKdnhymhRALYc45HQK4QT-ocack/s320/walrus-and-the-saxophone.jpg" /></a>“What did you do?” I asked him.<br /><br />“Oh, I turned the TV up loud so they couldn’t hear the saxophone,” he said.<br /><br />That was Bob.<br /><br />Bob the Extra-Large Cat is not unlike Bob the Boss. He flirts and has an overactive sense of entitlement; <em>he desires entrees that just aren’t on the menu</em>. So perhaps it’s best that Marcia calls him Bobby. It’s easier for me to keep them straight this way.<br /><br />Polyamorous Bobby, Marcia's cat-on-the-side.<br /><br />I know: we’re not much better ourselves.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTSRT4KauTwrUaJ6Q4n_Znt0T10-q6vu4LM04qxJrzIvDG9mZmKhenyuMA6FbhGfgjvU_PA6gy0BFwzhjVMspDfDPm37vR2jCwanjefZOuB0VWkf1_V2XPXyMwrrUHrIA0fwE/s1600/theSoph.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 190px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562261061132930610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTSRT4KauTwrUaJ6Q4n_Znt0T10-q6vu4LM04qxJrzIvDG9mZmKhenyuMA6FbhGfgjvU_PA6gy0BFwzhjVMspDfDPm37vR2jCwanjefZOuB0VWkf1_V2XPXyMwrrUHrIA0fwE/s320/theSoph.jpg" /></a>Even now, Mark is waiting expectantly for Sophie at the top of the stairs. Sophie is our cat-on-the-side. Or, more accurately, Mark’s cat-on-the-side.<br /><br />Sophie—a lovely little orange, white, gray, and brown SLUT-of-a-tabby—is Mark’s flight into feline polyamory.<br /><br />From our living room, we can hear the jiggle of the cement block in the garage downstairs. We’ve put two cement blocks on either side of Lumpy’s cat door as an assist to in- or outbound cats. From outside, a cat jumps on a cement block and through the cat door—a mailbox set into the side of the garage—then onto a second cement block. From there, it’s an easy hop down to the garage floor.<br /><br />Mark and I look at one another.<br /><br />“I wonder who it is,” Mark says.<br /><br />“I wonder.”<br /><br />The jiggle of the cement block used to be an unambiguous announcement of Lumpy’s impending appearance upstairs in the kitchen. He was the only in- or outbound cat in our household. These days, the jiggle of the cement block might signal the arrival of Sophie, Mark’s cat-on-the-side. Or it might be the round-eyed beauty, Juliette, Sophie’s older sister and fiercest rival.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe336cqjbZZlZyh9recvzkMdvy3PdXf_GgIjBBzpQ_uMTEOFD91dF9V7dWbDDQIE1E_Bdd-YDpLmZpRO6jWY9Rpb4MreWtSRmeqjrbfr9Ugsp5f0x6LDsyuLg4bQWDL2Xb2Fjh/s1600/wild-girls.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 233px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562265443639760882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe336cqjbZZlZyh9recvzkMdvy3PdXf_GgIjBBzpQ_uMTEOFD91dF9V7dWbDDQIE1E_Bdd-YDpLmZpRO6jWY9Rpb4MreWtSRmeqjrbfr9Ugsp5f0x6LDsyuLg4bQWDL2Xb2Fjh/s320/wild-girls.jpg" /></a>Juliette and Sophie live two doors down. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMDn6V7ZLhE">They’re the neighborhood wild girls</a>; they stay out all night, partying with the raccoons, the skunks, and the tweakers who go through our trash, looking for shredded receipts they can tape back together.<br /><br />The wild girls are waiting, hungry and tired, when Mark opens Lumpy’s cat door in the morning. These days, when Lumpy goes out, Sophie comes in.<br /><br />For the longest time, we were faithful to Lumpy; it was an old-fashioned relationship (although in truth we had no idea what he did, nor where he went, after he jumped onto the cement block and popped outside through his cat door).<br /><br />It was not a modern open relationship.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDMHqvQLSGVxnzabz4XNK-V2lYKvIYHQHGV_R2Mwog_Rl4IbZLGvmevUNeO3-kNifcO297SYJE3R9DON2X8_HuZZy8CM9pcb15S7cpdcDjxrCBTfXS6cSxNFFl6OUrf0pbayZ/s1600/WSburroughs.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 278px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562266558406702658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeDMHqvQLSGVxnzabz4XNK-V2lYKvIYHQHGV_R2Mwog_Rl4IbZLGvmevUNeO3-kNifcO297SYJE3R9DON2X8_HuZZy8CM9pcb15S7cpdcDjxrCBTfXS6cSxNFFl6OUrf0pbayZ/s320/WSburroughs.jpg" /></a>Lumpy is a William S. Burroughs of a cat. He’s tall, gray, stately, and eccentric, with a piercing meow, and an expectation of immediate gratification of his varied and esoteric appetites.<br /><br />Although he does not usually wear a hat, you could easily pencil one in.<br /><br />He hunts the delicate, jewel-like hummingbirds that thrum over the tree with the purple flowers (thumbing his flat gray nose at Jonathan Franzen, <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2010/dec/06/jonathan-franzen-activism-overpopulation-birds">who claims that housecats kill a billion songbirds each year in the US</a>).<br /><br />Lumpy catches field mice from the ivy, brings them into the house, toys with them, lets them escape under the bed, and catches them at night when they make a break for it. He cracks open their heads like walnuts and eats fresh mouse brains while we’re trying to sleep.<br /><br />KEE-RACK. CRUNCH. Nom. Nom. Nom. Mmmm-mouse brains. Mmmm-mmmm.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxK3ANBlIXWrNi3U_FynniOq0JqDJtHZA1EjPocONxQBrVSiEf_-3VzLUffi0-txH4cKtMfT5-J2FbW3U7HuFfe1khOGXjzaoybDdt3QxPLvz5jjBZFLRy3pSXqOUXeSGuKs8/s1600/fieldmouse.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 229px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562267227617970034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxK3ANBlIXWrNi3U_FynniOq0JqDJtHZA1EjPocONxQBrVSiEf_-3VzLUffi0-txH4cKtMfT5-J2FbW3U7HuFfe1khOGXjzaoybDdt3QxPLvz5jjBZFLRy3pSXqOUXeSGuKs8/s320/fieldmouse.jpg" /></a>In spite of his taste for San Francisco's game animals (grain-fed squab, garbage-fattened rat, free-range young field mice, cage-raised lizard), Lumpy’s picky when it comes to those small, expensive cans of cat food. There are only a handful of flavors that he'll deign to eat at all, and, of those, only a few that are sufficiently toothsome for him to finish the whole can. Maybe if they held a few focus groups, Lightly Poached Mouse Brain or Hummingbird Frittata would make it to the menu, but as it is, there's no denying that store-bought cat food raises some fundamental issues for us.<br /><br />"C'mon! You ate Chunky Chicken last week," I crouch beside Lumpy at his food bowl. "Don't pretend you didn't! You LIKED it."<br /><br />Lumpy sits with his back to the bowl. He is just NOT INTERESTED. He will hold out. He will STARVE TO DEATH before he eats Chunky Chicken today. He taps his tail on the kitchen floor for emphasis.<br /><br />In the best case, he'll eat more of the can than he leaves, but still there are usually a few tablespoons that remain in his bowl as a provocation to us: it's galling to throw out something that's both so nasty and so dear (Fancy Feast was a buck a can before Delano's, the store down the street, went out of business forever, for nonpayment of rent, just after last Thanksgiving).<br /><br />Much as nuclear non-proliferation is a policy born out of a desire to blot out the nightmare of mutually-assured annihilation, our food bowl replenishment policy is a policy designed to reduce (but not wholly eliminate) between-meal yowling and foot-attacking.<br /><br />The local policy (re: food bowl refilling, not nuclear non-proliferation) goes something like this: Lumpy must eat ALL of the food in his primary bowl (the freshest bowl of store-bought noms) before he gets more. Or ALMOST ALL. Or CLOSE to almost all. Or KIND OF close to almost all. Or just a few tablespoons shy of close to almost all.<br /><br />At that point, a new can is opened, and a dollop is placed in a clean food bowl.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOADqC9k5NGy-HpKot_ruv_KLeJClb6xH6fzNFBdkZxd-pHj9y3BSTDu19KPAhBEHLhiiUqr9mslNOXPrz1YxJXaC0MWTiHLtYHJ7wlMO9Z9FTjyLDB62HeNmT-2ah0zfzsxJE/s1600/only6bowls.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 189px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562268613125554610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOADqC9k5NGy-HpKot_ruv_KLeJClb6xH6fzNFBdkZxd-pHj9y3BSTDu19KPAhBEHLhiiUqr9mslNOXPrz1YxJXaC0MWTiHLtYHJ7wlMO9Z9FTjyLDB62HeNmT-2ah0zfzsxJE/s320/only6bowls.jpg" /></a>But because we worry that he’s so stubborn that he might starve, we also serve him three kinds of dry cat food in addition to the two cans of wet cat food (the penultimate flavor, and a tantalizing—or somewhat tantalizing—new one) and a saucer of milk.<br /><br />You’re right. That’s 6 bowls of food. He sits in the center, and <a href="http://www.keyboardmag.com/article.aspx?id=125319">Rick Wakeman-like</a>, takes a nom out of each, with a particular focus on the tastiest plate of wet food (which is, with any luck, from the most recently opened can, but might be from the older can which he's unambiguously rejected for the better part of a day).<br /><br />Nom-nom-nom, he goes. Nom-nom-nom.<br /><br />He looks around. Then he walks away, leaving 6 crusty, half-finished dishes of food.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/110702/oylethetalkingcatdog.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 253px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562270003224960178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDW1kOhEb_9I3M5PcILaGuWEAXD3RrFsVtBqQ8H-LhBwWJnPSrtnvAwGr137sIlxf49P-9WzTj148rQWY_M2iOPPCWpcaVZVMAobFjiCq503PByu1CLkI6wyMA4qGmQmqMCH0p/s320/oylethetalkingcatdog.jpg" /></a>“Meow.” He finds me and bumps me hard with his forehead. “Meow.” Bump. Then a harder bump. He sends telepathic waves: “The fucking food bowl is almost empty and you know it. C’mon, buddy. Let’s get a move on. Now.” Bump. “NOW!” Bump.<br /><br />We walk together to the food bowl and discover—to no-one’s surprise—that none of the bowls are empty.<br /><br />“You have to eat those, Mister,” I say to him. “At least one of them anyway.” Then I walk back into the other room, and sit back down at my laptop.<br /><br />This was the situation until the wild girls, Sophie and Juliette, showed up on the scene.<br /><br />And he’s the one who invited them at the outset.<br /><br />What happened is this: Lumpy learned that Sophie and Juliette would eat the crusty lumps of old cat food out of his bowls so that ALL the bowls would be empty and he could request a fresh can with impunity.<br /><br />Mark would let him out in the morning. We’d hear the jiggle of an outbound cat, Lumpy, on the cement blocks.<br /><br />“RRRRooowwwrrrrroooowww.” Lumpy would sit in the back of the house, baying and keening, calling for Juliette or Sophie—he didn’t care which of the wild girls came to visit initially. After one of the girls responded to his call, he’d go about his Important cat business.<br /><br />Then there’d be the jiggle of an inbound cat, Sophie, or sometimes Juliette, on the cement block.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92GccmXJUTb6m7gfEfZyiZeucF0HdVX94GdELhGRS_QvStaPEpaC_1sHnr1RKu-NCe22Sb6_4YdPII1s_Q4x0LtGY3l7rHNYB3H94hmlDNbrgGX-3a18o8zLWTcTAMBvj77U7/s1600/sophie.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562271077260799042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92GccmXJUTb6m7gfEfZyiZeucF0HdVX94GdELhGRS_QvStaPEpaC_1sHnr1RKu-NCe22Sb6_4YdPII1s_Q4x0LtGY3l7rHNYB3H94hmlDNbrgGX-3a18o8zLWTcTAMBvj77U7/s320/sophie.jpg" /></a>This would be followed by the clumpity-clump of a cat on the staircase, and the nom-nom-nom NOM-NOM-NOM of high-decibel chewing.<br /><br />Here Sophie had all the advantage over Juliette. Juliette was shy, and would flee if Mark or I came into the kitchen to see what the noise was about. But that Sophie: she was hungrier and more audacious than Juliette. She’d eat, and Mark would pet her. Comb her for fleas. Gather her up in his arms. Nuzzle her soft orange fur.<br /><br />It got so that Sophie and Mark carried on openly.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, I got home from work very late. Mark was asleep on the sofa and Sophie was asleep on top of him, her head on his shoulder.<br /><br />Not long afterward, Mark started opening fresh cans of food just for Sophie (“Oh, that’s a flavor Lumpy doesn’t like anyway”), feeding her tidbits and loving her up.<br /><br />When Sophie was still eating his leftover food and getting high on his leftover catnip, Lumpy was indifferent, disdainful. He liked the demure Juliette, and would bump noses with her when she came in, but Sophie—he just barely tolerated her.<br /><br />For one thing, Sophie was sloppy: she sprayed his crunchies all over the kitchen floor when she ate, and she pushed the cat food bowl from one end of the kitchen to the other. What's more, she didn't know how to use the catnip efficiently, huffing it from the bowl provided for that purpose. Instead, she spread the catnip out on the living room floor, and rolled in it like a barbarian. But what was unforgivable was that Sophie, still kittenish, would <em>sniff at Lumpy’s butthole like a dog</em>. Normal feline etiquette clearly eluded her.<br /><br />But it wasn’t until Mark was obviously besotted with Sophie that Lumpy registered visible irritation.<br /><br />Now Mark scoops Sophie up in his arms and she snuggles into the crook of his elbow to get comfortable. He kisses the orange fur on the top of her head and talks to her softly.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUSFzNpZMNprfwCQ0O8a3J2E-pHR2rozBJ8YMza3Xwp1lFutnpOVF0e1QKJLzT5UNp-hcIQ7O2NjwydMTtHlPoDwpeDvu4szfvdJdal2EUOKPfq0XKtQKHWpreoNF9I__pLrC/s1600/indignantCat.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 258px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562272816816782466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBUSFzNpZMNprfwCQ0O8a3J2E-pHR2rozBJ8YMza3Xwp1lFutnpOVF0e1QKJLzT5UNp-hcIQ7O2NjwydMTtHlPoDwpeDvu4szfvdJdal2EUOKPfq0XKtQKHWpreoNF9I__pLrC/s320/indignantCat.jpg" /></a>Meanwhile Lumpy eyes Mark—and Sophie—with growing indignation, his mouth hanging open.<br /><br />Then Lumpy gives me a hard look. His eyes are completely dilated. He is angry, frustrated.<br /><br />Projecting. I hear you, flipping your desk copy of the <a href="http://psyweb.com/DSM_IV/jsp/dsmab.jsp">DSM V</a> open to ‘anthropomorphism’. “You’re projecting human qualities onto your cat,” you’re thinking. “That’s sick and wrong. Have you discussed this with your therapist?”<br /><br />“You don’t smell as good as Lumpy does,” Mark tells Sophie, kissing her again.<br /><br />Lumpy crouches at the top of the stairs, tense with rage, waiting for Juliette to come in. She will start a fight with her sister Sophie, even if Sophie is in the safe haven of Mark’s arms.<br /><br />There will be hissing. Spitting. Scratching. Mark will get caught in the crossfire. There will be blood.<br /><br />If I look at the expression on Lumpy’s face while this is going on, I swear I see him grin. “Girls. Look at them go at it,” he says.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9sEVIxzi9HAy9LVi3j0QAV5tg0es9xZwqs-1pOTBbK6a46TRhACQdHdEBZ2l7vbFyHRcMyf6hTFefXda9zRPXcuhOFoiZLb6VSg_FlDbAW0SSC3NCmOufimmWPvaGqDxRZYh/s1600/catontheside.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 171px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562276544206913010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9sEVIxzi9HAy9LVi3j0QAV5tg0es9xZwqs-1pOTBbK6a46TRhACQdHdEBZ2l7vbFyHRcMyf6hTFefXda9zRPXcuhOFoiZLb6VSg_FlDbAW0SSC3NCmOufimmWPvaGqDxRZYh/s320/catontheside.jpg" /></a><br />If Bob is a Julian Assange-like provocateur (a spreader of secrets, a leaker of saliva, and a proponent of open relationships), Sophie is our own Kanye West. She is unsubtle. Narcissistic. On the crazy side. Always pushing her way to the front and center.<br /><br />“Room service uuuuugh! I hate when I order fruit and I can taste the other food they cut with the same knife. Beef flavored pineapples,” tweets <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/kanyewest">Kanye West</a>.<br /><br />“Meow,” says Sophie. “Meow. Meow.”<br /><br />I know. It’s open to interpretation. But if you think about it in terms of cat food, it's close.<br /><br />“Don’t sniff my goddamned butt, Sophie!” says Lumpy. “Enough is enough.”<br /><br />Meanwhile I just have to go with it, accept the changing times and ubiquitous polyamory. The age of secrets is over, and these days, everyone seems to have a cat-on-the-side. </div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-6348420836804432982010-09-27T16:40:00.000-07:002010-09-29T19:28:33.332-07:00search engine optimization<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5ZsOExVAhf1ruAtEmQIiAzUkNQdkKgPM6eSALUEYpzibZCQijt5eXZlaV_VgFz2R2xLLalRMSRe-srZmLJW6YYt99c1y1EzaFGuMCxqwkxED_7RszV_6Gm4dU0YpTTamUrxe/s1600/ping-pong-mouth.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 192px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522126681117495618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN5ZsOExVAhf1ruAtEmQIiAzUkNQdkKgPM6eSALUEYpzibZCQijt5eXZlaV_VgFz2R2xLLalRMSRe-srZmLJW6YYt99c1y1EzaFGuMCxqwkxED_7RszV_6Gm4dU0YpTTamUrxe/s200/ping-pong-mouth.jpg" /></a>On the way home from work the other day, apropos of nothing, Mark said, "Were you just talking about someone who shoots ping pong balls out of his mouth?"<br /><br />Up until then, I <em>had</em> been talking. But what I was saying had nothing to do with ping pong balls. In fact, even in the most liberal interpretation, neither projectiles nor orifices of any sort played a part in my chatter.<br /><br />“You were sleeping, weren’t you?” I said. “You were dreaming.”<br /><br />“No. No. I was listening to you.” Mark said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvyjDrQFPr5INnw_VO1r5yBHc7_fTHnz9PFZBmiFXDrn0ND9X9uSdfVbbf4CTr2WSiUcPszuXRuSGWfZJeWXkjVZZKTjKWhrGtlEiM1OzlMIKCIexaiSHTkp93C_cSr6gt9ZN/s1600/dole-man.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 184px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522127745299283538" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfvyjDrQFPr5INnw_VO1r5yBHc7_fTHnz9PFZBmiFXDrn0ND9X9uSdfVbbf4CTr2WSiUcPszuXRuSGWfZJeWXkjVZZKTjKWhrGtlEiM1OzlMIKCIexaiSHTkp93C_cSr6gt9ZN/s200/dole-man.jpg" /></a>I sighed and turned on my MP3 player. I wear earbuds so the podcasts won’t annoy Mark.<br /><br />“I must’ve been thinking about that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOXVn5_OKFw">banana ad</a> you showed me,” Mark said. He began to snore, almost before he’d finished the sentence.<br /><br />It’s not so bad that he wasn’t listening to me. Not so bad at all. Better than arguing; that much is certain.<br /><br />We don’t argue that often, but the worst arguments you can have are the ones you have in the car.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ovujCsDe1UmbloI6AkDY03ec0hzG7C9gheHrS0nFdVrYBRRLHVlco36geJEhVBjydKsxcbTgaas5pIav40cFlHMFD8JXSKD-k9tVABTJO8KjMtWIpuMvyonVLbUo-l-pIYdQ/s1600/heavytraffic.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522129710701267170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ovujCsDe1UmbloI6AkDY03ec0hzG7C9gheHrS0nFdVrYBRRLHVlco36geJEhVBjydKsxcbTgaas5pIav40cFlHMFD8JXSKD-k9tVABTJO8KjMtWIpuMvyonVLbUo-l-pIYdQ/s200/heavytraffic.jpg" /></a>In the car there are no dishes to throw, nor doors to slam. But you’re trapped. The argument has nowhere to go, except to fester and escalate, or to end in a grim, stony silence that stretches for miles. It’s especially bad if the traffic is snarled—we’ve ignored the Giants’ home game schedule, say, or one of us is trying to make an early meeting in the morning—and we’re simmering together in a car that’s barely creeping forward under a haze of exhaust.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh72X-TAqwx3PGFz5yiU3M5maWxBloMcisZO6rXhMb-H87MEjLEL9fa6hbm0N9la09l7PYVV7UdBn8G4alW0T_6esZyDxW2yrkq4v9sAIvLUQca1ouJbrHexdQjz5_rxmvavGb/s1600/worst-commute.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522130338296335634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh72X-TAqwx3PGFz5yiU3M5maWxBloMcisZO6rXhMb-H87MEjLEL9fa6hbm0N9la09l7PYVV7UdBn8G4alW0T_6esZyDxW2yrkq4v9sAIvLUQca1ouJbrHexdQjz5_rxmvavGb/s200/worst-commute.jpg" /></a>Mostly I’m lucky. Mark and I carpool to work, and it’s nice to have company. It’s a long commute, 37 miles for me, and 45 miles for him. And usually we don’t fight; we chat companionably until Mark drops me off at the back entrance to Building 6 or until I back the car into its parking space at home.<br /><br />We split the responsibilities: he drives south to Silicon Valley, and we chat. I drive home to San Francisco, and we chat some more. It works pretty well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaXZ6qPTFVxQJquH8uhxHQEdl5GNcjAuveEYVKmxhyV-h1QYPXNFvOksXNjxHIeo155D8RY6oOsnxrMuP2bTdvJCIaGrUz7nx0bxEJZVNKMnqCPH0ohmUhaKymWg3LtFZWnOd/s1600/car-talk-guys.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 172px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522130594859404754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFaXZ6qPTFVxQJquH8uhxHQEdl5GNcjAuveEYVKmxhyV-h1QYPXNFvOksXNjxHIeo155D8RY6oOsnxrMuP2bTdvJCIaGrUz7nx0bxEJZVNKMnqCPH0ohmUhaKymWg3LtFZWnOd/s200/car-talk-guys.jpg" /></a>Occasionally we even listen to <em><a href="http://www.cartalk.com/">Car Talk</a></em>, that long-running NPR program hosted by two MIT grads who chatter with their callers, laugh at one another’s jokes, and rattle on about fried distributor caps, old Fiats, mushy suspension, and ex-wives. They know a lot about cars, somewhat less about ex-wives, and can be surprisingly funny. It’s also the only podcast that we’re both willing to listen to, especially in the morning, when our sensibilities are delicate and our moods fragile.<br /><br />“Have you ever noticed that one of the guys does all the talking?” Mark says.<br /><br />“Really,” I say. “Are you sure?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvw6IWcKRW7GEUe_f1v73nQzlbMppsMZJg8vAWcWU4Xo5NlygtwMkU-9XfvVZgk6Ot04pUClIQp6Crj6nQb9vQ-RALpd8Y4_147PAhUyr1iYfmSLDIs52vGGCF1LvwbS_htVj/s1600/obnoxious-laugh.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 173px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522131331282511746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvw6IWcKRW7GEUe_f1v73nQzlbMppsMZJg8vAWcWU4Xo5NlygtwMkU-9XfvVZgk6Ot04pUClIQp6Crj6nQb9vQ-RALpd8Y4_147PAhUyr1iYfmSLDIs52vGGCF1LvwbS_htVj/s200/obnoxious-laugh.jpg" /></a>“Yeah. The other guy just laughs.”<br /><br />We listen to <em>Car Talk</em> in silence for the next 10 miles or so. It’s true. The second fiddle brother doesn’t say much. He just brays and snorts. It’s a little annoying once you recognize the pattern, especially when his laughter seems forced.<br /><br />“You do know you’re going 90, right?” I say, scanning for a CHP cruiser, temporarily distracted from the NPR podcast. The Mini Cooper has a controversial speedometer mounted dead center on the dashboard, so the passenger can inspect it just as easily as the driver can. It’s a strange design idea, and apparently not one motivated by a desire to keep the peace.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKitAZzDQT0EK7mK2uku9Qn302xumL_M9oV43ax4qQnhi961oFxHdp-1lB1oPStYs_8i_Hnrvr_HH8uV8cfP0ys-DOBqYkqyjJVHXp4gSODxTQ3nw5FHEi6fY39G__JfCNU5X/s1600/mini-interior.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 186px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522136569165931378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKitAZzDQT0EK7mK2uku9Qn302xumL_M9oV43ax4qQnhi961oFxHdp-1lB1oPStYs_8i_Hnrvr_HH8uV8cfP0ys-DOBqYkqyjJVHXp4gSODxTQ3nw5FHEi6fY39G__JfCNU5X/s200/mini-interior.jpg" /></a>Maybe the focus groups for the Mini Cooper liked a good argument. Or maybe you’re not supposed to carry a passenger in the car, and the speedometer is mounted in the middle of the dash so that it’s out of your line of sight, and can’t disturb your drive-time bliss.<br /><br />“I know. I know I’m going 90.” Mark sounds irritated, but he slows the Mini to a more modest 80.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyClMsjgLcuuL1lvp_g-rBNbBXP4zL6ohjtCbgpokmlJ6dKsxApL80JpaEe9-ti2bMbVeC2Ay6L97UIImd_cF05RACEXZxbYu2NyPmCOC3rc0GI4QNgCfFgywYRBCVzLN-50Th/s1600/rubik_bite.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 184px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522138553185220482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyClMsjgLcuuL1lvp_g-rBNbBXP4zL6ohjtCbgpokmlJ6dKsxApL80JpaEe9-ti2bMbVeC2Ay6L97UIImd_cF05RACEXZxbYu2NyPmCOC3rc0GI4QNgCfFgywYRBCVzLN-50Th/s200/rubik_bite.jpg" /></a>The other reason we listen to <em>Car Talk</em> is that Mark can almost always come up with the answer to <a href="http://cartalk.com/content/puzzler/">the Puzzler</a>, the thought problem the <em>Car Talk</em> guys present each week with stagey fanfare. I sometimes get it, but certainly not with Mark’s regularity and confidence.<br /><br />Mark is smart.<br /><br />“Have you noticed how often the <em>Car Talk</em> guys tell people to buy Honda Elements?” Mark says.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_WXMSLm3RaQ9L7u8cMyBn0IH5qSlVc-39K2egSViXu3x0nWAPtFXqxYElgEqQiAhk1hvqmTUV5xq86Hk1UwyDNyh5bRkfklFBAJHCIa-taSrJdRehJXBOUFx6KfDsoBzJ1qs/s1600/honda-elephant.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 115px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522139083240889394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_WXMSLm3RaQ9L7u8cMyBn0IH5qSlVc-39K2egSViXu3x0nWAPtFXqxYElgEqQiAhk1hvqmTUV5xq86Hk1UwyDNyh5bRkfklFBAJHCIa-taSrJdRehJXBOUFx6KfDsoBzJ1qs/s200/honda-elephant.jpg" /></a>“Honda Elephants,” I say. He’s right; they’ve endorsed the big boxy vehicles to several listeners who’ve called asking for a new car recommendation, and to several listeners who haven’t asked about new cars at all.<br /><br />“Fucking SUVs,” he says.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZZUGx45eVsavTcFcDe818BisNZHw3QLJVgiy5sAXRYw30lMA0EVaKVbs2uJ0zrNsZDHF8MglgUn69eZP7gwyo5Ow7BmAUgfx5qnQRXVmLhwijw0cS6qnt14XkNqGldtXObG9/s1600/bumpersticker.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522143204899402450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZZUGx45eVsavTcFcDe818BisNZHw3QLJVgiy5sAXRYw30lMA0EVaKVbs2uJ0zrNsZDHF8MglgUn69eZP7gwyo5Ow7BmAUgfx5qnQRXVmLhwijw0cS6qnt14XkNqGldtXObG9/s200/bumpersticker.jpg" /></a>We are surrounded by a pod of the giant vehicles. They are on their morning migration south to the richer feeding grounds of Palo Alto and Menlo Park.<br /><br />We don’t often talk about SUVs or cell phone use on our long commute, although sometimes one of us will point out a particularly egregious example of one or the other.<br /><br />An Audi sedan with a ski rack mounted on its roof swerves from one side of the lane to the other, veering partway into the adjacent lane. The driver reflexively brakes as his tires cross the Bots dots. I peer in his window as we zoom by him.<br /><br />“I bet you think he’s texting,” I say to Mark. “He isn’t.”<br /><br />“Oh?” Mark says.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1z1mrHWS1Z4vzWrvOxHsJuthczkY5T0LIBAtYInc5GzoXtreVBH14tR_WkObN5qedaIGyzGCmVV7ZhxE5DaXPTcaZRPn69GyRKobgKQOEguNtHYt7eYdpClhS_73x0d_k0J4U/s1600/driving-knitting.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 199px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522143516960479794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1z1mrHWS1Z4vzWrvOxHsJuthczkY5T0LIBAtYInc5GzoXtreVBH14tR_WkObN5qedaIGyzGCmVV7ZhxE5DaXPTcaZRPn69GyRKobgKQOEguNtHYt7eYdpClhS_73x0d_k0J4U/s200/driving-knitting.jpg" /></a>“He’s knitting.” I say. “No. He’s not knitting. He’s flipping a crepe; he doesn’t want it to burn.”<br /><br />“He’s making methamphetamine,” Mark says. “He’s cooking meth in his car.”<br /><br />I pout. It’s a better line than either of mine. I hate it when he does that. “You’re making that up,” I finally say.<br /><br />“No, I’m not. I read a story in the paper. <a href="http://ac360.blogs.cnn.com/2009/09/29/cops-meth-mobile-uncovered/">A guy got busted for making meth in his car</a>.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfDt1iSa2fO6Jh41Zkz41ETkCPTwkWleOMxgTuJY0z7_85URywgoh4q2T5xR9571wOaneNgVOgNpJc1O_uD-10Oac2zeIgcPQ3W2zW85P-9ejpmBvPe4GZDXZI1pEyU4ZE12J/s1600/starbucks-machine.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 170px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522145338373225826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFfDt1iSa2fO6Jh41Zkz41ETkCPTwkWleOMxgTuJY0z7_85URywgoh4q2T5xR9571wOaneNgVOgNpJc1O_uD-10Oac2zeIgcPQ3W2zW85P-9ejpmBvPe4GZDXZI1pEyU4ZE12J/s200/starbucks-machine.jpg" /></a>I’m usually grateful to have Mark carpool with me. Most days, my job doesn’t involve much socializing. A whole day might pass without me saying a word to anyone, except perhaps to say “Excuse me” when I jockey for position in front of the Starbucks machine in our work kitchenette or collide with someone on the way to the printer. Mark chats with his colleague Misha, but he has a software development job that’s to some degree solitary too. So it’s nice to spend an hour each way during the commute in conversation.<br /><br />Some days, instead of talking to me, Mark snoozes. Usually not while he’s driving. Usually. He’s always been a champion snoozer, barely beaten out by the cat.<br /><br />He sits with his seat much further back than mine, so I don’t necessarily notice that he’s fallen asleep. I’ll talk, and then notice he’s not responding.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSL_WhE1wCmVnOrQJGDgJ2uVJXmwWLeRYyE7GTBxX6s92s5YIN9PsRun4BaD4tVKByDuA-H0dFx0WQi6pyXyUHhLxzYWFG-AK3HTI2hmcz32YCj765DryDiNztShTj6IIlHke/s1600/snoozer.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522145658560528274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcSL_WhE1wCmVnOrQJGDgJ2uVJXmwWLeRYyE7GTBxX6s92s5YIN9PsRun4BaD4tVKByDuA-H0dFx0WQi6pyXyUHhLxzYWFG-AK3HTI2hmcz32YCj765DryDiNztShTj6IIlHke/s200/snoozer.jpg" /></a>“Are you sleeping?” I say quietly.<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Again: “You asleep?”<br /><br />I can’t really see him unless I look all the way over my right shoulder, but if he doesn’t answer and doesn’t answer, then I assume he’s unconscious and I can power on my MP3 player to listen to a podcast. My MP3 player is a Sansa, a cheap knock-off of the tiniest iPod, and it takes a while to boot.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOLoz6kBOA8CJJyNzAdu1ODt0HPe4FI8CM1cYUsoGix68UplAvsaDmJAaR_iqWD0YHRy7y1SejaBqOipMjzHBWcdlk-GescDWh0iv6N_oNc44ygdZipZvSEXDn2W_vOA-CM1r/s1600/traffic-map2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522147198585840370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOLoz6kBOA8CJJyNzAdu1ODt0HPe4FI8CM1cYUsoGix68UplAvsaDmJAaR_iqWD0YHRy7y1SejaBqOipMjzHBWcdlk-GescDWh0iv6N_oNc44ygdZipZvSEXDn2W_vOA-CM1r/s200/traffic-map2.jpg" /></a>It seems that no sooner than the Sansa boots, and the podcast starts up again, Mark comes to and says, “Why did you stop talking?”<br /><br />“You were asleep. That’s why.”<br /><br />“You don’t need to talk so loud,” Mark says. “You’re shouting.”<br /><br />I switch off my MP3 player. “I wasn’t shouting,” I say, this time at a normal volume.<br /><br />“I thought we were having a nice conversation,” Mark says.<br /><br />“Okay,” I say. “We were having a nice conversation. So talk.”<br /><br />Mark begins to snore again, this time in big raspy gasps.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_Z70dVnFl3sgGAg-RNWQ9RAqIYkLL_OBlZyQoOjFis8XuRjpXDepkfWrbdGT7wSR1EGEMNlGz1_tucy7O1TCY6jvgTWLI6OAlDf3p8_HYoK4yZTu6lhPvKVhppqmzorbwVU5/s1600/traffic-map3.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 143px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 131px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522147487806064642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_Z70dVnFl3sgGAg-RNWQ9RAqIYkLL_OBlZyQoOjFis8XuRjpXDepkfWrbdGT7wSR1EGEMNlGz1_tucy7O1TCY6jvgTWLI6OAlDf3p8_HYoK4yZTu6lhPvKVhppqmzorbwVU5/s200/traffic-map3.jpg" /></a>I fumble for the switch on my MP3 player. After the usual delay, the podcast starts back up. Each time I boot, it starts about twenty seconds earlier in the podcast.<br /><br />“How come you don’t want to talk to me? How come you keep listening to your podcaster?” Mark says.<br /><br />I’m not sure how he does this seamless slide between asleep and awake. I turn off my MP3 player.<br /><br />“I’m doing all the talking. You’re sleeping.” I tell him.<br /><br />“No. I’m not. I’m listening. I’m enjoying listening to you talk.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5NqVuk7Wzu0HJBwVlrYCQZXY3qC4XcSKJm7RQxIbgC28c1X9PDG2LEe7qLM8pN0mUzoXNttJOaSXktvgUT1ppjinskrrT1Zi9_qlNS4-jCXbAWA4kjGgT75oc4jowzSe_Qi9/s1600/little-miss-chatterbox.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 155px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522148590728661938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc5NqVuk7Wzu0HJBwVlrYCQZXY3qC4XcSKJm7RQxIbgC28c1X9PDG2LEe7qLM8pN0mUzoXNttJOaSXktvgUT1ppjinskrrT1Zi9_qlNS4-jCXbAWA4kjGgT75oc4jowzSe_Qi9/s200/little-miss-chatterbox.jpg" /></a>It bothers me to be the only one talking; I’m not at all like the talky <em>Car Talk</em> brother. I don’t want to think of myself as a chatterbox, so I clam up once I perceive unequal participation.<br /><br />“You’re not listening to me,” I say. “You’re sleeping, and I’m doing all the talking. I’m going to shut up. I’m just keeping you awake.”<br /><br />And that’s as bad as most of our arguments in the car get: petty bickering. We try not to spend too much time criticizing each other’s driving, nor deep-ending on subjects that’ll make us unhappy. Yeah, there are a few times that he says, “You went into that last turn a little hot there, Parnelli” or I say, “You want me to drive? You’re awfully close to that guy. Maybe you should back off a little.”<br /><br />No worse than that, typically.<br /><br />But the day after I published my last blog post, the drive was tense. Way tense. We passed the commute in silence, Mark angry and me, sullen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8uo0v-4d6iQa6yg_j5Wh3VaZIRcYzHTY9NLk9R2HV3PGDfNwlrzF_ohRj32hWZVZIoQBP_2iqAijFPu0pK_bbzm6QgZ3yEZwMSkycGPvfc3_soRrkFAyqpEQau0oRJ-C2XqQ/s1600/gathering-storm.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 141px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522150271740242770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC8uo0v-4d6iQa6yg_j5Wh3VaZIRcYzHTY9NLk9R2HV3PGDfNwlrzF_ohRj32hWZVZIoQBP_2iqAijFPu0pK_bbzm6QgZ3yEZwMSkycGPvfc3_soRrkFAyqpEQau0oRJ-C2XqQ/s200/gathering-storm.jpg" /></a>The argument started while we were at home. Mark caught me off-guard in the morning; he had been thinking while he was doing the morning chores, and I was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of a gathering storm.<br /><br />“<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2010/03/revenge-of-meek.html">I don’t think you should use real names in your blog posts</a>,” he said with no prelude.<br /><br />I was still groggy, off-guard. I aimed my coffee cup at a point midway between my forehead and chin.<br /><br />“Why not?” I finally said, wiping spilled coffee from the floor. My mouth is apparently not at the midpoint I was aiming for.<br /><br />“Because you might not want someone to see them.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWUxGHc6q-iNRHAoyLnqT9zHdw6k3SKpNFAq4sEpERrUUguTq8nYpJO0dbS06TNqi6BwZ0ly-3BoZEd78upsUb32XLNE8u88K2S2m6XbfprMR6fJVnIfG0GKNUvSg2F6mmxDk/s1600/mean-girls.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 186px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522152184078426866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWUxGHc6q-iNRHAoyLnqT9zHdw6k3SKpNFAq4sEpERrUUguTq8nYpJO0dbS06TNqi6BwZ0ly-3BoZEd78upsUb32XLNE8u88K2S2m6XbfprMR6fJVnIfG0GKNUvSg2F6mmxDk/s200/mean-girls.jpg" /></a>“Someone who? You mean like the mean girls? None of them go by their maiden names anymore. Besides, they wouldn’t care. I doubt they even remember me,” I said. “I was just a nebbishy little thing, and I’m sure they don’t remember any of this.”<br /><br />“Besides,” I heard myself add a few minutes later, after the caffeine had taken hold, “They actually <em>said</em> that stuff.”<br /><br />I could feel myself retrenching. I started going through a catalog of names I had used in the last post. I knew there was an element of brinkmanship in the last few posts. “A Honda Element of brinkmanship,” I thought to myself. I knew better than to say that aloud. No-one likes a smart-ass when they’re working themselves into a fine rage.<br /><br />“What about Lori Beagle?” Mark finally said. “What about her? You weren’t very nice to her.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiyvrkG5D-V3xf013mQaHAu_FKDSUZVTpA1I_L8PiLEWB5jEkNu05uhIpwd3FjdFmZ9tjkrFRAi-kUq-sW5B43VF08dLBULqv0lq-Hf6Hv-X5RlVGS3QuROGrNmzFeQS0mOmH/s1600/boy-vs-girl-carrying-books.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 159px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522202052712443474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiyvrkG5D-V3xf013mQaHAu_FKDSUZVTpA1I_L8PiLEWB5jEkNu05uhIpwd3FjdFmZ9tjkrFRAi-kUq-sW5B43VF08dLBULqv0lq-Hf6Hv-X5RlVGS3QuROGrNmzFeQS0mOmH/s200/boy-vs-girl-carrying-books.jpg" /></a>Lori Beagle. I hadn’t even considered Lori Beagle. I didn’t picture her spending very much time tip-tapping away at her keyboard. In my mind, she was still wearing the big goofy saddle shoes, the cat-eye glasses, and the knee-length plaid skirt decorated with a giant faux safety pin. I tried to park her mental image down in front of a computer, but I couldn’t fold her into a seated position. She was just standing there, holding a boatload of textbooks to her chest, the way girls did. (Boys held their books at their side, relaxed.) Lori Beagle.<br /><br />Good ol’ Lori Beagle.<br /><br />“I’m sure she’s married and has another name. Besides, she knew the deal; people made fun of the way she dressed. It wasn’t a big secret.” I said.<br /><br />“Maybe she’s forgotten and you’re reminding her. Maybe it was painful for her.”<br /><br />I don’t like to think of myself as mean. It’s too easy to be nasty to the <a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/">People of Walmart</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvkZZ8O4rt9m7EsO0gA3SrSJB7GmnquRVvtBU_P5UWS54NLNgSkJoQHRsfm9kfY5_WQbLW2CD2wAD0Tkm5rQSpyIgCc1OpZWbHgUZcx9mlDnf16y8O-xIkGFcTq7zBvtHmHiU/s1600/narcissismtest.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522210720623905890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvkZZ8O4rt9m7EsO0gA3SrSJB7GmnquRVvtBU_P5UWS54NLNgSkJoQHRsfm9kfY5_WQbLW2CD2wAD0Tkm5rQSpyIgCc1OpZWbHgUZcx9mlDnf16y8O-xIkGFcTq7zBvtHmHiU/s200/narcissismtest.jpg" /></a>“Aw, c’mon,” I said. “Who’s narcissistic enough to google themselves that way? I mean, to look so hard for something that's both nasty and obscure?”<br /><br />I could tell that Mark had been stewing about this for awhile, probably since I’d read him the post.<br /><br />“You don’t know. People google themselves all the time. I think you should take the names out.”<br /><br />“Those people aren't going to read my blog, even if they find it. And I hardly ever even use last names, except when I want people to find the post. I mean, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/05/wherein-i-meet-ben-katchor-and-jacob.html">I wanted Ben Katchor to see the post about him</a>, and it never made it to the first page of the search results.”<br /><br />“I think you should take the names out,” Mark finally said again, “especially the last names. You can make up names.”<br /><br />I frowned. “Maybe. Maybe.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IIz5rCS-IvFxPqPRwoRmQBQ4WeFErsstQtUPBXlTzYP5G0vnljowCqiulVzvqfBF7ffrX9jPk122x-RN8gTGnL7gDmk-oG2A5eupcWX73vRuBUHrXhx9fifzNHGV9uCbrg_D/s1600/starting-the-race.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522212610405238706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IIz5rCS-IvFxPqPRwoRmQBQ4WeFErsstQtUPBXlTzYP5G0vnljowCqiulVzvqfBF7ffrX9jPk122x-RN8gTGnL7gDmk-oG2A5eupcWX73vRuBUHrXhx9fifzNHGV9uCbrg_D/s200/starting-the-race.jpg" /></a>It was a silent a ride to work. Mark drives a certain way when he’s mad, extra-fast, and with added g-forces to the right and left. The tires chirp. Each time we leave from a stop sign, it's as if a checkered flag is coming down. “Gentlemen. On your mark. Get set. GO!” Now I am clinging to the strap as he takes a curve from 280 North to 101 South on two wheels.<br /><br />And all the while, I fantasize about driving alone in the Civic with some podcasts for company. Not <em>Car Talk</em> either. <em><a href="http://liveitupthepodcast.com/">Live It Up</a></em>, perhaps. Or <a href="http://risk-show.com/"><em>RISK!</em></a> I’d be alone in the car, not thinking about whether I could use names or not, and I’d be laughing.<br /><br />After the Mini had roared away from the Building 6 parking lot, and I was safely on the neutral ground of my office, I re-read the offending blog post. Then I re-read another. And another. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/tough-shit-corp.html">Matt hadn’t minded, had he</a>? He’d even gotten back in touch with me—a bonus, a reason to use real names. Chip, the erstwhile manager of the Leon Capri Apartments, hadn't seen that bit <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/07/roommates-part-2.html">about his bad toupee and bandaids</a>, had he? Probably not.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngGrR2VfOMn0jSrdnImHedzE0xmqIMS6P-mvjbZy_T5oCb3djHSHssiDNSBSEJRxhcT5UT-SpH2u59ihpr-3YFq_TAiRQlTGgOWNfein2AOrlRnLWEndI6mTUw-wfsN4G3Foq/s1600/mr_ed.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 136px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522218462354859282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngGrR2VfOMn0jSrdnImHedzE0xmqIMS6P-mvjbZy_T5oCb3djHSHssiDNSBSEJRxhcT5UT-SpH2u59ihpr-3YFq_TAiRQlTGgOWNfein2AOrlRnLWEndI6mTUw-wfsN4G3Foq/s200/mr_ed.jpg" /></a>Neither Mr. Ed nor <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/03/josh-kornbluth-about-town.html">Josh Kornbluth</a> had sent me a cease-and-desist letter.<br /><br />Really the worst risk seemed to be in exaggerating and fictionalizing. I sometimes do have a nagging suspicion that a few people—friends, mostly—have indeed been offended (or perhaps slightly put off). But not from having their names used. Mostly I write about people I admire (<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/11/book-tourist.html">Roz Chast</a>; my ex-housemates Steve, Kathy, and Chris; William S. Burroughs; Ben Katchor; Michael and Danette; Jon F.). If anyone looks bad, it’s me.<br /><br />But was Mark right?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikj7grU9L_OTod0J1W1stVJ9X7h8hRRMGRsYN1QqSjV-XFtYBD3-8BOtejyfMd5LlY1GvOVChCoDAWOu_EwPfl0CDAjwhu9abTcCdEOgO3LDHxd0UCPNr84JkMPqFM1U7CNmeC/s1600/beagle.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 175px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522489658374251106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikj7grU9L_OTod0J1W1stVJ9X7h8hRRMGRsYN1QqSjV-XFtYBD3-8BOtejyfMd5LlY1GvOVChCoDAWOu_EwPfl0CDAjwhu9abTcCdEOgO3LDHxd0UCPNr84JkMPqFM1U7CNmeC/s200/beagle.jpg" /></a>I threw some names into the search box. “Lori Beagle” did bring up my blog, right on top. But it didn’t bring up anything else remotely related to the Lori Beagle from my high school, just a mommy-twitterer in South Carolina who was busy tweeting about Spongebob, and some <a href="http://www.regretsy.com/">Regretsy</a>-ready dog portraits. My Lori didn’t seem sufficiently self-involved to search for her junior high persona.<br /><br />Does everybody even see the same search results that I do? Search results are personalized now; I’m never sure whether what I see is what you see.<br /><br />But probably Lori Beagle won’t see my blog.<br /><br />Probably not.<br /><br />Almost surely not.<br /><br />Would she?<br /><br />Maybe I shouldn’t have used the picture. Maybe I should’ve given myself a little wiggle room.<br /><br />Perhaps Mark was right. I brought up my last blog post in an editor and started changing names. If I changed the names now, it’d look like I was republishing it. People’d wonder what I was up to. Maybe they would know. It’d be worse than just leaving the blog post alone.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKa9KFTAJtwxf-oZ0TJgGny1GKuZCgjCeU_VX-q6_u5bKxwF-85amL5mDurIm6SVStFQDloGlEyAb2LOjxnt2Tvq9T9tSSsaYtje2Yg56Um-Hpnd_9nIvfd251JhhhNyFMDEP/s1600/faux+pas3.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 191px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522494658056477202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKa9KFTAJtwxf-oZ0TJgGny1GKuZCgjCeU_VX-q6_u5bKxwF-85amL5mDurIm6SVStFQDloGlEyAb2LOjxnt2Tvq9T9tSSsaYtje2Yg56Um-Hpnd_9nIvfd251JhhhNyFMDEP/s200/faux+pas3.jpg" /></a>I closed the edit window, filled with dread and the disproportionate sense of regret that comes with a social faux pas. There was nothing I could do to fix the problem without calling even more attention to it.<br /><br />That evening, on the drive home, Mark still didn’t seem to be speaking to me. I got into the car, chatty and over-friendly, but there was a great wall of silence between us.<br /><br />On the way home, I drive.<br /><br />I move into the left lane on 101 and turn on my MP3 player, trying hard not to obsess. Was Mark right? Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes. I try to focus on other fights we’d had, on times when I’d been right. When I’d definitely been right. When had I last been right?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoHIeCTnRW-x3DUPUplm3CirpSkapCtWirxpwHPSgpZaiRbzA8Vbw9R-Z-nPOps-J4cR2AUj0DAD2QMJ3WO0zW8mTHWgCR2r3tcK9pDB4XkxyrlSISFphabeEc7GddYb4LZuk7/s1600/flipping-the-bird.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 182px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522497147337071714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoHIeCTnRW-x3DUPUplm3CirpSkapCtWirxpwHPSgpZaiRbzA8Vbw9R-Z-nPOps-J4cR2AUj0DAD2QMJ3WO0zW8mTHWgCR2r3tcK9pDB4XkxyrlSISFphabeEc7GddYb4LZuk7/s200/flipping-the-bird.jpg" /></a>To show how conciliatory I am, I drive more carefully than usual. I work the turn signal with precision, well in advance of making a lane change. <a href="http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2001/08/08">I’m slow to give other drivers the finger</a>.<br /><br />A person who is this polite not only couldn’t be rude, but also couldn’t be wrong, right?<br /><br />“There you go,” I say, backing off so a Suburban with a “My child is an honor student at Jordan Middle School” bumper sticker can more or less parallel-park in front of me, going 90 MPH. “Plenty of room for everyone,” I add as the driver instinctively brakes hard as he synchronizes the calendar on his Blackberry. “No sense in going so fast.”<br /><br />Normally I’d be full of rage. Asshole. He cut me off and then slowed down to 55.<br /><br />Odd how I turn polite to counter Mark’s anger. But I’m guessing there are only two ways it can go: you drive out your anger, or you deny it completely.<br /><br />I bump up the volume on the Sansa three notches. I look over and behind me to catch the expression on Mark’s face. His eyes are closed, but he doesn’t look to be asleep.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzhT36I7PKZ-hd-Qsa4WXhkSLFB9K6f8k4DeRDFHsQHp1Lqi1BJT2nFLNqrCRZFab-OvjbndWdnPs0YkHdB8Dk5ShYY40S9r0dmBYDNRGSvdMuaqFQlgQEnaJbT2X9MFy2wgp/s1600/beaglepainting.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 145px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522497946881973826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmzhT36I7PKZ-hd-Qsa4WXhkSLFB9K6f8k4DeRDFHsQHp1Lqi1BJT2nFLNqrCRZFab-OvjbndWdnPs0YkHdB8Dk5ShYY40S9r0dmBYDNRGSvdMuaqFQlgQEnaJbT2X9MFy2wgp/s200/beaglepainting.jpg" /></a>At home, I compulsively plug in my computer and search for Lori Beagle again. Maybe with a different IP address, the results will be different.<br /><br />Not only did my blog come up, but I also found the spam pages that’d been constructed from it. “Mixing Raw Pork With Raw Chicken.” Great. I’m almost tempted to click. “RITALIN – Women’s Shopping Finds! (adderall or ritalin).” What'll those spammers think of next?<br /><br />I can’t decide whether I’m flattered by the way something I’ve written insinuates itself into the dark world of spam or not.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ugk0zrTdZw91zDB_LFkVmcqhRtC_vhkDFl6_t0ye04WhMMaeJ-5b-evDkjdKtw95iXo6AlFvoj2Mg0Dsbg0W8-w0h1IQitTTRrtge321bWTEhzEfzJd8ijnybqdwCXyWbgMt/s1600/bing-logo.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 166px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 111px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522498212979557330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ugk0zrTdZw91zDB_LFkVmcqhRtC_vhkDFl6_t0ye04WhMMaeJ-5b-evDkjdKtw95iXo6AlFvoj2Mg0Dsbg0W8-w0h1IQitTTRrtge321bWTEhzEfzJd8ijnybqdwCXyWbgMt/s200/bing-logo.jpg" /></a>Maybe Lori’s a Microsoft partisan, and uses Bing, Microsoft’s search engine. Sure. What would she be doing using Google? I’ve reconstructed Lori in my mind, pushed time forward like they do on the milk cartons. She’d be independent, yet conservative.<br /><br />She wouldn’t Google. She’d Bing.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.bing.com/search?q=%22Lori+beagle%22">The Bing results</a> distract me from my immediate problems by showing me some stats about a Lori Beagle in Texas. “63% of graduates from Lori’s school like Dining out,” Bing informs me. Who doesn’t like dining out? “32% of graduates from Lori’s school like Channel surfing,” Bing elaborates. Which Channel? Coco Chanel? The English Channel?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tvGo1gZNSk7TlqMZnuNoHykiXAmv0DjRV2MXFzyfs-MenMN34vHKV-I4i0nrdLe9AL5YASjaXxr6qp60KE_h1uK2xn7JLNEOM6xEbouned8zfaTNhcDDbVT6w8O7GNml-B3I/s1600/3-percenter.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 190px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522498325402835506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tvGo1gZNSk7TlqMZnuNoHykiXAmv0DjRV2MXFzyfs-MenMN34vHKV-I4i0nrdLe9AL5YASjaXxr6qp60KE_h1uK2xn7JLNEOM6xEbouned8zfaTNhcDDbVT6w8O7GNml-B3I/s200/3-percenter.jpg" /></a>“3% of graduates from Lori’s school like Rodents.”<br /><br />Wait. 3% of graduates from Lori’s school like Rodents. Really? I momentarily forget that I’m deliberately on the trail of the wrong Lori Beagle.<br /><br />That’s it. If she finds it and calls me, I’ll pretend it’s spam. Or a different Lori Beagle. Or a Search Engine Optimization fluke.<br /><br />Time fades even the most passionate arguments. After a few days of Mark's angry silence, I’d blown through my first string and second string podcasts, and Mark had more than caught up with his pretend and real sleep.<br /><br />In essence, we’d forgotten what we were fighting about, and were on an even keel again. I’d gotten busy, and was neglecting my blog. Mark had returned to complaining about his colleagues’ programming habits.<br /><br />Conversation was once again pleasant.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBSEvAymJLQP8DHL8UJgVhV5i0OAqhuKrgZi6d9nsAVQVaC3qNW7KBGa2Ih2fq7gWAqhAVwdJAZg7LakLRzAtXqcC0Fq5av-1Vib4mmsSiEHiXCyTXROvMZcpy5PVOhRjvrfT/s1600/dali-persistence-of-time.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 154px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522504775177749394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBSEvAymJLQP8DHL8UJgVhV5i0OAqhuKrgZi6d9nsAVQVaC3qNW7KBGa2Ih2fq7gWAqhAVwdJAZg7LakLRzAtXqcC0Fq5av-1Vib4mmsSiEHiXCyTXROvMZcpy5PVOhRjvrfT/s200/dali-persistence-of-time.jpg" /></a>Several months slipped by without notice, the way time does after you finish school. Time is perfectly capable of standing still in a physics lecture, even if you take uncomprehending notes as fast as you can. But once those classroom days are over, the hands of the clock can spin freely.<br /><br />It’s Special Relativity in action.<br /><br />I was at my desk. It was twilight, and most of my co-workers had filtered from the building. The cleaning crew was noiselessly emptying trash cans (which were mostly empty already—hence the noiselessness). I’d driven alone, and was contemplating the commute home. I brought up the traffic map, and scanned for red and black segments of roadway (slowdowns) and giant exclamation points (crowd-drawing events).<br /><br />An email drifted into my mailbox from my blog.<br /><br />A blog comment? For moi? How exciting!<br /><br />I confess, like most bloggers, podcasters, and self-publishers, I love getting comments.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUDo2l9YBLzh5pZ0nyFHIiVm2WsXKLgxuNZeKWlIjka6CZEKmosLIFnnsqV6RFRp9EMItCYTBYl5S-Leif3wEs4VNtMeWh9jRFnroC1w4UQOOBSmu37PnMqLC21sFoF2tI6dh/s1600/spam.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 199px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522505270599727746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUDo2l9YBLzh5pZ0nyFHIiVm2WsXKLgxuNZeKWlIjka6CZEKmosLIFnnsqV6RFRp9EMItCYTBYl5S-Leif3wEs4VNtMeWh9jRFnroC1w4UQOOBSmu37PnMqLC21sFoF2tI6dh/s200/spam.jpg" /></a>Usually if I get blog-related email months after a post, it’s either blog spam (want to buy property in Costa Rica?) or someone who happened upon an old blog post because they googled for something odd (e.g. <em><a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/mistah-elvis-he-dead.html">Elvis Seconal Sealtest ice cream</a> </em>or <em><a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/shopping-after-midnight.html">built-in dinette kohlrabi</a></em>). But perhaps — just maybe — it’s someone I haven’t heard from for a while. Maybe it’s someone I name-dropped off-handedly.<br /><br />Maybe it’s that cease-and-desist letter from Mr. Ed. Or Jim-Bob. Or Oprah.<br /><br />Wait. Have I ever even written about Oprah? Surely I must have. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/search?q=oprah">After more than four years of blogging, I’ve said something about Oprah</a>.<br /><br />I clicked open the comment.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj284QjolFZhSbNu6Uvarcdn3vS3qf3kqpZB5PmVB7MGqAIdTjer7PjtZDlisdB5k5mLLqeZNnTqo1xJTIudBjUEfgFfwNQDmMBET39PouRS1jRQV5hlD1yk3cFSV99frZbaPle/s1600/melgibson.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 175px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522507902155651794" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj284QjolFZhSbNu6Uvarcdn3vS3qf3kqpZB5PmVB7MGqAIdTjer7PjtZDlisdB5k5mLLqeZNnTqo1xJTIudBjUEfgFfwNQDmMBET39PouRS1jRQV5hlD1yk3cFSV99frZbaPle/s200/melgibson.jpg" /></a>It was longer and less coherent than most of the comments I get on my blog. Initially I was puzzled. It didn’t really seem like spam from my old favorites, Incontinence Briefs or Mel Gibson. It was sputtering and obscene.<br /><br />I was shaken. It must be one of the mean girls, from the mean girls’ table in the junior high cafeteria. I thought they’d moved on, gone into real estate, had religious awakenings, got remarried, had a little work done on their faces, gained weight, lost weight, moved to Florida, and found Facebook.<br /><br />Clearly I’d done a little too much Search Engine Optimization. Someone had searched for her maiden name. Could Lori have gone rogue?<br /><br />I called Marcia.<br /><br />“I think Mark was right,” I said.<br /><br />“What, Cath?” she said, “About what?”<br /><br />“I shouldn’t be using real names in my blog. Look at the comments.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDX5Ou733kCXRTaaofKtvOYkraGPud3whoGZRu1HYH1OaeKfbNOu4T_ZtZdKdTjeZKZuWQmUGdQb16T2zr11wtpsPfQiOKU5VUo9D0hsu1yDdHjh_rvqRDbWPI3puR0phY0t_u/s1600/trollop.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 164px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522508008108177474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDX5Ou733kCXRTaaofKtvOYkraGPud3whoGZRu1HYH1OaeKfbNOu4T_ZtZdKdTjeZKZuWQmUGdQb16T2zr11wtpsPfQiOKU5VUo9D0hsu1yDdHjh_rvqRDbWPI3puR0phY0t_u/s200/trollop.jpg" /></a>“Which blog comment? You haven’t blogged in months.”<br /><br />“No. No. Look at the last one,” I said.<br /><br />I waited in silence as she clicked. I thought I might’ve heard her laugh.<br /><br />“Cath. I didn’t say so, but I thought so too. You shouldn’t use their real names. It was only a matter of time.” Marcia said. “A trollop. You’re a troll up, according to this. Who do you think it is?”<br /><br />“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone who’s not a good speller. Do you think I should change all the names?”<br /><br />“All the names in your blog? Since the beginning? Isn't it a little late for that?” she said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBDwl1FLylfYiAY2tciCaRKTEAtRSLhJNmDwNUzQKDig63ADWL4Qs8euOllbNX2QXEyzvBjQ1r4OaDCDY9164fzvJWY0TIOGgjsH6xKN2tJf93OJPpO1SrSeMu5FaLahPEIua/s1600/cereal-boxes.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 162px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522512148723602818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBDwl1FLylfYiAY2tciCaRKTEAtRSLhJNmDwNUzQKDig63ADWL4Qs8euOllbNX2QXEyzvBjQ1r4OaDCDY9164fzvJWY0TIOGgjsH6xKN2tJf93OJPpO1SrSeMu5FaLahPEIua/s200/cereal-boxes.jpg" /></a>I drove home with my MP3 player turned up loud. You can't think if <a href="http://podismycopilot.libsyn.com/"><em>Pod Is My Copilot</em></a> is blasting through your earbuds.<br /><br />When I came home, Mark was eating a bowl of cereal for dinner. “You were right,” I told him. "You were right."<br /><br />"About what?" he said, and kept eating his cereal.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-11598701616882246912010-03-10T14:57:00.000-08:002011-12-13T15:09:50.010-08:00the revenge of meek<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHr1dotpua2ayDrRLxfJJ74Ih2ezAZQku_m7mV_xd_tElreGkOlmzhlasMimKl26A-vIl-A3PgYMQCyyh1H0nQRWl8IvZ2Tq84xY3DX8pt-Uj1DKFt6Gg7Mv3GkaORswCR7Cg/s1600-h/awkwardfamilyphoto.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 140px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447176165978118866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuHr1dotpua2ayDrRLxfJJ74Ih2ezAZQku_m7mV_xd_tElreGkOlmzhlasMimKl26A-vIl-A3PgYMQCyyh1H0nQRWl8IvZ2Tq84xY3DX8pt-Uj1DKFt6Gg7Mv3GkaORswCR7Cg/s200/awkwardfamilyphoto.jpg" /></a>Someone’s always sending me a link that whisks me off to a site like <a href="http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/2010/01/26/thats-entertainment/">awkwardfamilyphotos</a> or <a href="http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/?p=3129">peopleofwalmart</a>. A site that’s supposed to make me snicker with malicious glee.<br /><br />And I do.<br /><br />These poor schlubs: rolls of fat escape their tube tops; braided rattails swing beneath varicolored mullets; reverse-fit jeans have been donned from the backs of their closets. You know the drill: electric pink velour track suits; themed and bedazzled Christmas sweaters; Liz Taylor sunglasses.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0rNr8PuICaj4eYKUHJ8INkzW-v6DmNizSxylpBWFDZdCulTcQ9S0TzRHD51haTVW3fY13NoPiA9usCXRMpDVoepE1LXDOfg9BLKfBjoqTF_Z00pqMRkZhVIHzfUjaaY5La1f/s1600-h/peepsofwalmart5.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447183661701483554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0rNr8PuICaj4eYKUHJ8INkzW-v6DmNizSxylpBWFDZdCulTcQ9S0TzRHD51haTVW3fY13NoPiA9usCXRMpDVoepE1LXDOfg9BLKfBjoqTF_Z00pqMRkZhVIHzfUjaaY5La1f/s200/peepsofwalmart5.jpg" /></a>How could they be doing everything so wrong? Don’t they know?<br /><br />In the eighth grade, <a name="Lori">Lisa Beagle</a> committed fashion suicide by wearing saddle shoes, ankle socks, and plaid skirts with a giant safety pin to school every single day. Saddle shoes? Anklets? Plaid knee-length skirts? She really ought to have known better. Even those of us who were socially vulnerable could snicker at Lisa Beagle. Poor girl: she had thick legs and a flat chest. And she wore saddle shoes and ankle socks.<br /><br />She should’ve just worn a burka.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ILCH5VrP64cLrLL9cUZ-K7LCYaWaaEisoYgzq35iE32jrCEzVVYrOhhzpycY2MgI8zDb5dlxBuvjrhh_27VSGfZjCrFd_0DmS_YxPo7eaUbZn1JYgd0gEWkklv88Sc5KUirb/s1600-h/NatalieDeeyearbook.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 162px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447186506076883714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ILCH5VrP64cLrLL9cUZ-K7LCYaWaaEisoYgzq35iE32jrCEzVVYrOhhzpycY2MgI8zDb5dlxBuvjrhh_27VSGfZjCrFd_0DmS_YxPo7eaUbZn1JYgd0gEWkklv88Sc5KUirb/s200/NatalieDeeyearbook.jpg" /></a>Only now, as an adult, does it occur to me to try to inhabit Lisa Beagle’s consciousness. Was she upset that she had to dress like that? Did she have tearful fights with her mother? Or was she just oblivious? Did she laugh back at us, <a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/041604/yearbook.jpg">draw nose hair and outsized genitalia on our pictures in the yearbook</a>? Or perhaps she had a secret life, an older lover, a heroin habit, diplomatic immunity: we never would’ve known. While I thought it was possible that <em>someone</em> was laughing at me—in fact, I knew the mean girls were laughing at me—it was inconceivable that Lisa herself would be ridiculing me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcOBKZ-UqEOJujR7Qaci3pX6Dld4ib2Y-ov7s3loe5eYtawWzRWSemmj8KL6JpmJRF4kKw3iYSaquxFOeiH3Qnx88JQT2Rd1HwBE88DL1YbhmvGHoMmWY4nd50EwEPrRgWBAH/s1600-h/disneytranny.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 134px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447188766361565522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIcOBKZ-UqEOJujR7Qaci3pX6Dld4ib2Y-ov7s3loe5eYtawWzRWSemmj8KL6JpmJRF4kKw3iYSaquxFOeiH3Qnx88JQT2Rd1HwBE88DL1YbhmvGHoMmWY4nd50EwEPrRgWBAH/s200/disneytranny.jpg" /></a>So every time I follow one of these links—even the links to gentler sites like <a href="http://www.peopleofthepark.com/thepeople/2010/2/19/hey-werent-you-in-walle-john-mary-right.html">PeopleOfThePark</a> or <a href="http://www.regretsy.com/">regretsy</a>—I experience the sinking sensation that somewhere in the world, a fat woman in a muumuu is following a reciprocal link to a web site and scrolling through page after page of pictures of me, or people who look just like me. Or people who dress just like me. Or have hair like mine.<br /><br />You get the idea.<br /><br />And the fat lady in the muumuu is laughing.<br /><br />I got used to avoiding the mean girls’ scorn in junior high. The mean girls knew your weaknesses long before you did; they had x-ray vision that could see right through your burka.<br /><br />“I feel for any guy who tries to hold hands with you.” Sheree Olgman said to me in PE class. She was looking at my long fingernails.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlADNYSKsgiYOBjvxCH7KovXGYwSG9o6iUGIylirps2RWw3fdLdTZL_y5kFsn1LaeEs5SRs-3cFsNKUzxyEi2TPYCBY7k6bzqxRucJaIJULtQAZAdbjRMv2EMdw1hpJFVJF137/s1600-h/longlongnails.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 146px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447194686775939490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlADNYSKsgiYOBjvxCH7KovXGYwSG9o6iUGIylirps2RWw3fdLdTZL_y5kFsn1LaeEs5SRs-3cFsNKUzxyEi2TPYCBY7k6bzqxRucJaIJULtQAZAdbjRMv2EMdw1hpJFVJF137/s200/longlongnails.jpg" /></a>Up until then, I’d thought my long fingernails were one of my greatest physical assets. Now they were a point of shame, a liability. I pulled the arms of my sweatshirt down over my hands. We were playing basketball, and I’d gone to great lengths to hide on the sidelines so I would be the last to rotate in; sometimes I’d even change teams mid-game to ensure I wouldn’t have to play. Not only was I the shortest girl on the team (besides a girl we actually called Shorty), I didn’t want to risk breaking my fingernails. That is, until Sheree implied that I’d die a virgin if I didn’t lose those fingernails. And fast.<br /><br />“I don’t like the way your necklace hangs,” Debbie Oard said in 5th period science. My new necklace had taken an unfortunate path around my breasts. We were seated alphabetically, so I couldn’t take a desk strategically distant from the mean girls. All I could do was let them copy from my test, and hope a few right answers would mollify them. Sue Nivens was cataloging my split ends, and Laurie York was noting a fresh blemish.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7qLZ6-rJTXUe9VlYgm5KhgavyMQOwi2p11LpKV61wN_idaaiwPNplV-FD2tdP6BqvkpZg20LvfCaFF15Wj1xxERYjltl00ZyJwK1v6oek4EA_hRkE1kL2yBXwiUOi8nA8tpk/s1600-h/run3.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 161px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447271492232806610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx7qLZ6-rJTXUe9VlYgm5KhgavyMQOwi2p11LpKV61wN_idaaiwPNplV-FD2tdP6BqvkpZg20LvfCaFF15Wj1xxERYjltl00ZyJwK1v6oek4EA_hRkE1kL2yBXwiUOi8nA8tpk/s200/run3.jpg" /></a>Once in seventh grade I fell down a long flight of stairs. These were outdoor stairs with a sandpapery edge to give your shoes traction in the rain. But it wasn’t raining and I was wearing lime green patent leather high heel sandals. I lost it on the top step and tumbled down the entire flight.<br /><br />Humiliated, I gathered up my books and hustled to the nurse’s office. It wasn’t that my knees were skinned and bleeding. No. I didn’t care about that; my knees would heal. My stockings had giant runs in both legs. I had no intention of going back to class until I had a fresh nylons.<br /><br />I had fallen down the stairs, incidentally, because I hated my glasses. And without my glasses, I couldn’t make out the edge of the stairs. And because I couldn’t see where the stairs began, I’d stepped off into space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlXFFckIY2kxeNHeoKn-1phFop4qoMFArAx9cSE5l-zDEqYpk2DbRnGUM9t_O8SwJGcqe8MPXqLtnt6XaG_s8_9t9EuOAWGR3jHorTIEu0p5RzLvDyMdX2dVfAPAmmZyrks2nA/s1600-h/lori-beadle-close-up-marked.jpg"></a>Did I mention that Lisa Beagle wore glasses?<br /><br />Meanness was contagious; there was always someone weaker who was waiting to become a target.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3fMh502pcF44rA5MaicxtwhyhriLOSBV4ApTQ78K48DubJa07EQD-nj6IHXjCZxAQ1iL3c96AW4B5JsN2MNExL8mGiEp0R6LJ_pKCm90iDEVr2M3JQncqgq5G1eQC8Ceg7Ct/s1600-h/glasses2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 138px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447271814456715890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3fMh502pcF44rA5MaicxtwhyhriLOSBV4ApTQ78K48DubJa07EQD-nj6IHXjCZxAQ1iL3c96AW4B5JsN2MNExL8mGiEp0R6LJ_pKCm90iDEVr2M3JQncqgq5G1eQC8Ceg7Ct/s200/glasses2.jpg" /></a>“Did you see Susanna’s senior picture in the yearbook? Did you?”<br /><br />“Yeah. They airbrushed off her zits. I didn’t even recognize her!”<br /><br />See? Mean.<br /><br />The other day, I was sitting with my colleague <a name="Mary">Mary</a>, waiting for a meeting to begin. She’d arrived before I did, and had pulled a sleek new laptop from her fashionable leather-and-canvas bag; she was tip-tapping away at her email, no doubt right on top of things. Her blonde bob was neat; she was wearing a forest green and navy blue dress. The colors were in a geometrical pattern that said, “I know a thing or two about fashion.”<br /><br />Yes, no doubt about it: she looked put-together, like she could toss her head back and laugh with an attractive companion as she handed the valet parking attendant the keys to her freshly-detailed Mercedes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9nC7N9B03Les_HmLo8PBWDYp0ojMWT-bCvPW7V1aVEwdmLei6DHm_AUs_FbxvuTsYHWdmiWAomfr268d5zrFOTITbqyluSyOnvGNWuY44J8lwVezuKX8Tcz2mEVFBcqsRJfS/s1600-h/briefcase.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448261709015928690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv9nC7N9B03Les_HmLo8PBWDYp0ojMWT-bCvPW7V1aVEwdmLei6DHm_AUs_FbxvuTsYHWdmiWAomfr268d5zrFOTITbqyluSyOnvGNWuY44J8lwVezuKX8Tcz2mEVFBcqsRJfS/s200/briefcase.jpg" /></a>I rummaged through my oversized briefcase, a lumpy piece of luggage that screams “I was purchased on sale! No-one buys this metallic khaki color on purpose!” and withdrew my laptop. It was trapped beneath a tangle of power cords, USB connectors, and the remnants of a buy-on-board United Airlines snack box. As I opened the lid, dislodged pretzel crumbs flew from the keys.<br /><br />At least all the keys on this laptop still have keycaps, unlike its predecessor, which was missing the R.<br /><br />I set up my laptop on the table next to Mary’s. It looked distinctly unappetizing.<br /><br />Mary continued to tip-tap politely at her keyboard, dispatching incoming email with the finesse of an air traffic controller.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBSoIP9IxTDfOArEKf5pOnxPzxUWgGaVG6lPXXa8AjsijXjA9kPKgrkohvwPoSPI8bL7ZITHEyJmdNP2VkEJ5Kr2hCYds3ZfwdjQP9qMEzJVfWb7lxV3FqQ9Ru5Xbx34fiZ1m/s1600-h/cub-cadet-chipper-shredder.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 178px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448262938231987058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBSoIP9IxTDfOArEKf5pOnxPzxUWgGaVG6lPXXa8AjsijXjA9kPKgrkohvwPoSPI8bL7ZITHEyJmdNP2VkEJ5Kr2hCYds3ZfwdjQP9qMEzJVfWb7lxV3FqQ9Ru5Xbx34fiZ1m/s200/cub-cadet-chipper-shredder.jpg" /></a>I’m used to the sound that my laptop makes when I push the power button, a noise in an auditory range somewhere between a whisper-chipper, an off-balance washing machine, and a weed-whacker. But in this large room with an audience, it seemed extra loud.<br /><br />Mary glanced at me.<br /><br />“I guess I should call IT when I get back to Mountain View,” I say.<br /><br />“I think you should.” Mary’s tip-tapping accelerated briefly. Then she snapped the cover of her laptop shut.<br /><br />“The noise must be driving you crazy.” I’ve said this before; my laptop has been making this much noise since last September.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMYM8uCJtLTuDg-UtAP3DlK-Aw2wZOCHipsZXowspVexeMSJYhGHzVpPC9zfe-aXjPSF9dzEPigqgOWrhpiSSnzswLM3W8F_eMbqhfH2OrjSyXCEL_BwDxeVT2Jc_NmzNDNcW/s1600-h/laptop.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 149px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448265050416445938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMYM8uCJtLTuDg-UtAP3DlK-Aw2wZOCHipsZXowspVexeMSJYhGHzVpPC9zfe-aXjPSF9dzEPigqgOWrhpiSSnzswLM3W8F_eMbqhfH2OrjSyXCEL_BwDxeVT2Jc_NmzNDNcW/s200/laptop.jpg" /></a>It’s just another item on a long list of broken or nearly broken stuff that I’ve learned to ignore. If IT comes to fix my computer, they’ll discover that I’ve turned off backup and am not encrypting the hard drive. They’ll give me a lecture and after they leave, I’ll discover that I can't print anymore.<br /><br />Mary sighs. What I really want to do is head off to Twitter, but I don’t have the audacity to do it in front of a co-worker. I putter briefly with my email. I can’t fake it; there’s nothing particularly important in my email.<br /><br />Abruptly my laptop enters the spin cycle. The noise changes frequency, and then it sounds like the automatic sprinklers have come on. It’s way too noisy to do any real work.<br /><br />Mary sighs again. I put my laptop back into hibernate mode. Instantly the room is quiet.<br /><br />“Gee. My laptop <em>is</em> awfully noisy,” I say.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWM1hJtFbVkr_YgtZZHhFS8qppqzhkJxk2z2-fUN6l79802FbaG8jJa6c9DnBhdmJoRHsFPWpiupj0IiIhAuaA3G969k9jpEdAvSwnAKEPNT1rXR29t_hM4NpEV3W3-5YeGnfw/s1600-h/pigs-at-work.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448265944395653234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWM1hJtFbVkr_YgtZZHhFS8qppqzhkJxk2z2-fUN6l79802FbaG8jJa6c9DnBhdmJoRHsFPWpiupj0IiIhAuaA3G969k9jpEdAvSwnAKEPNT1rXR29t_hM4NpEV3W3-5YeGnfw/s200/pigs-at-work.jpg" /></a>I picture what's been posted to the CathyIsAMess.edu website. Maybe there’s a photo of me carrying my briefcase. It’s not just too large for me, suspiciously stained, and insanely misshapen; it’s also in obvious disarray. A small pharmacopeia rattles whenever I sling the strap over my shoulder. Loose pages of notes, business cards, review copies of journal articles, and unaccounted-for receipts fly out as I search for my New Yorker calendar.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHATQZL3sLIdoVWhg6lAN2kmDWsre-L-_VTY8-eEsIV3h0vvvVDlkTlowo1hgMiSiEd-qn3zjmZDDoFeH43e_OAJ6jogvwKhKUjQpKjZic49GMcRc5_TS8-5t5-sNqikTikVa/s1600-h/pigs-and-chompers.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 170px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448267210157363906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHATQZL3sLIdoVWhg6lAN2kmDWsre-L-_VTY8-eEsIV3h0vvvVDlkTlowo1hgMiSiEd-qn3zjmZDDoFeH43e_OAJ6jogvwKhKUjQpKjZic49GMcRc5_TS8-5t5-sNqikTikVa/s200/pigs-and-chompers.jpg" /></a>Deep in my briefcase, fourteen little pink rubber pigs are in a repurposed earbud case. I am tempted to take them out and line them up on the table like spectators. But I can well imagine what Mary would think of Spike, Lefty, Roger, and the gang. I suspect Chompers—the viral porcine sensation that <a href="http://www.maximumfun.org/shows/jordan-jesse-go">podcasters Jordan Morris and Jesse Thorn</a> spotted on <em>Antiques Roadshow</em>—is not on her radar.<br /><br />“What time was this meeting supposed to be over anyway?” I say. The Thursday rectangle on my calendar just reads AM: NUTMEG! in slanty block letters. My printing, at least, is neat.<br /><br />AM:NUTMEG. What might that mean?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06WwmMAATn0-IX_PJ9vgAnvkaQCNp9EOkpC3Hj5i-Q98CoOCrM2NbjNjzGDV9QLK40opTxU8Q35z3n0bLxAC_1-HiC8RrJyxn-F73XXd34dsR3etXYJqR3f7tXDVyq_LHHtLp/s1600-h/reading-glasses.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 154px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448267615330772658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06WwmMAATn0-IX_PJ9vgAnvkaQCNp9EOkpC3Hj5i-Q98CoOCrM2NbjNjzGDV9QLK40opTxU8Q35z3n0bLxAC_1-HiC8RrJyxn-F73XXd34dsR3etXYJqR3f7tXDVyq_LHHtLp/s200/reading-glasses.jpg" /></a>I find a glasses case toward the bottom of my briefcase, underneath the pigs. It has two pairs of reading glasses crammed into it in case I break one. Mostly I break them by cramming two pairs into a case at once. I grab one of the pairs—two bows, check; two nose pads, check; two lenses, check—and put them on.<br /><br />The view through the lenses is cloudy and dim. I'd like to catch the thug who messed up my glasses. There are plenty of fingerprints to search for in the police database, but there's no time for that now. The meeting is about to start.<br /><br />I wipe off the glasses. Aha! AM: NUI MTG is what my calendar says. That’s not much help.<br /><br />Mary pulls out her phone. Tappety-tap-tap. Wouldn’t you know it? She’s got the meeting on her calendar. She knows exactly why we’re here and exactly when we’re slated to leave. I can feel CathyIsAMess.tv swelling with new content.<br /><br />“I have to leave in 10 minutes,” she says.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP7MqPxyN9lvRacXbCGQlS5A7QzLWpnqSvxPIli4jXZmhmZiuHs_WXeTdI4DvPE2n3aE1pai6iJJ0kYOdWrVM9jPmaHQ6jAsMr4Dg4K2PQ7AdqIKE-nll53t2_8vrezkqanRh/s1600-h/bathroom-meeting.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 154px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448271076635972114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFP7MqPxyN9lvRacXbCGQlS5A7QzLWpnqSvxPIli4jXZmhmZiuHs_WXeTdI4DvPE2n3aE1pai6iJJ0kYOdWrVM9jPmaHQ6jAsMr4Dg4K2PQ7AdqIKE-nll53t2_8vrezkqanRh/s200/bathroom-meeting.jpg" /></a>“Oh, me too,” I say, although I don’t really have any other meetings on my calendar. The bathroom! I’ll need to stop in the bathroom. That counts as a meeting, doesn’t it? I want to feel busy and important too, not to mention continent. But it would be disingenuous for me to prepare to leave; I don’t have anywhere else to be.<br /><br />Later, on the plane home, I am tucked neatly in a middle seat between a flatulent Chinese man in an expensive pin-striped suit and an attractive blonde saleswoman—shades of <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1193138/">Up in the Air</a></em>’s Alex Goran—who is mysteriously able to talk on her cell phone mid-flight without being told to turn it off. Probably both are 100K flyers on United, and the flight attendants are respectfully leaving the preferred customers alone.<br /><br />I imagine my seatmates talking about the flight later.<br /><br />“Oh, the flight down here was super full,” the Alex woman says to her handsome dinner companion (who in my mind has eyelashes as luxurious and minky as George Clooney’s). “I had to sit next to a homeless person who was carrying everything she owned in the ugliest briefcase I’ve ever seen. Luckily she was really tiny. I could hop right over her.”<br /><br />And the flatulent Chinese man says to his dinner companion, a man he's known since college, “The flight down was very full. But the seat next to me was empty. The only empty seat on the plane. I have many miles on United; they treat me well.”<br /><br />Is it any wonder that I feel invisible at times?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISEL7r-_-aoQA0DGOkmBKE8OtqJBkw5BTFmoYlOtDLSZjN3KRshlA37LPegpVqZ7dLVliqoh9v2TIbOrZA7w9ELQebWEC5LZVS-mOBI9j_8nxke4RnVtqQCN63NQ32hvZgmkS/s1600-h/aunt-jemimah-costume2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 174px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448272323496697266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISEL7r-_-aoQA0DGOkmBKE8OtqJBkw5BTFmoYlOtDLSZjN3KRshlA37LPegpVqZ7dLVliqoh9v2TIbOrZA7w9ELQebWEC5LZVS-mOBI9j_8nxke4RnVtqQCN63NQ32hvZgmkS/s200/aunt-jemimah-costume2.jpg" /></a>At home, I pull my 8th grade yearbook off a shelf to take another look at Lisa Beagle. Lisa Beagle was not a mess. Probably if it had been a decade or two—or perhaps three—earlier, she would’ve been fashionable. A Frank Sinatra fan girl. Or if it were now, she’d be so hip, so renegade in her tidy white bobby sox and unscuffed saddle shoes, I’d expect to find her in one of those dive bars down around 17th and Mission. But in 8th grade—in an era when I’m ashamed to admit, kids wore Halloween costumes that now would be grounds for expulsion—she was an object of ridicule.<br /><br />I look at my 8th grade self amid the sea of 13 year-old faces. I don’t look that different from everybody else in my class. The mean girls aren’t nearly as glamorous as I remembered, and even the tough boys exude a surprising aura of innocence.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnyyl3oXzxnY6_Gr_xtvAQTvf3rbEy8l5adMjfps-98GkruXma5Ajx-BRtuGZP6CUE843JQznT5fEuqOMmCUGsOujlJoyafA_IUZAorgY3PnxjCffb9rjHjz12xzJdXg8G8ea/s1600-h/mean-girls2.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 136px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448273404305826578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOnyyl3oXzxnY6_Gr_xtvAQTvf3rbEy8l5adMjfps-98GkruXma5Ajx-BRtuGZP6CUE843JQznT5fEuqOMmCUGsOujlJoyafA_IUZAorgY3PnxjCffb9rjHjz12xzJdXg8G8ea/s200/mean-girls2.jpg" /></a>“Look! There’s Francine.” I tell Mark.<br /><br />“She has quite the schnozz,” he says.<br /><br />“No!” I say, shocked that Mark would not recognize junior high school royalty when he saw it. “She looked like a model.”<br /><br />“You were so cute,” Mark says.<br /><br />“And there’s <a name="Donna">Donna B_</a>!” I point at a picture of the student body officers. They are lounging on the stairs between the 6th and 7th grade wings.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcukMrwgkEjVhcSyxRTUw_5xjmLzGVKE1-_ODM_jMltTETRGNcY1AfCBCQYGZo3bL084rVG-koarVsYZnkBUPy-jyYc_XbV0h9MnmGYT3DOn8YVx_UA0f9uNS6LcFHaUm2pdj/s1600-h/ParadiseHawaiianStyle1966.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 147px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448275009525925458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcukMrwgkEjVhcSyxRTUw_5xjmLzGVKE1-_ODM_jMltTETRGNcY1AfCBCQYGZo3bL084rVG-koarVsYZnkBUPy-jyYc_XbV0h9MnmGYT3DOn8YVx_UA0f9uNS6LcFHaUm2pdj/s200/ParadiseHawaiianStyle1966.jpg" /></a>“Yeah. I recognize her,” Mark says. I have made him watch parts of <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0059563/">Paradise Hawaiian Style</a></em> (a vehicle that combined the Thespian talents of Donna B_ with those of an already-dimming Elvis Presley), as much of it as he would endure. I have not forced him to watch <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0059166/">Family Jewels</a></em>, her other major motion picture, although there've been times it was conspicuously part of the regular broadcast tv movie line-up.<br /><br />Mark scans the yearbook page. “Where are you in these pictures?”<br /><br />“I’m not there. I wasn’t elected to anything,” I say. “I wasn’t the type.”<br /><br />“You were so cute,” Mark says again. I can tell he's anxious to put the softcover yearbook back on the shelf. “Adorable.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0IVVbdkOXRkyIex-QJQZwogiOzcIu1M-QpHBGywYEJhB3Ws8-Fdf228nNIQBflj0fS7tHq04pSFbDwNBrRQAn-mIEvXeTXGlaCyYRHhiYv3TFxkACFH4w1obpc40e6wMHi7t/s1600-h/mean-girls-as-stripper.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 182px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448279939275044786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0IVVbdkOXRkyIex-QJQZwogiOzcIu1M-QpHBGywYEJhB3Ws8-Fdf228nNIQBflj0fS7tHq04pSFbDwNBrRQAn-mIEvXeTXGlaCyYRHhiYv3TFxkACFH4w1obpc40e6wMHi7t/s200/mean-girls-as-stripper.jpg" /></a>No. I wasn’t adorable. When Donna was quietly dismissed as our student body president, I wanted nothing more than to write an article about it for our junior high newspaper (a not very elaborate affair, lightly edited by a harried teacher and mimeographed on legal-size paper). It was not an adorable impulse, but it was also not—as the paper’s adult advisor thought—a precocious case of Schadenfreude. It’s just that she was a celebrity, and <a href="http://www.tmz.com/">the doings of celebrities are always worth reporting</a>.<br /><br />The article was not published. I was rescued from my worst impulses.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VIi6HUdvpHoj4ngPRVIXGHWKA0dLaWqZXpoR_6C3ZPpbhV9bDbJVzR5jwXxvFFhTQnm5KA-xnQ4iErod6eO7aODOnzFlWfdoR-ZAZGcUhD7xFgBydbunQynxsAutCgszUg4l/s1600-h/dannybonaduce-childstar.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448293149556015362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VIi6HUdvpHoj4ngPRVIXGHWKA0dLaWqZXpoR_6C3ZPpbhV9bDbJVzR5jwXxvFFhTQnm5KA-xnQ4iErod6eO7aODOnzFlWfdoR-ZAZGcUhD7xFgBydbunQynxsAutCgszUg4l/s200/dannybonaduce-childstar.jpg" /></a>Donna B_ disappeared when we were in high school. Rather than being disappointed, I was even more swept up in her story: just as she had come into our midst, shrouded in mystery and glamour, so she exited. It couldn't have been better. A frisson of thrill accompanied her disappearance: it was said (among the in-the-know circles in 10th grade) that she had committed suicide. Fabulous! Tragic and fabulous! Commit suicide? Of course she did, following the normal VH1 artistic trajectory, the narrative arc of every child star.<br /><br />I told the story for some years after (as the odd Southern California brush with celebrity), until it dropped off the end of my repertoire.<br /><br />In fact, as time passed, I wondered if I'd dreamt the whole thing--I remembered it, but none of my high school friends could corroborate the story. I'd google casually, not expecting to find anything concrete amid the IMDB listings and DVDs for sale.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZW4h7Uzdnd5O4MVRKzjP1GRr2s42IDCiBIe7xhxvJgGITUWzRKMn_UGKO7xPJCMdVXvJ6W_3kbt8S0eqDSEab0FW5nrSyAk8GKMVAY6aoSuaUaarrldNnLbeLRnsdBAh_CHxM/s1600-h/db.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 199px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448298604703544306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZW4h7Uzdnd5O4MVRKzjP1GRr2s42IDCiBIe7xhxvJgGITUWzRKMn_UGKO7xPJCMdVXvJ6W_3kbt8S0eqDSEab0FW5nrSyAk8GKMVAY6aoSuaUaarrldNnLbeLRnsdBAh_CHxM/s200/db.jpg" /></a>Until one day, she seemed to appear, fully-formed, reincarnated as an adult.<br /><br />Oh, curse you, Internet! Destroyer of dreams, spoiler of stories!<br /><br />At first she appeared in <a href="http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/18803">dribs and drabs</a>, but then more concretely. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zg2ZHHSISpw">A video on YouTube</a>. <a href="http://www.elvis.com.au/presley/interview_with_donna_butterworth.shtml">An interview in an Elvis fan magazine</a>. A CD. And finally, a profile on MySpace.<br /><br />Instead of questioning the adolescent rumors, I thought her presence must be the work of an impostor, a clever identity thief. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but yes, I dug around on the Internet like a full-fledged stalker. There was evidence—good, solid evidence—that Donna B_ was alive, well, and living in Hawaii.<br /><br />It seemed so odd that junior high school royalty could play out in such an ordinary way. She’d just left our high school, and gone on with her life.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wG2yFklUxAHxd7AfIK11qLMbO33kk3LNKSvuNif-5Me_ml1cNIg20NRJzZCn9NAmHoVM6U37Off4rOJ_x5XTV7XcoifvcPES-kduyb-FfC4gzWYRIftxS_pJt7x6UTcGOYSW/s1600-h/DonnaBToday.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 161px" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448298843269946626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wG2yFklUxAHxd7AfIK11qLMbO33kk3LNKSvuNif-5Me_ml1cNIg20NRJzZCn9NAmHoVM6U37Off4rOJ_x5XTV7XcoifvcPES-kduyb-FfC4gzWYRIftxS_pJt7x6UTcGOYSW/s200/DonnaBToday.jpg" /></a>In fact, there she was, clad in an Elvis t-shirt and goofing with a fan. I muse about the condition of her laptop (might it be noisy?), and whether she’s ever sold <a href="http://www.etsy.com/search_results.php?search_query=elvis&search_type=handmade&page=1&order=price_asc">Elvis-themed crafts</a> on etsy (for now, it seems that the co-starring role in <em>Paradise Hawaiian Style</em> is the one she falls back on, not the Jerry Lewis comedy we knew her for).<br /><br />So did Lisa Beagle change her name to Sharon Stone? I think she might’ve.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9sluvYpBK5NBIQayF-bqIdiS_sxNc4s5WeI8kiPpcnDQIHV0sudisixTpVWRAqUDX4gU_UVnbradQ6ef-tQsuVi17LHvyRPXseSgQSb6vHOCbAqBFjFY6oKiUO73u0eHPBC6/s1600-h/lb.jpg"></a>There's a little Lisa Beagle in all of us. Next time you go through airport security, look down at your socks.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-62235400413184062302009-12-24T12:47:00.000-08:002010-01-11T14:20:13.669-08:00going meta<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPMLVgnY1qVPBSmKXAEH1tcc4ClCp1PjVOHLT7hPIEuiFC_xBIQidH69FSz2ykvj_q33GcJPJzcTFgs0FLvkJFnXUUkmjAtc2F_JxGNWwqpY44AY9CUvQKn3b-UZvgslcmq_a/s1600-h/typer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418914193299527826" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 193px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPMLVgnY1qVPBSmKXAEH1tcc4ClCp1PjVOHLT7hPIEuiFC_xBIQidH69FSz2ykvj_q33GcJPJzcTFgs0FLvkJFnXUUkmjAtc2F_JxGNWwqpY44AY9CUvQKn3b-UZvgslcmq_a/s320/typer.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>I’ve heard lots of people talk about writer’s block. Mostly they’re people who haven’t written very much. They sit down at the <a href="http://el.toonpool.com/cartoons/Clark%20Nova_18461">keyboard</a> and discover that words never just spill out, one after the other.<br /><br />“I have so many ideas,” they say. “It’s just a matter of getting them on paper.”<br /><br />Sometimes they’re poor souls who’ve have set the bar too high. They’ve read Nabokov. Or Burroughs (<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/kansas-riddle.html">perhaps they've gone so far as to put in a bid on his cabin on Lone Star Lake</a>). Or even Bukowski (<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/06/bukowski-scholars-take-note.html">Bukowski made it look easy</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5c-NtHAlMZs9R4n91hIcTkGGeLsvpiXcekZ2CYy1xA_3L3MPTPcqovUV3zfEewDP0vg-gXd8WqfH8Gy58WPVfFs0pb95V7yXZZEVZjYHU-J7St-fwwmlTWD6zTGyLpp1B26iO/s1600-h/funny-pictures-taco-cat-is-a-palindrome.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418916121649643410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5c-NtHAlMZs9R4n91hIcTkGGeLsvpiXcekZ2CYy1xA_3L3MPTPcqovUV3zfEewDP0vg-gXd8WqfH8Gy58WPVfFs0pb95V7yXZZEVZjYHU-J7St-fwwmlTWD6zTGyLpp1B26iO/s320/funny-pictures-taco-cat-is-a-palindrome.jpg" border="0" /></a>Possibly they’ve even taken in one too many Garfield cartoons or posted a successful series of <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/">LOLcat captions</a>.<br /><br />Writing, to them, is a hat-trick.<br /><br />“I can do that,” they tell themselves. “I tell great stories. Funny stories.”<br /><br />They sit at the keyboard, wiggling their fingers to loosen up. “You know, great writers say you should just type anything that comes into your head for the first 20 minutes. All of the sudden, you’ll find that you’re writing something. Something good.”<br /><br />But no words come. “I have writer’s block,” they tell you the next time you run into them. As if it’s a medical condition. As if a high-fiber diet would help.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJFT0m5q8Z0NQneSkMwqVaG_zktxy1LoL-y-zZHoGyutQ0jv2GWqP7gyZX0Lvf2WEdlPQjP10yHZOqazab81JbVCPewgQbOLbt35UQ_i_2dEdLjESwQcq5gOfcOcFgyqkVgUD/s1600-h/reviewer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418925309226974050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJFT0m5q8Z0NQneSkMwqVaG_zktxy1LoL-y-zZHoGyutQ0jv2GWqP7gyZX0Lvf2WEdlPQjP10yHZOqazab81JbVCPewgQbOLbt35UQ_i_2dEdLjESwQcq5gOfcOcFgyqkVgUD/s200/reviewer.jpg" border="0" /></a>I don’t have writer’s block. Of this I’m certain. Over the past few months, I’ve written any number of first paragraphs, first pages, and anecdotes. At work, I’ve written impenetrable book chapters and conference papers, prose a reviewer will march through on a flight to O’Hare, thinking all the while, “Jesus. How long is this paper anyway? I thought there was a ten page limit. How can she fit all these words in ten pages? Are there two pages numbered 6?”<br /><br />So the problem has nothing to do with words. I’m gassy with words. Gassy, I tell you. As gassy as <a href="http://bigfattyonline.com/">Big Fatty</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0Yca_WQMF-TEy05bEA75HrA6zhD4Hn1NrTuyBowtnDuJ5RsdLFngxleXZsvX0_QPIMyczRnZFC7XCwjGV_kBCpnfbeanpBr3FbC5XN-yERZm_rbRFe44YIinzMMXVNs6NPwT/s1600-h/its-easier-this-way.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419006226418037442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 182px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0Yca_WQMF-TEy05bEA75HrA6zhD4Hn1NrTuyBowtnDuJ5RsdLFngxleXZsvX0_QPIMyczRnZFC7XCwjGV_kBCpnfbeanpBr3FbC5XN-yERZm_rbRFe44YIinzMMXVNs6NPwT/s200/its-easier-this-way.jpg" border="0" /></a>Light a match and my word-bag will catch fire and burn for hours.<br /><br />It’s not words. And it’s not ideas. I’ve had ideas. I’ve made lists. I’ve been blogging for almost 4 years now; I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.<br /><br /><a name="getting-fired">A few weeks ago, to get a fresh start, I started a list of my ex-bosses</a>. The winter holidays are a fine time for a bit of workplace hilarity. I wrote “Bosses” on the notepad I keep next to my computer and underlined it twice. Then I wrote:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRmW-I9SogTRZynlxra5FyHihVmPBJ4Co_rQ1f5xy7Kb9ToiFSUdqt1WSbkkaEm6EpoA3hR-mjqfDRUUR4E5wr2uPqH90NPRXOj1W1DljnQjQk-WNpGkDbpxu95DsvzPwujHK/s1600-h/bigbird.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419008755066790306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 144px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixRmW-I9SogTRZynlxra5FyHihVmPBJ4Co_rQ1f5xy7Kb9ToiFSUdqt1WSbkkaEm6EpoA3hR-mjqfDRUUR4E5wr2uPqH90NPRXOj1W1DljnQjQk-WNpGkDbpxu95DsvzPwujHK/s200/bigbird.jpg" border="0" /></a>1. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/tough-shit-corp.html">Raydeen</a> (the Hose Monster)<br />2. Big Bird<br />3. Bill<br />4. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/five-year-clock.html">Kiltman</a><br />5. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/office-space.html">The Walrus</a><br /><br />This list stopped abruptly when I reached the name of a boss who genuinely hated me (for no reason I could discern). During what turned out to be our final encounter, I gave him a presentation about my work<a name="OLE_LINK2"></a><a name="OLE_LINK1">—</a>an ordinary kind of research talk, questions I was trying to answer, results, future work—in short, nothing I could pinpoint as at all provocative. But it was. His face turned bright red and he balled his fists, accusing me afterward—with HR as his witness—of being <a href="http://www.news-medical.net/news/2008/03/10/36028.aspx">verbally aggressive</a>. I was baffled. Verbally aggressive? I don’t think I’ve ever been accused of that before.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO5ApjfdZ0WpEVC-v9aqp0pqpTYZbzm-TrswbYwbZLlUmUojsoitCmDGMuzX7enUVhxtRDhrOhZYiiYQzgpqvmc_M3GKhWwTn2RG-INN_NkT-SKP3_3Jm-9L08axlEER-m7cAh/s1600-h/grassy-knoll.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419011666454752498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 189px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO5ApjfdZ0WpEVC-v9aqp0pqpTYZbzm-TrswbYwbZLlUmUojsoitCmDGMuzX7enUVhxtRDhrOhZYiiYQzgpqvmc_M3GKhWwTn2RG-INN_NkT-SKP3_3Jm-9L08axlEER-m7cAh/s200/grassy-knoll.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few hours later, I stood outside where the cell phone reception was good, and told Sara about the incident. It was June, warm for Seattle, and the air was soft and mild. The entire afternoon had acquired a mild hallucinatory quality and my initial reaction had evolved into a fragile sense of bemusement. The building had more or less emptied out when I spotted my boss heading for his car. He squinted at me as I stood atop a grassy berm, cell phone in hand. Then he looked away very quickly. I had the strong sense he thought I was going to shoot him.<br /><br />He spent the rest of the summer trying very hard to fire me.<br /><br />A misogynist, I decided. I updated my resume.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR8V8H6zs01YL0snqCIqjT9lTlwja86pODfqBmfaPrzrYT_kknr2TF7Dpji1YROJftgPvjEmnB2OnkCZPBxqaymq_Nux1a0KlxZ9PsCKoIilUSeVPFymN0tyuk1PmYHUm8IOz/s1600-h/gaga3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419025340332035474" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 172px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR8V8H6zs01YL0snqCIqjT9lTlwja86pODfqBmfaPrzrYT_kknr2TF7Dpji1YROJftgPvjEmnB2OnkCZPBxqaymq_Nux1a0KlxZ9PsCKoIilUSeVPFymN0tyuk1PmYHUm8IOz/s200/gaga3.jpg" border="0" /></a>Six months later, he had accumulated (in no particular order) breasts, cheekbones, a feminine jawline, and had begun plucking his eyebrows and shaving his legs. His Adam's apple was gone. Not long afterward, he changed his first name in the corporate phone book.<br /><br />That kind of pathos and irony will stop you in your tracks. I crumpled up the half-written list of ex-bosses and started a fresh first paragraph.<br /><br />A couple of times I got far enough to call Mark into the room.<br /><br />“Would you listen to me read something aloud?” I asked him. “Just a few paragraphs so you can tell me if they’re okay.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZFpFHGDN_C8Iu1ghsoVALX37lFGRb0c9RxLH2lOMu7K4PWQTtNr-WUPtauH8Xgzum0budP1ii9sJcsWlSPWXGDY3a_AJu8-fkOWlEEtO478vbkWDf4WLGAw3OhCVs_evqeTy/s1600-h/nabokov_notecards.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419028747658488530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ZFpFHGDN_C8Iu1ghsoVALX37lFGRb0c9RxLH2lOMu7K4PWQTtNr-WUPtauH8Xgzum0budP1ii9sJcsWlSPWXGDY3a_AJu8-fkOWlEEtO478vbkWDf4WLGAw3OhCVs_evqeTy/s200/nabokov_notecards.jpg" border="0" /></a>Poor Mark. What’s he going to do? <a href="http://www.powells.com/authors/ford.html">Richard Ford reads his daily output aloud to his wife</a>. <a href="http://www.news.cornell.edu/stories/June06/Nabokov.biographer.gl.html">Nabokov did that too</a>. The wives typed up longhand drafts, probably fixing minor problems—discontinuities in the narrative arc, for example, or inadequate character development—as they went. Fixed comma faults too. That sort of thing. Problems great and small.<br /><br />Mind you: I’m not comparing myself to these literary masters, nor Mark to their wives. For one thing, Mark looks funny in a housedress, and for another, I doubt any of them ever made lists of their ex-bosses. I’m just saying, I can fall back on historical precedent when I call Mark into the room to hear me declaim the initial paragraphs of an embryonic blog post.<br /><br />This time, I started off:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQw9W9UQDtbQJVsoVQF81edemyTYUlShXedUFT93Xa_mio3-a26kBtidMxOp6sopPhqfhAcQVio9G3fcWPWaFSaUj9smadOsqxTLgJVLx-h4VIXiWs4h7NV8ths9-tTOol8O2/s1600-h/troutman.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419029156689483842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 190px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQw9W9UQDtbQJVsoVQF81edemyTYUlShXedUFT93Xa_mio3-a26kBtidMxOp6sopPhqfhAcQVio9G3fcWPWaFSaUj9smadOsqxTLgJVLx-h4VIXiWs4h7NV8ths9-tTOol8O2/s200/troutman.jpg" border="0" /></a><a name="troutman"><em>I don’t remember why we called him the Troutman.</em></a><br /><br />I cleared my throat, arched my eyebrows (both at the same time—I don’t have the facial dexterity to lift one eyebrow, then the other), and shifted into my reading voice, the timbre of which makes Lumpy yowl in protest.<br /><br /><em>The Troutman didn’t look like a trout, nor was he very manly. He was short and pink and not in the least bit scaly.</em><br /><br />I stumbled over the first sentence. It was supposed to be funny, but when I read it aloud, I could tell it had no resonance. Maybe the word “trout” was too far from the word “manly”; perhaps both words were too far from the initial “Troutman.” I looked up at Mark. He was doing his best to follow along. Lumpy continued to yowl.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezumZspzKDBXDI40-7FK7tVm-u-lLe9Gi_EQayHuqFQeLdloHLIYH4Ce5To2L2SH57imAzuZ-YFGThVjtWrsvizvp4AxKzWyu486b_h9Ax4n1RbVFHuAoOt7UGB5xHHZXPj1T/s1600-h/lumpy-yowling.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419029795485237378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 165px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezumZspzKDBXDI40-7FK7tVm-u-lLe9Gi_EQayHuqFQeLdloHLIYH4Ce5To2L2SH57imAzuZ-YFGThVjtWrsvizvp4AxKzWyu486b_h9Ax4n1RbVFHuAoOt7UGB5xHHZXPj1T/s200/lumpy-yowling.jpg" border="0" /></a>I read on.<br /><br /><em>Nonetheless, we called him the Troutman, and the name stuck. People who didn’t even know him—people who just knew us, and hadn’t met him—referred to him as the Troutman. After awhile, he more or less lost his real name, the way people do when they have catchy nicknames. His old name might’ve been George or Jeff or perhaps Larry: it was a perfectly normal, unembarrassing name. A name anyone—any man, anyway—could wear without discomfort.</em><br /><br /><em>But he lost that name and became the Troutman.</em><br /><br />I had the intention of telling a story about a particular evening’s escapade. I looked at Mark. His thumb was keeping his place in the trade paperback he was reading. I could tell he longed to return to it. Okay. I was taking too long with the setting. Noted. I started reading again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKc_43KnsSmw3ZQ-hKzJUl4ylks2PhHoC6ysRZuKs36uc6nlPg95Ucrf23jA1SEh-2-PQ22LfRWgY8f0NTmB3qeIWUv_wy5FCaOFhC-P8hfA4dUX_qmLXNT4DSxJgENV9nT3S/s1600-h/white_rice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419063992995628578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKc_43KnsSmw3ZQ-hKzJUl4ylks2PhHoC6ysRZuKs36uc6nlPg95Ucrf23jA1SEh-2-PQ22LfRWgY8f0NTmB3qeIWUv_wy5FCaOFhC-P8hfA4dUX_qmLXNT4DSxJgENV9nT3S/s200/white_rice.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>The Troutman’s most salient characteristic was his diet. His diet was dramatic, essentially because it was entirely without drama. He didn’t like sauces, and he didn’t care for spices. Nor did he like vegetables or condiments, although he would eat a few kinds of fruit (berries, mostly) with only minor complaint.</em><br /><br />The tone, the tone was all wrong. “Perhaps I should delete that paragraph.” I said.<br /><br />“Keep reading.” Mark said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsnXhm61G0tAmuWusWUovJcQdFbYHoe-hnx_xUHdyBkwMkSWoSDezWlsUc_vyklhSxmCLvFQAjUTYYQIcOKuN_hHbZkmU2tCV50MyjNQNAp8OZW26jRoy0ArDR7JfbSSKqW4L/s1600-h/mushy-peas.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419064292155530386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 195px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQsnXhm61G0tAmuWusWUovJcQdFbYHoe-hnx_xUHdyBkwMkSWoSDezWlsUc_vyklhSxmCLvFQAjUTYYQIcOKuN_hHbZkmU2tCV50MyjNQNAp8OZW26jRoy0ArDR7JfbSSKqW4L/s200/mushy-peas.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>It wasn’t that he didn’t like okra or peas. You could understand something like that. Okra has a snot-like quality that calls attention to itself. “Hey! Look at me! I’m slimy! Cut me and I’ll ooze a mucous-like substance!” Okra is only good when it’s battered and deep-fried. When it’s not, it’s like a wounded slug. And peas are just hard to eat. I get that. It’s probably why English people like them mushy. When they’re not mushy, they roll around and collide with other items on your plate, like rogue ball bearings.</em><br /><br />Mushy peas, indeed. Trite. I couldn’t continue reading the thing to Mark. I’d stolen the troutman bit, and the rest of it was lame. The next paragraph started in on food allergies. That wouldn’t work either. Someone would comment on how peanut vapors on a Southwest Flight to Sacramento had killed an innocent sixth grader who’d been on a class trip to learn about the inner workings of state government. I’d feel like a heartless shitheel by the time the commenters were through with me.<br /><br />“That’s all?” Mark asked.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iiFYGyofI_yuzapc6ocVfctQUmBqs6Co2h25ZfCkf8-wB8dvp3F3q-W2Py3kpiUE-u1f3nG4KMtM31gzCDKZ7dPvulI3C9oXV18FZBlUehTFIArSWVIW9O9XLXuD-j7H4R8s/s1600-h/baobab.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419065428147553714" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-iiFYGyofI_yuzapc6ocVfctQUmBqs6Co2h25ZfCkf8-wB8dvp3F3q-W2Py3kpiUE-u1f3nG4KMtM31gzCDKZ7dPvulI3C9oXV18FZBlUehTFIArSWVIW9O9XLXuD-j7H4R8s/s200/baobab.jpg" border="0" /></a>“That’s all for right now.” I’d already decided to abandon the text. The evening in question had been wild for me, emotionally wild. It was while Mark was still drinking, and had involved a fracas at a Senegalese place down in the Mission popular with the hip goateed multimedia crowd. Someone had cut in front of us in line, and Mark had made a scene. It didn't work; the line-cutters kept their stolen place in line, and Mark had stalked off, angry and humiliated, while the rest of us had settled into a glum dinner at an Indian restaurant several blocks away on Valencia.<br /><br />The Troutman didn’t sulk. He just said he wasn’t very hungry and ordered a bowl of plain rice. He poked at it, moving the grains around in the bowl, while the rest of us ate dinner.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHjK-fqihtsqkP-qN10TuuFLwGzrBiEwZTRiwwD56R4e4ZiJVoQfCIRYeVHLLSG6FQFpblGcIXwx2caQe5M0n0ws0uyOVNJhCqeS1Z9eMkeDSwiozUjnM51WS4pP2Csxju94l/s1600-h/chicken-sandwich.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419066203227378978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 189px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCHjK-fqihtsqkP-qN10TuuFLwGzrBiEwZTRiwwD56R4e4ZiJVoQfCIRYeVHLLSG6FQFpblGcIXwx2caQe5M0n0ws0uyOVNJhCqeS1Z9eMkeDSwiozUjnM51WS4pP2Csxju94l/s200/chicken-sandwich.jpg" border="0" /></a>The centerpiece of the blog post was to be a short list of official Troutman foodstuffs. But as I made the list, I found that by not visiting it for a few years, the list had slowly evaporated. There was the plain chicken breast. There was the pepperoni pizza. And then there were about four other things. What were they?<br /><br />Were olives on or off the list? Surely they were off. Weren’t they? Would it be funnier if he ate olives?<br /><br />Then there was a second Troutman incident that involved a refrigerator in Memphis that was empty except for a box of Double-Bubble chewing gum about the size and shape of an organic chemistry textbook and a case of Big Red soda. By the time of the incident, the Troutman himself was no longer in the picture. This was simply a matter of Troutman food artifacts. The refrigerator’s owner and I split a can of Big Red. It was undrinkably sweet, vile, but not particularly funny.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_EeF0kMG-WqQncKiKKBvOaNEhU9FZJrufsDDwWCHRvtHAdampb-RISe2Ht8w5UgNF8ChSMaPetxnDoiecceXs2Ajvl3Y7WsG80gIqNfQhW2IttlRCGlTf7UZ84Kg7W1Jaqqq/s1600-h/bigredsoda.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419067635650123090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ_EeF0kMG-WqQncKiKKBvOaNEhU9FZJrufsDDwWCHRvtHAdampb-RISe2Ht8w5UgNF8ChSMaPetxnDoiecceXs2Ajvl3Y7WsG80gIqNfQhW2IttlRCGlTf7UZ84Kg7W1Jaqqq/s200/bigredsoda.jpg" border="0" /></a>I think they drink Big Red in the South. They drink it unironically, and with considerable gusto.<br /><br />Is it funny to only have two items in the refrigerator? Yes, I decided. Two items in the refrigerator is funny. I thought back to a man I went out with before I met Mark. The only thing he had in his refrigerator was a bottle of Almaden Chablis. Not a bottle. A jug. A jug with a handle. I’d check on it (or its successor) each time I visited his apartment in West LA.<br /><br />I weighed the story. Funny? Not funny?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxBUv-ZUE6c2vI28woJMAecGy_YN7820J_3fduhRhVXJyHVW6o8T6xVlpEl-EBQ60CyK-Mjv64iHngLYv1PME06U1jfAmp_2hJdWmMZLf_fzYm0nSfmurmvvwt79TNqNVsm0e/s1600-h/dating.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419070007460565538" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 183px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 158px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxBUv-ZUE6c2vI28woJMAecGy_YN7820J_3fduhRhVXJyHVW6o8T6xVlpEl-EBQ60CyK-Mjv64iHngLYv1PME06U1jfAmp_2hJdWmMZLf_fzYm0nSfmurmvvwt79TNqNVsm0e/s200/dating.gif" border="0" /></a>Where would I go with it? Into an uncharted territory of eating disorders? I pictured Nicole Richie with those spooky pug-like eyes.<br /><br />The Troutman didn’t look at all like Nicole Richie. I felt a growing twinge of guilt: the Troutman was the invention—and the ex-boyfriend—of a close friend, and really seemed like hers to write about. Or if not hers, surely her daughter’s. Her daughter had once threatened to write a book, <em>The Peculiar Eating Habits of My Mother’s Boyfriends</em>.<br /><br />Idea poaching. I was guilty of idea poaching.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDJdQvwUELSs_dp4ypmyIv38mopCA3nYXi2fkG1lUG3nbXW8m4DusYlerfjpEtcTQgxCjpqPUs0VNWG01GBQ2dM_O5e0f3aa_iUaIlLDpzYXpsLkrioyi8fceheuxZ3ZvqptY/s1600-h/poached.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419070821239237634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 162px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDJdQvwUELSs_dp4ypmyIv38mopCA3nYXi2fkG1lUG3nbXW8m4DusYlerfjpEtcTQgxCjpqPUs0VNWG01GBQ2dM_O5e0f3aa_iUaIlLDpzYXpsLkrioyi8fceheuxZ3ZvqptY/s200/poached.jpg" border="0" /></a>Poached eggs, incidentally, were not one of the missing items on the Troutman’s list of 6 acceptable foods. Nor was mayonnaise.<br /><br />Without the list—and against a murky backdrop of guilt—the verdict seemed obvious. The Troutman was not my character around which to build a narrative.<br /><br />It’s odd that this business of loyalty should come up unbidden. The first post I’d started was an attempt to rationalize why I liked Twitter better than Facebook; in <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/09/what-are-you-doing.html">my last blog post</a>, I’d even intimated that this would be the topic of my next blog post. I’d finally—with considerable hectoring—signed up for Facebook, the mother of all social media sites. I’d avoided it for several years.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH6H8BrqlNRqL5VrAj4Z-p3R6jvblPELBDo5OpwnJ9ysa-eeMOI_6hjmkHdye9g9v2NgwpGyAbV0LV8nPANKM-g_ST4mO0svLCPHPxruIDM56iDF01g1bdZZPj6QrgBokoIlM/s1600-h/facebookyomama.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419072643732189650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXH6H8BrqlNRqL5VrAj4Z-p3R6jvblPELBDo5OpwnJ9ysa-eeMOI_6hjmkHdye9g9v2NgwpGyAbV0LV8nPANKM-g_ST4mO0svLCPHPxruIDM56iDF01g1bdZZPj6QrgBokoIlM/s200/facebookyomama.gif" border="0" /></a><a name="facebook-v-twitter">“Facebook,” I’d explain to anyone who would listen, “is too literal for me.”</a><br /><br />Then I’d realize that I’d insulted whomever I was talking to, because it seems that over the last few years, everyone has become consumed with Facebook.<br /><br />It reminds me of that phase in 1990s when it was unsafe to say anything bad about anti-depressants for fear that the person you were talking to had been taking them with some measure of success.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9feLa_ymtiQ9R1NZDPdym3fIzOhOGN75r2YYBiI0691uIatrncEOE7JPJMa2shcly4SjYqhBg7-3VmZzRze71xyYdfl2A8ibmxK2XKKctszTXqhF3Fjqw9__khiNV4UNd31tO/s1600-h/antidepressant-lady.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419073352674108258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 169px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9feLa_ymtiQ9R1NZDPdym3fIzOhOGN75r2YYBiI0691uIatrncEOE7JPJMa2shcly4SjYqhBg7-3VmZzRze71xyYdfl2A8ibmxK2XKKctszTXqhF3Fjqw9__khiNV4UNd31tO/s200/antidepressant-lady.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’d say something snarky about an antidepressant—Placebocil, say—and they’d say, “I’m taking Placebocil myself now. It really helps.” Then they’d give me a hurt look.<br /><br />That’s what was happening with Facebook.<br /><br />But this time it was worse, because then Twitter would enter the conversation. I’d explain that I was using Twitter instead of Facebook.<br /><br />“Oh,” they’d say, “It figures that you’d like Twitter. I mean, do you even know all those people who’re following you?”<br /><br />And then I’d admit that I didn’t know <em>all</em> of them.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUo3EG93o0D3Jl8gCzByfr-ntoYS6CILKuSbMfrgud0vvrV83d5iJMgwMnRBmqxQ6ogX0O6CMb4bM44u51sJWWE8591QwMeADsDvJMX1Bh8Fbk6E_5Q7frDBceX6Jl-3UWBsp/s1600-h/following.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419252954787819634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 183px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUo3EG93o0D3Jl8gCzByfr-ntoYS6CILKuSbMfrgud0vvrV83d5iJMgwMnRBmqxQ6ogX0O6CMb4bM44u51sJWWE8591QwMeADsDvJMX1Bh8Fbk6E_5Q7frDBceX6Jl-3UWBsp/s200/following.jpg" border="0" /></a>They’d respond smugly, “Well, I use Facebook to keep in touch with my <em>friends</em>.” Meaning, of course, that I’d like Facebook better if I had any real friends. That there’s a reason that one has FOLLOWERS on Twitter and FRIENDS on Facebook.<br /><br />Eventually I was worn down. I signed up for Facebook and stopped calling it MyFace.<br /><br />From the start, Facebook and I didn’t mesh well. I’d tried to play along and signed up using my real name. But then it asked for my birthdate and gender. Frankly, I think that if my friends don’t know what gender I’m presenting as these days, or roughly what my age is, they’re not particularly close friends and we might as well go back to Twitter.<br /><br />So I left those questions blank. No gender. No birthdate.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc00CeG9gXRzG-c4gTMXhDqW2s4I5yzNwSdiq_c5HiJoSEf9UZMq677uHyuNtaNtJTSLRSJ1CaAlgJ_s36kMDg_kJq3cMKmxvQjDSSENJ7JKFs92mngCwccZlLp_hpk6zpQhXC/s1600-h/surly-bouncer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419254541623220482" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 142px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc00CeG9gXRzG-c4gTMXhDqW2s4I5yzNwSdiq_c5HiJoSEf9UZMq677uHyuNtaNtJTSLRSJ1CaAlgJ_s36kMDg_kJq3cMKmxvQjDSSENJ7JKFs92mngCwccZlLp_hpk6zpQhXC/s200/surly-bouncer.jpg" border="0" /></a>Facebook would not allow me to continue. It was the surly bouncer asking for my ID. You can’t just say, “For godsakes. Do I really look underage to you?”<br /><br />So I checked male, and invented a new birthday: July 7, 1977. Call me superstitious, but I think all those 7s might bring me some good luck. In any event, it seems to be good luck to be 32 again.<br /><br />“Why do you care if someone knows your birthday?” one of my RL friends asked me. She’s a big Facebook proponent. “I love it that I get birthday wishes from everybody.”<br /><br />When I signed up for Yahoo mail (long ago), I used my real gender and birth date. The targeted advertising got worse and worse as I aged along with the service. Now every time I look at my Yahoo mail, I’m confronted with products addressing the woes of incontinence and incipient jowls, and with offers to train me to re-enter the workforce. No jet skis, hotties, or consumer electronics for me. Not even erectile dysfunction remedies.<br /><br />The future—as seen through Yahoo’s targeted advertising—is so bleak that I want to shoot myself every time I open my mailbox. There is no way I’ll ever reveal my actual demographic profile again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcgIpzD0Sd9yzCRYuXYh8Ccq_OI5zBnRb3FT4AGZEzXyObg_f_OZTVOnxGpo-gZYXW4sTyOywfVZ9414M2DJ9BWUHxCSGgYz0E1b1FkS2kRjfIiNwgf3WNn85WM7Lq-r2Tgay/s1600-h/disturbing-ad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419257721069165426" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 168px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcgIpzD0Sd9yzCRYuXYh8Ccq_OI5zBnRb3FT4AGZEzXyObg_f_OZTVOnxGpo-gZYXW4sTyOywfVZ9414M2DJ9BWUHxCSGgYz0E1b1FkS2kRjfIiNwgf3WNn85WM7Lq-r2Tgay/s200/disturbing-ad.jpg" border="0" /></a>I must say, re-inventing my age and gender for Facebook has worked out well. I now see advertising that implies that women with impossibly large breasts—breasts so large that these women must fall forward into their keyboards—are googling my name night and day.<br /><br />Sometimes I am offered credit cards with interest rates that reflect my new fast-paced lifestyle. I’m 32. Why would I worry if my credit card has a 29% interest rate? I have plenty of time to declare bankruptcy and start all over again. The targeted advertising attracted by my new age and gender is, if not practical, much cheerier and more interesting than the advertising I'd been getting with my real age and gender.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskXRL4sn7Mcm-KlrIy9N5Qzam9dUs-ygO35ei03oxk1zSC_fRhZmiqjTrx5tjUz-Sqaptaz51wxzYgfhr91fO1WWXS0CSKSivQE1UhUqy9UmVXHZTTjsRwhp_WvSQQqtF72xc/s1600-h/disgusting-party-snack.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419274807435823666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 90px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjskXRL4sn7Mcm-KlrIy9N5Qzam9dUs-ygO35ei03oxk1zSC_fRhZmiqjTrx5tjUz-Sqaptaz51wxzYgfhr91fO1WWXS0CSKSivQE1UhUqy9UmVXHZTTjsRwhp_WvSQQqtF72xc/s200/disgusting-party-snack.jpg" border="0" /></a>But much of the time, Facebook itself is as I'd feared: a combination high school reunion and noisy cocktail party with celery, cream cheese, and raisin hors d'oeuvres. I don’t seem to be able to follow any of these flattened out conversations, and despite Facebook’s promise of earnest personal revelations and no holds barred honesty, I don’t actually recognize these people who have friended me.<br /><br />That’s not quite right. I do recognize them. We’re all using our best pictures, us at our prettiest and most physically active. It’s as if we’re on Match.com or eHarmony. Our talk has been censored, fit for anyone to read. Friends of friends, whom I genuinely don’t recognize and don’t know, are making comments on the posts too. There are countless in-jokes that I don’t understand.<br /><br />People are coming and going, on their way to other continents, new lovers, and indeed, to other planets. Everyone is purposeful, efficient, and on the move.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAbAhZcpyLFNfrpMcH_FT8CqEFk17DwT_WWrENsraf75iemChVi7qYyiJTkIhpocVu6vzF_0oH3kD2XtarZzGcwE0ke7aweuFoXadJgb718RHZ_I-Bo6stP-3MtD2xGDxzwUr/s1600-h/friend-suggestion.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419275289489814066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAbAhZcpyLFNfrpMcH_FT8CqEFk17DwT_WWrENsraf75iemChVi7qYyiJTkIhpocVu6vzF_0oH3kD2XtarZzGcwE0ke7aweuFoXadJgb718RHZ_I-Bo6stP-3MtD2xGDxzwUr/s200/friend-suggestion.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few of my friends have tried to spice it up. They’ve worked at adding mirth to the party. But all these juxtaposed conversations confuse me. Where do I go to have fun? There’s my wall (a seemingly anatomical concept which makes me squeamish--the word "wall" is perilously close to a medical concept), my friends’ walls (even more squeamish-making), their friends’ walls (don't look!), interest groups, fan pages, photo albums, and profiles. </div><div> </div><div>Wait! I just found my brother’s sixth grade yearbook. Someone else is playing a weird game that automatically posts pictures of cute baby animals in distress.<br /><br />I scan through the feed, quickly close the browser, and restore my earbuds back to my ears. I'll be <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/03/earpods.html">listening to podcasts</a> instead, thanks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiokk_zQxnhJ7F9DYB_MH8k-MXCD9QG0Cidasjs0EWTgtcnze2M_hl8GIvF-muvFwQOgiDZCv6G3xxtfCD0-BkgQdj3w2GJzdBsJpCxEd3HZMTUnayWdnCN23HIFDxG2T1JjXn1/s1600-h/Bobbsey-Twins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419275640551961458" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 161px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiokk_zQxnhJ7F9DYB_MH8k-MXCD9QG0Cidasjs0EWTgtcnze2M_hl8GIvF-muvFwQOgiDZCv6G3xxtfCD0-BkgQdj3w2GJzdBsJpCxEd3HZMTUnayWdnCN23HIFDxG2T1JjXn1/s200/Bobbsey-Twins.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I was a little kid-4 or 5-I had an imaginary friend named Pat. Because Pat was invisible (one of the many virtues of being imaginary), Pat’s gender and personality were endlessly malleable. If we were going to color in my coloring books, Pat would be a she, so she wouldn’t wreck my crayons by peeling off the paper or hiding them in her butt crack. On the other hand, if I wanted to sit on the curb and pop a roll of caps one by one with a hammer, Pat would become a he.<br /><br />At the first sign of disloyalty, I’d get rid of Pat. I’d send him—or her—straight into the fireplace.<br /><br />“What happened to Pat?” one of my parents would ask. I could tell they were humoring me. Or perhaps they were laughing at me. It’s rough being four.<br /><br />“I put him in the fireplace,” I’d say. Case closed. It’s Southern California; there’s no fire in the fireplace, so why wouldn’t it be the perfect place to stow imaginary friends in disgrace?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmHWygMcDehmtsUM2tuvxIw_sv5nX4dzqHRuQNG8NxdPefTMdjYaZyJtItkaOyF-BQ0IWTrSmlGuF2EmbFw9Vo-f80Oms6v5TOtXyYfwrfTeFmyZD1G_ZGOqVaQkSWFuICHu8/s1600-h/matches.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419276032695263202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 192px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmHWygMcDehmtsUM2tuvxIw_sv5nX4dzqHRuQNG8NxdPefTMdjYaZyJtItkaOyF-BQ0IWTrSmlGuF2EmbFw9Vo-f80Oms6v5TOtXyYfwrfTeFmyZD1G_ZGOqVaQkSWFuICHu8/s200/matches.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I got bored, Pat could be reanimated in a snap. Instant friend! Pat! C’mon Pat. Let’s color between the lines. C’mon Pat. Let’s play with matches in the canyon. Maybe we’ll see a rattlesnake or a bunny. C’mon Pat. Let’s mix a bunch of condiments together in the kitchen and see if they’ll turn into a cake.<br /><br />Yeah, I could trot next door and look for my real flesh-and-blood friend Kathleen Phillips, a tall athletic redhead from a military family. Her father was 4-star general, and Kathleen had inherited his tendency toward command and control. Given half a chance, she’d boss me around, drink my Kool-aid, tear the paper off my crayons, and turn the channel to The Three Stooges. Pat, on the other hand, would always do my bidding with enthusiasm.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfDSgWE2Uzh6kJSW7Dubj8kaZ_WaR5RRwwCLXbdAm_kDGz14tfa0FjSjhrqdjVoZUbjO08qAjJuHOlHGdkYcBmYEHJs1lfcqZ9zoolt8Y52pTOmUvrSGXPNhxFp0RGlNN3nwD/s1600-h/barbie-circa-1965.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419276445575458098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGfDSgWE2Uzh6kJSW7Dubj8kaZ_WaR5RRwwCLXbdAm_kDGz14tfa0FjSjhrqdjVoZUbjO08qAjJuHOlHGdkYcBmYEHJs1lfcqZ9zoolt8Y52pTOmUvrSGXPNhxFp0RGlNN3nwD/s200/barbie-circa-1965.jpg" border="0" /></a>And unlike my flesh-and-blood friends, Pat didn’t play with dolls. Pat was like me: Pat was afraid of dolls. Or if not afraid, felt better if they weren’t around.<br /><br />Pat offered no objection when I took my Barbie, taped her in a shoebox, and put her in the garage. Pat knew that Barbie might come to life in the night and harm both of us; Pat watched the <em>Twilight Zone</em> and kept track of important sources of danger like that.<br /><br />Are my Facebook friends imaginary, grown up versions of Pat? Not really. Nor do they seem to switch genders willy-nilly like I do. Many are friends I would be absolutely delighted to see in Real Life.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9kGpNUciWJpJ1FB-ipKbNuEn5WtcBj4pzK7or1UOaSRkwBmB-blI82q7INYXvuHbVdRI14enYvmw3ZYUtN0LsJN_nr_gJVzrZbopWTdwJVJMA5eI-tnPkC2KG8LHmsvlbNX3/s1600-h/twilightzone.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419278515268228530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9kGpNUciWJpJ1FB-ipKbNuEn5WtcBj4pzK7or1UOaSRkwBmB-blI82q7INYXvuHbVdRI14enYvmw3ZYUtN0LsJN_nr_gJVzrZbopWTdwJVJMA5eI-tnPkC2KG8LHmsvlbNX3/s200/twilightzone.jpg" border="0" /></a>I wouldn’t turn off all the lights and pull the shades if I heard them ring the front doorbell.<br /><br />Perhaps the way they most resemble Pat is that it’s possible to unfriend them at the drop of a hat. I can stuff them in the fireplace and resuscitate our two-dimensional relationship whenever I please.<br /><br />I was pondering this when I heard <a href="http://people.ischool.berkeley.edu/~nunberg/WOTY09.html">Geoff Nunberg’s Fresh Air piece about the words of the decade</a>. He observed that when we use the verb ‘unfriend’, we might be getting exactly what we deserve. He said:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5nETK7r2lqDIFNRWpNJ2kPUXKNcGgNEmqNraLa8nUwPnU-hco4KfH-f3NdplPZO2DTsqvnlYbF62d5DjWFqgxLMuZCx-cjboaO6aJ9rrghxwz8se-qIZl-hRBe2-au45F8as/s1600-h/you-and-someone-else.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419281869050399698" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 121px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5nETK7r2lqDIFNRWpNJ2kPUXKNcGgNEmqNraLa8nUwPnU-hco4KfH-f3NdplPZO2DTsqvnlYbF62d5DjWFqgxLMuZCx-cjboaO6aJ9rrghxwz8se-qIZl-hRBe2-au45F8as/s200/you-and-someone-else.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>[Unfriending] is not a bad choice to stand in for the rise of social networks: it works the same bizarro alterations on the structure of an ordinary word that the social sites do on the structure of ordinary personal relationships.</em><br /><br />We’re at the end of the Aughts—at the bottom of the ninth inning of the first decade of the new century—and our friendships have devolved into directed graphs. It’s hard to get beyond the fact that friending always takes a direct object: “I friended Geoff Nunberg,” which is very different than saying, “Geoff Nunberg friended me.” Being friends with someone implies reciprocity. Friending someone doesn’t.<br /><br />Meh.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo52nvhurpvLmuy3JprV2b00llTyihYhUdZn7P7HdwR3jJ5gwzffCdcwiPN42LwpVpg_PcnC0XB2-Nr6JZQNiv00lBc3OCXvSYK3YrHlRJXeDY4XPfDGxgU8QGIkiKoRIi8CRF/s1600-h/troutman-family-tree.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419282563515858738" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo52nvhurpvLmuy3JprV2b00llTyihYhUdZn7P7HdwR3jJ5gwzffCdcwiPN42LwpVpg_PcnC0XB2-Nr6JZQNiv00lBc3OCXvSYK3YrHlRJXeDY4XPfDGxgU8QGIkiKoRIi8CRF/s200/troutman-family-tree.jpg" border="0" /></a>Geoff’s very often right. If I weren’t so afraid he’d think the less of me, I’d have friended him already.<br /><br />Now that I’ve told you about my three false beginnings for this post—a catalog of my ex-bosses, a poached story starring the Troutman, and a brief polemic about dipping my toes into Facebook and friending—I can reveal what I’ve decided to write about.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zv0KxvUmtKptcljQofpKsAmJ8LIsWBVZBCd7cli-PCBgRMxLKzqZyX7gGHGuph9TScfrrJVOZtTdg6w_T48RdCc-y06QlgGTqQGtFey6fu9e2grCtcZCkWIBwQnKbLWPQsuO/s1600-h/charles-nelson-reilly-meh.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419283162686974578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 147px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-zv0KxvUmtKptcljQofpKsAmJ8LIsWBVZBCd7cli-PCBgRMxLKzqZyX7gGHGuph9TScfrrJVOZtTdg6w_T48RdCc-y06QlgGTqQGtFey6fu9e2grCtcZCkWIBwQnKbLWPQsuO/s200/charles-nelson-reilly-meh.jpg" border="0" /></a>What’s this post actually about? It’s about the real word of the decade.<br /><br />And that’s meta.<br /><br />Meta. As in: <em>I’m going meta on yo’ ass</em>. I couldn’t have said this in 1999. But now I can.<br /><br />See you in 2010.</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-70372187253916033312009-09-12T18:17:00.000-07:002009-09-17T12:09:20.031-07:00What are you doing?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0P2LyEStfHWN00rTrXx0SweBThmHKmgE-2bsqA4SeXG61Zo2WBvkplyVDDDfov9yPCmBTuYr3EUeELHhX0wmZ1iwUHQjtmg4xl6QBoZR2wG6G-elf1X1fg3qC4O3gB_ZwBor/s1600-h/tweety-consternation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380799749482731250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 159px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0P2LyEStfHWN00rTrXx0SweBThmHKmgE-2bsqA4SeXG61Zo2WBvkplyVDDDfov9yPCmBTuYr3EUeELHhX0wmZ1iwUHQjtmg4xl6QBoZR2wG6G-elf1X1fg3qC4O3gB_ZwBor/s200/tweety-consternation.jpg" border="0" /></a>By now we’ve all heard just <em>a little too much</em> about Twitter.<br /><br />Questionable wisdom, breaking news, hot gossip, and vicious rumors are served up continuously in easy-to-swallow 140 character doses.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.celebritytweet.com/andydick/">What is Andy Dick doing</a>? What does Anderson Cooper think? What did Oprah eat? And where’s my remote control?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrcCyBn9CFfITorJ5A1XiU-zF16tV3vIXyxX-ItiN2PNgk_i32katE1J4tk7cdkOr8UdBIXR_yPur7dZ1qp1_46ZDGWeBnerkZ2oiTcomRW3L67rm4ZlOgwpETUFzJHPTXJzX/s1600-h/attention-span-death.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380804457124946082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 188px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrcCyBn9CFfITorJ5A1XiU-zF16tV3vIXyxX-ItiN2PNgk_i32katE1J4tk7cdkOr8UdBIXR_yPur7dZ1qp1_46ZDGWeBnerkZ2oiTcomRW3L67rm4ZlOgwpETUFzJHPTXJzX/s200/attention-span-death.jpg" border="0" /></a>Let’s chalk up the phenomenon to the death of the global attention span. Time to click on the x, close the application, and go on home.<br /><br />Even though its promoters (who are legion and rabid) have credited Twitter with all kinds of feats great and small—from <a href="http://helpiranelection.com/">promoting democracy in Iran</a> to <a href="http://blog.dna13.com/bid/25334/Whirlpool-s-Response-to-Dooce-Customer-Service-via-Twitter">improving customer service on kitchen appliances in Poughkeepsie</a>—it’s really not all that.<br /><br />Here’s the secret: there’s something icky about Twitter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuf5mpXLfRZfh3g1l7dHCeCkbhNQoUfiVjHTxyuHM88Olkm81svqLA9FT9euM4EXXJpNmkOcGJoetrx0zvrk0BKgMa_5yzfzS37hiBGdGMWfUGbOBEINWLHGMwPL776pGn1Np/s1600-h/critters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380808170348545026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 133px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuf5mpXLfRZfh3g1l7dHCeCkbhNQoUfiVjHTxyuHM88Olkm81svqLA9FT9euM4EXXJpNmkOcGJoetrx0zvrk0BKgMa_5yzfzS37hiBGdGMWfUGbOBEINWLHGMwPL776pGn1Np/s200/critters.jpg" border="0" /></a>The kids have sniffed it and turned away. Sensible people try it for a week and abandon it, baffled. Corporations, carnival barkers, and ambitious spammers are drawn to it like <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/b-season.html">voracious meat bees</a> to a hamburger patty at a Labor Day picnic.<br /><br />So I should’ve known better. And at first I did.<br /><br />I started off slowly and with all due skepticism sometime in 2007: a few tweets lamenting <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/05/commuting-my-sentence.html">my commute on 101</a>; several documenting <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/office-space.html">workplace HVAC anomalies</a>; and a couple more <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/09/cerealtarian.html">rhapsodizing the crunchy goodness of Cocoa Puffs</a>. Then some random salvos from a conference or two. A few non sequiturs and literary allusions dribbled forth. And of course I resorted to a bit of harmless name dropping just to demonstrate that even if I’m a consummate nobody, I do rub elbows with the important nerd elite.<br /><br /><em>Bob Kahn says that the Internet is still pretty fragile</em>, I wrote in June, 2008.<br /><br />See what I mean about the name-dropping? Utterly shameless, except that you probably have no idea who Bob Kahn is. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bob_Kahn">Some people credit Bob with inventing the Internet even before Al Gore did</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_F6h3b5G6OeztEhEU9hdUYGbpK3djMMvfRGvOgz8hWAG39PR8wGqx9VyQnDG0-yrQofscyb4sgUYNSJBjyJ1o-bbVddnjMkFO-f20_uBppxXQrBJ3ZiLfy5gwkEbABtJLe9uc/s1600-h/Cape_Cod_Lobster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380809804514419362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 142px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_F6h3b5G6OeztEhEU9hdUYGbpK3djMMvfRGvOgz8hWAG39PR8wGqx9VyQnDG0-yrQofscyb4sgUYNSJBjyJ1o-bbVddnjMkFO-f20_uBppxXQrBJ3ZiLfy5gwkEbABtJLe9uc/s200/Cape_Cod_Lobster.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>The view of Cape Cod evokes Spalding Gray & the neuroses specific to a happy WASP childhood</em>, I burbled later during that same <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/08/blogfading.html">Woods Hole boondoggle</a>.<br /><br /><em>What would Charo do?</em> I asked on August 21rst, 2008, apropos of nothing.<br /><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/ccmarshall">My tweets were sparse</a>—maybe a tweet per month—and tentative.<br /><br />Then I went quiet for six months.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the next time I tweeted—a seemingly innocuous tweet to the effect that I was <em>heading to the cold & soggy mothership in Redmond</em>—the habit took hold. There was nothing special about the tweet; but I had crossed over an invisible threshold, a one-way portal.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOx0MvB1Iu0aO2kRlZ8hSd4ZbZOZfa6jl6IcTKFCRskgkcJd5Wpmlz2HhynAYFqwp8Cx65tYlOE2E8NsShr3meZGElbs5rv2ICFxYJlf9Hz7Heku5zxuMGXxHMF2d7DBSzkDS/s1600-h/smoking.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380829000366298978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOx0MvB1Iu0aO2kRlZ8hSd4ZbZOZfa6jl6IcTKFCRskgkcJd5Wpmlz2HhynAYFqwp8Cx65tYlOE2E8NsShr3meZGElbs5rv2ICFxYJlf9Hz7Heku5zxuMGXxHMF2d7DBSzkDS/s200/smoking.jpg" border="0" /></a>Tweeting is like smoking. The first time you try it, you get the twirlies and it’s all you can do to keep your lunch down. So you try it in secret a few more times. It’s still not pretty, but you stop feeling like you’re going to toss your cookies. After awhile, you can do it at parties, striking an awkward pose with a cocktail in the other hand to loosen you up. Replace that cigarette with an iPhone and you’re ready to tweet.<br /><br />Yes, it gets easier, but it seldom gets better. An amateur smoker lights the filter end of her cigarette. She takes a hard drag; an ember falls; and she sets fire to her lap. She blows smoke in her date’s face.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlPRMSGLhKJZRyUwdl472l_i4QzObnt8OIIRbJvMjlgxMR-bHbsk01eKRKatC18UEsP7JRja-RXiFdoxuFgp_jc-sBxKfGohrpVput_mjMUWLYvOr2lI563mD00L7bfqSJeLy/s1600-h/wearyhunter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380829903105315506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlPRMSGLhKJZRyUwdl472l_i4QzObnt8OIIRbJvMjlgxMR-bHbsk01eKRKatC18UEsP7JRja-RXiFdoxuFgp_jc-sBxKfGohrpVput_mjMUWLYvOr2lI563mD00L7bfqSJeLy/s200/wearyhunter.jpg" border="0" /></a>And an amateur Tweep twitpics cute photos of the cat. Or chirps about a yummy sandwich.<br /><br />There is little more embarrassing than being unable to sustain a proper vice.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglxnajNEzQCfx2G5pMXKk1CcyITRxAjA97xXBA-1pkQBJFBNLpgeNyGgtx3kKNizgYCPa8235kR2qKR63EvITvRyBwVR8DEW_vXPhS4lv0GvXs25SI01Uq9-t-Rlj1r3oUngkJ/s1600-h/banh-mi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381035343543784962" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglxnajNEzQCfx2G5pMXKk1CcyITRxAjA97xXBA-1pkQBJFBNLpgeNyGgtx3kKNizgYCPa8235kR2qKR63EvITvRyBwVR8DEW_vXPhS4lv0GvXs25SI01Uq9-t-Rlj1r3oUngkJ/s200/banh-mi.jpg" border="0" /></a>But then, without knowing when or how it happened, an amateur becomes a pro. A smoker lights the next cigarette off the butt of the last one, inhaling as smoothly as if she’d been born with a Winston affixed to her lip.<br /><br />And when Twitter takes hold, a Tweep issues a steady stream of connected tweets all day long. <em>Good morning, Tweeps</em>, she says upon awakening. <em>Have you made coffee for me yet?</em> And she brackets the day’s tweets with a <em>Good night, all y’all. If I go to bed right now, I’ll get 5.5 hours’ sleep</em>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkBcmcS9yIxqDp480x49L6jiMddQg0cHRTlIiI8aRLFZZKI6Tuslt10bfOMXCnNW96rTLLQlsaRMSfsb0lnSixOZWe4eTOvYhUUBvjqmRtdpQYXGhGF4dtzBafx8_1955HDnkT/s1600-h/absinthe-the-color-of-Ti-D-Bowl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381037172974632994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 193px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkBcmcS9yIxqDp480x49L6jiMddQg0cHRTlIiI8aRLFZZKI6Tuslt10bfOMXCnNW96rTLLQlsaRMSfsb0lnSixOZWe4eTOvYhUUBvjqmRtdpQYXGhGF4dtzBafx8_1955HDnkT/s200/absinthe-the-color-of-Ti-D-Bowl.jpg" border="0" /></a>Sure, neither smoking nor tweeting is a pretty habit, but there’s something to be said for doing it right.<br /><br />And that’s more or less what happened to me. It took awhile, but Twitter caught me unaware and became an ugly, ugly habit, dictating who I hung out with and what I did in my spare time.<br /><br />You wonder why I haven’t blogged in the last two months? All my efforts have gone into Twitter. It’s like scouring grout. Time-consuming. Unfulfilling. Thankless. Compulsive. Soul-destroying. And utterly engrossing.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/randomComicViewer.php"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381038764471412130" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 135px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5DOCAiHTRRC9GdLy4S8gz47mpitmfffLIxLSiKgLj9OuTfLi6xWXnVglmxWMZEjc33Qa_kPlrEPNb6_LLCW1icxdCU6MOpfpYse0q5GSmT99jdnRg8tpLR78FWvYhJwuv2F4/s200/NatalieDee.bmp" border="0" /></a>Some days are fine. <a href="http://www.nataliedee.com/randomComicViewer.php">Topics arise organically</a> out of what I'm actually doing: <em>Say you just had your teeth cleaned. How long would you wait before you had your lunch? I mean, hypothetically</em>.<br /><br />A witty conversation about flossing might ensue. One of my so-called followers might offer to meet me for lunch. I might learn something new about dental hygiene.<br /><br />Other days are bleaker. It’s not that nothing's happening; it’s just that the real events of the day aren’t suitable fodder for consumption by the @<strong>1nOnlyMrFamous</strong> or Mlle. @<strong>Sharkdoctor</strong>. So I'm forced to come up with preposterous tweets like restaurant names (<em>The Bacon Grotto</em>) or non-events (<em>I’m procrastinating as fast as I can</em>) and darkish photos of port-a-potties (<em>When I take a walk late at night, I realize just how many portapotties there are in the neighborhood</em>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFK4ZV4sjwGSKfoacTtgJd2NC4o_WpYcJ1XnesF8jTY9wRbTnJewCaUTrEUPWNnOA8eB4_5eacHFZ8shGuA9bvvNwMZluD-lYedmZb038y3a5Pys_daKZ9zRGqvMkWR5wBNAab/s1600-h/portapotty.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381045976642915938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFK4ZV4sjwGSKfoacTtgJd2NC4o_WpYcJ1XnesF8jTY9wRbTnJewCaUTrEUPWNnOA8eB4_5eacHFZ8shGuA9bvvNwMZluD-lYedmZb038y3a5Pys_daKZ9zRGqvMkWR5wBNAab/s200/portapotty.jpg" border="0" /></a>They ring hollow. They have no hook.<br /><br />Then about three or four months ago, I turned another corner in a devastating direction. I started taking my followers’ actions personally.<br /><br />“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to delete you from my Twitter list,” Sara told me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9G-4fK211wFH2rmoC2kg2hULrS-4qGLBo1lHa_IDFklaI6TeIMJbOAtcNgkWPL9WgLneuaSIkHbrd9t_mlMV23-vH57ZLFzahC3N5QhqZmBFyrgTIoqUKDQNh7BuS49K1zD8N/s1600-h/Dumber-than-cheese.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381058568126773410" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 171px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9G-4fK211wFH2rmoC2kg2hULrS-4qGLBo1lHa_IDFklaI6TeIMJbOAtcNgkWPL9WgLneuaSIkHbrd9t_mlMV23-vH57ZLFzahC3N5QhqZmBFyrgTIoqUKDQNh7BuS49K1zD8N/s200/Dumber-than-cheese.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Oh, no. Of course I don’t mind.” My heart was beating just a little faster. “Did I say something offensive?”<br /><br />“No, no, no. You just post too much. I open my Twitter page, and all I see is you,” she said.<br /><br />Of course I <em>did</em> mind. I minded a lot. I felt rejected. But I knew what she meant; I’ve had the same feeling. I open my twitter feed and all I see are the tweets from a few tweeps who will remain nameless (I'm certain they know who they are). The infrequent tweeters are lost under the musings of those with twitterrhea.<br /><br />I mentioned this problem to Gene. “Why don’t you use Tweetdeck?” he asked and proceeded to show me the application and his own complicated strategy for sorting his friends from his foes.<br /><br />“Hey! That’s pretty cool,” I said to him, but to myself I thought, <em>Wait a minute here. That app takes up THE ENTIRE SCREEN. Does Gene have a Twitter habit too?</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZhQnkXwpQTV5mCcj7zflDkN6-FxYGP3qa3BoNE2qs3DC4OMMLGl9aRAfNnBhH7F1rX6RFa9YmOMmWgfG8vo1j40I_IBUKKCjaZsQb04TEQfz9OWaeeRECLw6zCH_vRiycMwC/s1600-h/throughthelookingglass.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381063442151665106" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 163px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSZhQnkXwpQTV5mCcj7zflDkN6-FxYGP3qa3BoNE2qs3DC4OMMLGl9aRAfNnBhH7F1rX6RFa9YmOMmWgfG8vo1j40I_IBUKKCjaZsQb04TEQfz9OWaeeRECLw6zCH_vRiycMwC/s200/throughthelookingglass.jpg" border="0" /></a>I know without asking that the answer was yes. Gene has fallen down the Twitter hole.<br /><br />It’s a sharper descent than you'd think.<br /><br />Right after Sara gave me the ol’ heave-ho, I’d become frustrated with Gene (his own tweets seeming to me to have been posted automatically by an ambitious bot interested only in promoting his recent blog posts) and I had unfollowed him. Unfollow. It’s one click. Much, much easier than letting a ringing phone go to voice mail or routing someone’s email into the dead letter box. <br /><br />Gene wrote me not long after that asking me if I’d deleted him by accident.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcunJF9Z63iLKgHJgeNOnWGeI6mgNAWF3IZkZe-SC8IohZaEgwzHfFqwMQyYtQzHYtE2M87rmWXK1BlXL2P4io-LWn80PKRrXmuHFf1c4YMKhlyPXIGMgODjPijc1NrGydMSfa/s1600-h/robot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381064723355856242" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 138px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcunJF9Z63iLKgHJgeNOnWGeI6mgNAWF3IZkZe-SC8IohZaEgwzHfFqwMQyYtQzHYtE2M87rmWXK1BlXL2P4io-LWn80PKRrXmuHFf1c4YMKhlyPXIGMgODjPijc1NrGydMSfa/s200/robot.jpg" border="0" /></a>I didn’t have the heart to tell him what had happened (beyond a lame explanation that involved words like <em>app</em> and <em>bot</em>).<br /><br />Reader, I re-followed him.<br /><br />I had apparently taken Sara’s rejection rather too hard to successfully unfollow a friend myself.<br /><br />But wait. It gets worse. When the pretty and popular @<strong>Princess_Holly</strong> told her numerous followers that <a name="OLE_LINK1">@<strong>JackGrayCNN </strong></a>was hilarious, I felt a twinge that I first incorrectly ascribed to gas.<br /><br />He’s hilarious? HILARIOUS?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-St5a3xel-7WfsIabjFP9LHYlBDv2yRaZuGZJtdn3gGP-Vl0aqtrO_JZ_zuyNjwV3HTSbtabp44I4J7ORJIc5TCcmGeZ2rLxdLDocLgPRB-3QEJglGmGgg_Ng163JjbUUZ-w5/s1600-h/andersoncooper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381066369549932850" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 163px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-St5a3xel-7WfsIabjFP9LHYlBDv2yRaZuGZJtdn3gGP-Vl0aqtrO_JZ_zuyNjwV3HTSbtabp44I4J7ORJIc5TCcmGeZ2rLxdLDocLgPRB-3QEJglGmGgg_Ng163JjbUUZ-w5/s200/andersoncooper.jpg" border="0" /></a>She didn’t say that he works for Anderson Cooper and so might have a scoop on breaking news: a twister in Eunice, Missouri or a kitten flu outbreak in Shoelace, Arkansas. Nor did she say that he’s young and attractive (judging by his profile photo he is). Nor did she say he's a hip Manhattanite, and we all do hang on to the pronouncements of hip Manhattanites.<br /><br />No. She said <em>he’s hilarious</em>. And @<strong>Princess_Holly</strong> is the indisputable queen of the Twitters.<br /><br />It's not gas. It's jealousy. I’m so jealous that my vision clouds from an uncontrollable surge of adrenalin.<br /><br />Hilarious.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1d2plWEFxQZGpQ9_YoBhLSgG_APha80ww6a2MMaR0ZbN7xMnXW1J4UOKlQ3gBLG5nyOKBLpfCEu6fTlZf2D2u_YMPonTpnDP8swyAszhzrw1lW35Avs4zU9mCIvZQhn1Es5p/s1600-h/peanut-buster-parfait.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381067417733573426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 179px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1d2plWEFxQZGpQ9_YoBhLSgG_APha80ww6a2MMaR0ZbN7xMnXW1J4UOKlQ3gBLG5nyOKBLpfCEu6fTlZf2D2u_YMPonTpnDP8swyAszhzrw1lW35Avs4zU9mCIvZQhn1Es5p/s200/peanut-buster-parfait.jpg" border="0" /></a>@<strong>Princess_Holly</strong> herself is exuberant. Tweets flow from her iPhone all day. I can’t believe she has time to do much else. She tweets while she’s driving (<em>WTF? School starts and traffic goes to shit</em>), while she’s eating (<em>Yum! I love pizza!</em>), while she’s shopping (<em>Someone in the Apple store could use some iDeoderant</em><em>. Big time! Gag!</em>), while she’s working (<em>Triscuit party in my office in 15 minutes! by my "office" I, of course, mean "belly"</em>), and while she’s watching TV (<em>Kevin on Top Chef reminds me of Yukon Cornelius from Rudolph the red nosed reindeer. That's all</em>).<br /><br />My first impulse was to control my jealousy. I played along with @<strong>Princess_Holly</strong>’s directive to follow @<strong>JackGrayCNN</strong> for awhile. He’s mighty darned funny, I told myself. Shoot. The guy has over 500,000 followers. He’s got to be funny.<br /><br />Then I grew critical. Okay, fella. I’m waiting for that belly laugh, that ROTFLMAO guffaw.<br /><br /><em>Breakfast always tastes better with mint chocolate chip ice cream</em>, he tweets.<br /><br />I’m still waiting. I’m a harsh judge when I’m jealous.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXP4E9hLsJRFb4enGwtZUUo9gnbroXTw2BDu-oXUM39igR5C_l0SMk3WS0QD9nAEeddjVXh8sa2LFzZ9HdMbbs8DIKfrZ0x2YTVD8cq3utptXnMRYMeB4UilgEfcL51yPuckje/s1600-h/larry-king.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381067974568353442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXP4E9hLsJRFb4enGwtZUUo9gnbroXTw2BDu-oXUM39igR5C_l0SMk3WS0QD9nAEeddjVXh8sa2LFzZ9HdMbbs8DIKfrZ0x2YTVD8cq3utptXnMRYMeB4UilgEfcL51yPuckje/s200/larry-king.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Interested to hear what Chris Brown has to say for himself. His interview with Larry King @<strong>kingsthings</strong> starts momentarily on CNN</em>, @<strong>JackGrayCNN</strong> tweets.<br /><br />Oh, for godssake. It’s not even a scoop. Even my detested satellite TV provider can give me that much information. Chris Brown. Larry King.<br /><br />News at 11. He might as well have tweeted <em>news at 11</em>.<br /><br />“SUSPENDERS,” I shout with Tourette’s-like conviction at my Twitter stream. “Larry King wears SUSPENDERS.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTO-RAFSum7Jd_n1ta_j69UNGfH3Ogh3Jsk3G_ufSH8pEm4wFpafIXsVjv4GpaVvPqzzHE52YxaIscbMJybJsNR64LQZNGbDY8tJJi39nVKVrH0aDZb_Z8-jBiqONwGxzxcxt/s1600-h/leprechaun-story.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381070730745895634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 131px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTO-RAFSum7Jd_n1ta_j69UNGfH3Ogh3Jsk3G_ufSH8pEm4wFpafIXsVjv4GpaVvPqzzHE52YxaIscbMJybJsNR64LQZNGbDY8tJJi39nVKVrH0aDZb_Z8-jBiqONwGxzxcxt/s200/leprechaun-story.jpg" border="0" /></a>@<strong>JackGrayCNN</strong> sends a link to a video of a Saint Patrick's Day news story about a leprechaun sighting in Mobile, Alabama. <a href="http://bit.ly/Pthj">On September 2nd a leprechaun story just doesn’t have that swing</a>. I feel vaguely embarrassed as I watch the neighborhood interviews.<br /><br />As everybody else’s tweets roll by, my mood makes a gradual transition from jealousy to dejection.<br /><br />I probably just don’t get it. Maybe I’ve been out of the pop culture mainstream for too long.<br /><br />I vigorously click on @<strong>JackGrayCNN</strong>’s unfollow button.<br /><br />Better yet, I tell myself, not only will I unfollow him; I’ll <em>block</em> him. Then he can’t follow me either.<br /><br />If you want to feel better about yourself, I’ve found that it helps (just a tiny bit, I admit) to BLOCK a celebrity with a large number of followers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XIRktD5AalXFniGXeqHyzGPhB3ZfGJIKAo93l52IjLlKQdUD2IYBYoRxJ6uj1fTNKhZZfC8Vyz9_ec1yoWLnxs6NWWwhRGggx1tnbQbmXW6oNs58GxqHfdGR_lOqRY6Rcxaj/s1600-h/aplusk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381072044313326946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 151px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XIRktD5AalXFniGXeqHyzGPhB3ZfGJIKAo93l52IjLlKQdUD2IYBYoRxJ6uj1fTNKhZZfC8Vyz9_ec1yoWLnxs6NWWwhRGggx1tnbQbmXW6oNs58GxqHfdGR_lOqRY6Rcxaj/s200/aplusk.jpg" border="0" /></a>Take that, @<strong>aplusk</strong>. BLOCK. Now Ashton Kutcher can NEVER follow me. Never, never, never. Take that, @<strong>aplusk</strong>! Take that! You can’t read my brilliant tweets. You can’t even see who I follow. Ha!<br /><br />And this behavior seems to be emblematic of what’s wrong with me. I’m taking Twitter way too seriously. Whatever hole it’s filling in my life should be investigated because it is sure to be both deep and wide. I mean, I'm in worse shape than those people who post forty tweets per day. I’m worse.<br /><br />Much worse.<br /><br />I came to this stunning realization the other day. There I was, in the midst of a gaggle (a goggle?) of my co-workers at the Dodgers-Giants game. Chandu, who had just carefully wiped his hands off after eating garlic fries and a crabmeat sandwich in rapid succession, was sitting on top of his copy of The Wall Street Journal to keep his nice trousers clean. Doug was wearing a fancy Giants cap I had never noticed him wearing before. Rama was watching the game intently too, as if he really cared about what was happening and who was winning. The interns were at the other end of our group, in a tight knot, drinking beers and perhaps even whooping and shouting.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wu35sBG3VShwYYVneDzuqKoNqnc2IXFRtDPKCcDuxoECFOla2IEkno0uIGxkj43mD2sAI9DHYst7Ou-uqr0AWEM1wIFvZyU2yWkLFwBaMItgkkQ4TutUQvHOJGZSzVUX2rVg/s1600-h/this-tall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381072629294670882" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7wu35sBG3VShwYYVneDzuqKoNqnc2IXFRtDPKCcDuxoECFOla2IEkno0uIGxkj43mD2sAI9DHYst7Ou-uqr0AWEM1wIFvZyU2yWkLFwBaMItgkkQ4TutUQvHOJGZSzVUX2rVg/s200/this-tall.jpg" border="0" /></a>Despite any apparent incongruity between them and the other fans in the centerfield bleachers, they all seemed to be having the time of their lives.<br /><br />Mark and I were not having the time of our lives. We huddled at the end of the row as the evening fog swirled around us. We could feel the crowd’s intensity grow as darkness descended and the Giants’ score slipped. And slipped.<br /><br />I was at the ball game. THE BALL GAME. A game involving projectiles, dangerous-looking fans, and super-sized players hopped up on human growth hormone. I was at the ball game why?<br /><br />Yes: why?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9X92f1Zebry25MMacYXCPy8SHxDcMfYaVdGvoV7-9Z-4fHGo3MxKdR-ouGoKhbvJEIn-Pnn3Eu1XZ_pOHNvRBN2fPaaDDeiTDpdb9E_pJcHmtyHwJoV_1eZpyDoTcaODPE1Gx/s1600-h/game1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381075231189943074" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 172px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9X92f1Zebry25MMacYXCPy8SHxDcMfYaVdGvoV7-9Z-4fHGo3MxKdR-ouGoKhbvJEIn-Pnn3Eu1XZ_pOHNvRBN2fPaaDDeiTDpdb9E_pJcHmtyHwJoV_1eZpyDoTcaODPE1Gx/s200/game1.jpg" border="0" /></a>As I typed <em>I've gotta start taking steroids. They really seem to work</em> into the Twitter input window, it became absolutely clear to me that I was at the baseball game simply to have something to tweet about.<br /><br />As the score slipped further, the crowd’s mood seemed to change. In the course of an inning or two, it had gone from sweetly rambunctious to belligerent. The guy right behind us began to heckle Manny Ramirez, #99, evidently one of the Dodgers’ star players.<br /><br />The crowd was receptive. On the heckler’s first try, which in some way impugned Manny Ramirez’s masculinity, he got a big laugh.<br /><br />Manny Ramirez did not look like a drag queen to me, as the heckler’s yell implied. Not at all.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xoYR0XYDDKDTnfV6TtH9SyWDlHWSGrS32rk5hDWcbKJJsEcxCcry_16srLQHnJGHXMAe1cO7CVWZPVmlXut9fjF7zluQIpyYakvmQ5NruTlSuduUTfSZuf47C7b2QParS9Ww/s1600-h/game2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381076861876868850" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5xoYR0XYDDKDTnfV6TtH9SyWDlHWSGrS32rk5hDWcbKJJsEcxCcry_16srLQHnJGHXMAe1cO7CVWZPVmlXut9fjF7zluQIpyYakvmQ5NruTlSuduUTfSZuf47C7b2QParS9Ww/s200/game2.jpg" border="0" /></a>I aimed my Blackberry's camera at a cotton candy vendor old enough to be a Walmart greeter. I caught a vast span of the heckler’s nose in the photo instead.<br /><br />“Drat.” I muttered. The vendor, spry for his age, had scampered further up the bleachers. I shot a photo of some miffed-looking fans across the aisle.<br /><br />The guy behind us yelled about Manny Ramirez again.<br /><br />Another laugh, although this time it was more half-hearted.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwdt4325OpqSxjgiC7bcnDYfk-dGuSOS5NMKlmpti-pRMFn2-WRzllXZ7NdvZ9ZNszfrDXyJzQZsKM18qYeCHUBrl63BgBFWUHzvxpwMUQ_kSZT4SQzx5KC-kg2qTqZ6Abt_c/s1600-h/yelling.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381081963330364914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 145px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRwdt4325OpqSxjgiC7bcnDYfk-dGuSOS5NMKlmpti-pRMFn2-WRzllXZ7NdvZ9ZNszfrDXyJzQZsKM18qYeCHUBrl63BgBFWUHzvxpwMUQ_kSZT4SQzx5KC-kg2qTqZ6Abt_c/s200/yelling.jpg" border="0" /></a>The guy behind us roared louder, this time adding something vulgar about Mr. Ramirez's use of a feminine hygiene product. He was reaching. You could tell he was running out of jibes.<br /><br />Manny Ramirez and tampons. I winced. The heckler might’ve gone too far. The heckler’s fans, such as they were, got quieter.<br /><br />The corners of Mark’s mouth were turned down. The shouting six inches from the back of his head was beginning to get to him.<br /><br />I twitpic'd the miffed-looking fans across the aisle.<br /><br />The heckler’s cries became less specific, less organized, but even louder.<br /><br />What happened next confuses me slightly, because I was looking at my Twitter stream rather than attending to the game.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uezIIvdec4md9LHJCwTs3nwkYwxV4xjDHA852c_RaTV2kankAoAu505XZrfwox07VbFDl2dNuW8hGOo1hD2Jv9gecIr5v7bhJX_t59CQG4XxXW-ExemVOZYIzQWYxKkbDEJ0/s1600-h/actionshot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381082645687645042" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uezIIvdec4md9LHJCwTs3nwkYwxV4xjDHA852c_RaTV2kankAoAu505XZrfwox07VbFDl2dNuW8hGOo1hD2Jv9gecIr5v7bhJX_t59CQG4XxXW-ExemVOZYIzQWYxKkbDEJ0/s200/actionshot.jpg" border="0" /></a>Something happened on the field, something exciting. One of those baseball things. A run, perhaps. Maybe two runs. The guy continued to yell into the back of our heads. He’d given up the femininity theme, but he was still awfully darned loud. I was typing frantically on the Blackberry’s chicklet keys.<br /><br />All of the sudden, Mark turned around and roared at the guy behind us, “Would you SHUT THE FUCK UP! You’re screaming in my ear.”<br /><br />On second inspection Mr. Loud Voice did not appear to be a thug, but rather a sloppy-drunk twenty-something guy who probably had a day job developing firmware or writing reference manuals for routers. He must’ve outweighed Mark by a good seventy-five pounds of hard fat and sinew.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23Zy2D4yB-73MZ1TRv0VH0XePNI8NExOwF3kmxWgO6XX79yB8ZA293KCPN8O_vB0xptb7E-UDPqTgDDQpA3MFAyX-DMLtWxdX_gsnX1pI0W3fR3m00ly4owSNKohoTrCUjSmF/s1600-h/opera.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381083093252011810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23Zy2D4yB-73MZ1TRv0VH0XePNI8NExOwF3kmxWgO6XX79yB8ZA293KCPN8O_vB0xptb7E-UDPqTgDDQpA3MFAyX-DMLtWxdX_gsnX1pI0W3fR3m00ly4owSNKohoTrCUjSmF/s200/opera.jpg" border="0" /></a>He yelled back, “You’re in the fucking bleachers at a baseball game, not at the opera! Get a fucking grip, dude!”<br /><br />I started to sweat in spite of the chill foggy air. Now this was something to tweet about!<br /><br />Another play. The crowd stood up. The crowd sat down.<br /><br />We continued to stand.<br /><br />I knew what was happening by now. Mark and I have been together for a long time. Something very much like this, you can be certain, has happened before.<br /><br />Now the heckler was pissed off. If we had been in a normal situation, he would’ve just been indignant, perhaps miffed. But we were at a sporting event and the air was full of testosterone, Miller Genuine Draft, and garlic fries.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6SKWqMVIEaAi7ETsuNPyCzQmrHNsB6ZZr64YqqVh6_umOYwjfcmwUppMvY8TKi3YjtDMArlbF6GUqfXtYaKqSxfonY5aYb0JJ-qE0FAPCbzVSHmiFMRoQcwulOFfE7nuc7Out/s1600-h/bedlam.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381084188592632082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 178px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6SKWqMVIEaAi7ETsuNPyCzQmrHNsB6ZZr64YqqVh6_umOYwjfcmwUppMvY8TKi3YjtDMArlbF6GUqfXtYaKqSxfonY5aYb0JJ-qE0FAPCbzVSHmiFMRoQcwulOFfE7nuc7Out/s200/bedlam.jpg" border="0" /></a>“WOULD YOU FUCKING SIT DOWN!” the heckler screamed.<br /><br />A small look of satisfaction crept across Mark’s face, “IF YOU FUCKING SHUT UP.”<br /><br />The heckler shifted on the bleachers to see around us and continued to yell.<br /><br />Mark and I standing together don’t make much of a wall. Really we don’t. No matter how much we call ourselves lard-asses, we’re actually both quite small. Many of the fans in the bleachers were bigger than both of us together.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkjwomKYgoCAcCqGwIs26SL38naoDHTFHQVA3UDdveQPZkn5aUK0NlPRQYiGoaYLnNhGRYVMg81JLrKa4mggv0UEZnCPsjz2a0BacmsLOFR4KOEWefqZDT3NTLjMWj4OhU0U8Y/s1600-h/ramirez.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381096699586361250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkjwomKYgoCAcCqGwIs26SL38naoDHTFHQVA3UDdveQPZkn5aUK0NlPRQYiGoaYLnNhGRYVMg81JLrKa4mggv0UEZnCPsjz2a0BacmsLOFR4KOEWefqZDT3NTLjMWj4OhU0U8Y/s200/ramirez.jpg" border="0" /></a>I envisioned Dodgers and Giants fans uniting in a lynch mob to snuff the effete snobs who’d had the nerve to tell them to quit yelling in the bleachers at a ball game.<br /><br />I was becoming too nervous to tweet.<br /><br />“Maybe we should leave now,” I said to Mark, “It doesn’t look like anything’s going to change score-wise.”<br /><br />The score was 9 to 1 in favor of the Dodgers. Giants fans streamed out of the ballpark, heading for the Muni stop.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvL0HR5tj0SVmsuYBzY4L4_2PsPs2yRsPNiUFJWQTJKNKHwti9JZHh47G62witebbZ2aFApSFBpG5-aun4hECf1XqVegTxxyxbwZQRHjx-ZX1RymDPBJh0MQoZmq-YSGw6omj/s1600-h/seagulls.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381097337142421922" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 132px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRvL0HR5tj0SVmsuYBzY4L4_2PsPs2yRsPNiUFJWQTJKNKHwti9JZHh47G62witebbZ2aFApSFBpG5-aun4hECf1XqVegTxxyxbwZQRHjx-ZX1RymDPBJh0MQoZmq-YSGw6omj/s200/seagulls.jpg" border="0" /></a>I couldn’t resist. One last tweet: <em>Eighth inning. I'm rooting for the seagulls now. Dodgers up 9 to 1. Everybody's leaving except those too drunk to walk</em>.<br /><br />“Okay. Put your phone away. Let’s go,” Mark said. He looked slightly relieved.<br /><br />“Let’s leave this guy to his screaming. I’m cold.” I said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hD6ZYAKcPM5pXt2-9rLfbC17y3Nwej4pfaKgfbK5-Udyia4ZJovAHDBhQzVtvHGIrDBDZiZLlq_TDpNlh5MEpMIat9FuaIkNS9JZ9g1Ocb4sjrXgehp7tDJZnBqkqAmryK4t/s1600-h/crowdedmuni.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381097726301567922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hD6ZYAKcPM5pXt2-9rLfbC17y3Nwej4pfaKgfbK5-Udyia4ZJovAHDBhQzVtvHGIrDBDZiZLlq_TDpNlh5MEpMIat9FuaIkNS9JZ9g1Ocb4sjrXgehp7tDJZnBqkqAmryK4t/s200/crowdedmuni.jpg" border="0" /></a>Muni was jammed. We were on an N bus, which doesn't make the closest approach to our house, but instead dumped us at Duboce Park. But I was relieved to be away from the baseball game, away from the big dangerous baseball fans, back in my own neighborhood.<br /><br /><em>Why is it that every time I ride MUNI, the first thing I do when I get home is wash my hands?</em> I tweeted after we got home, having learned exactly NOTHING from the experience.<br /><br />Nothing. My group went to a baseball game and all I got were 16 entirely mediocre tweets.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJNMd0PUVQfdfxR4_HQrIr4yUx-w9Nzgv7gN-PgK_ttbFhleViBYW1vuRw8aDmuxOh9uSXTQMShW3M-WWYS-zP64HpyyUjatPb4KdsY6vDnojXCSQHi1LrsRR6qDU2RV4oX4N/s1600-h/baconbra.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381098771908381426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJNMd0PUVQfdfxR4_HQrIr4yUx-w9Nzgv7gN-PgK_ttbFhleViBYW1vuRw8aDmuxOh9uSXTQMShW3M-WWYS-zP64HpyyUjatPb4KdsY6vDnojXCSQHi1LrsRR6qDU2RV4oX4N/s200/baconbra.jpg" border="0" /></a>I scrolled back through my baseball game tweets. I had told @<strong>meganwinget</strong> <em>the thought of a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/briankusler/2337430825/sizes/o/">moist bacon bra</a> even now makes me urp up those garlic fries in advance of actually eating them</em>. And I had told @<strong>leroyfishhead</strong> <em>GO ROIDS! The score is now 6-1</em>. I bet neither of them will ask me to do a toast at their respective weddings. The game proved to be nothing but a non-constructive distraction from basic tweeting.<br /><br />What’s worse, through that entire traumatic misspent evening, I only gained one follower, @<strong>drunkjournalcom</strong>, who dropped me shortly afterward like the ugly girl in a round of speed dating.<br /><br />And this brings me back to the crux of the problem: I pay way too much attention to the ebb and flow of my followers.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81BIGkn96nUUWTy7VdPkgJ6T4CERbkc3S14Dw7r8QhbMhyphenhyphen0V2_Mp4AfsX2wGB_CIix1JERCn06h0r8RV7fidy-kUW3jJnKEsVQNeTACRqq2tIu_LGxc1AWIqeQXPGcB3vWjHS/s1600-h/heartbreak.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381100068858213554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 115px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81BIGkn96nUUWTy7VdPkgJ6T4CERbkc3S14Dw7r8QhbMhyphenhyphen0V2_Mp4AfsX2wGB_CIix1JERCn06h0r8RV7fidy-kUW3jJnKEsVQNeTACRqq2tIu_LGxc1AWIqeQXPGcB3vWjHS/s200/heartbreak.jpg" border="0" /></a>Want to break my heart? Drop me. Unfollow me. It’ll work every time.<br /><br />When my followers number goes down, I’m crushed, and I immediately expand the list to figure out who might have dropped me. I’m praying that it’s a spammer—I don’t work too hard to eliminate the spammers when they sign up to follow me because the boost they give to my numbers feels so good—or a stranger, and not someone who knows me. Then I speculate on what I’ve said recently that has moved someone to unsubscribe.<br /><br />I know I can be offensive.<br /><br />I follow a headline service called @<strong>BreakingNews</strong>. It’s mostly good for keeping up on obits and natural disasters, stories where the headline tells you all you need to know. I’m old enough that I don’t want to know the cause of death (it could happen to me!) and neurotic enough that I don’t want to know the particulars of the disaster (it could happen to me!).<br /><br /><a href="http://www.badge714.com/">Just the fact, ma’am</a>. I just want one fact.<br /><br />That way, I can be the first to know. And even though I seldom retweet the items, subscribing to a news feed makes me feel so current.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WQgT4J9C63o0x5AsjYZMgojHNm5cxzmLU5l8ta8qHpDAcEdODUyX-2lNvGP25VCbsnzfBPgu98kXWy5gnSuw4lPRitEGIdg8XNresKh5MHf74jmoHodFlg3LKVxZ78Vg82lm/s1600-h/michael-jackson.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381100598468162162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5WQgT4J9C63o0x5AsjYZMgojHNm5cxzmLU5l8ta8qHpDAcEdODUyX-2lNvGP25VCbsnzfBPgu98kXWy5gnSuw4lPRitEGIdg8XNresKh5MHf74jmoHodFlg3LKVxZ78Vg82lm/s200/michael-jackson.jpg" border="0" /></a>Right after Michael Jackson’s death hit the Twitter feed, I had the temerity to tweet that for the last two decades he’d been <em>the product of clever taxidermy</em>. Several followers disappeared right away. Then I started reading the tsunami of tweets that were appearing in my Twitter window.<br /><br />Michael Jackson was apparently a vital part of many Tweeps’ childhoods. Now they were openly weeping over the loss. An important cultural icon of my generation was gone. Tweeps were Moon Walking. Tweeps were playing Thriller. Tweeps were dancing to Beat It. Tweeps were singing Billie Jean.<br /><br />Who knew?<br /><br />I erased a half-written tweet and deleted the one I’d already posted.<br /><br />Shoot. There goes my ‘<a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/elvis.html">how are you related to Michael</a>’ cheap shot.<br /><br />But it’s probably worse to be boring than offensive.<br /><br />Then I recoil in horror as I ponder that particular nugget and realize what it means.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnRl4WKiR0LdngR-k7cvJteEGUt_iLQGFgrmylQR9LNL1P3DdYekHLThXZbk2wdyj4qw79z6Z8eXcOaV62-d6z9WfIQfjxgMxAtNXsIxyzd0EqzjVHdzWoH4c-xszUmAjONr6/s1600-h/boring.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381101888174138210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 163px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqnRl4WKiR0LdngR-k7cvJteEGUt_iLQGFgrmylQR9LNL1P3DdYekHLThXZbk2wdyj4qw79z6Z8eXcOaV62-d6z9WfIQfjxgMxAtNXsIxyzd0EqzjVHdzWoH4c-xszUmAjONr6/s200/boring.jpg" border="0" /></a>Did they delete me because I’m BORING?<br /><br />Oh no!<br /><br />Of course! It’s much worse to be BORING than OFFENSIVE. Truman Capote knew that. Andy Warhol knew that. Even that poor anorexic pedophile Michael Jackson knew that.<br /><br />Instantly, I scroll back through my tweets.<br /><br />OMG. OMG.<br /><br />I break out in a sweat. Every neurosis I have nurtured for these many years has been brought to the surface.<br /><br />I need to say something <em>interesting</em> RIGHT NOW.<br /><br />Or…<br /><br />Maybe I should give up and join Facebook instead. You don’t have to be interesting on Facebook. You can just join and connect.<br /><br />I can join Facebook and admit to myself why I was not invited to my own high school reunion (this in spite of the fact that at the time of the reunion, <a href="http://www.google.com/search?q=Rolling+Hills+High+School+reunion&rls=com.microsoft:*:IE-SearchBox&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&sourceid=ie7&rlz=1I7ADBS_en">if you searched for <em>Rolling Hills High School reunion</em></a>, the very first hit on Google was—and is—<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/05/reunion-secession.html">my blog</a>).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-46an65R1h06PWfFaYJwc41knlBZVawKywKAh_bdyZRIgo2mKJwANFFpg5e_xg2tCtZfXNyQduL1XiqFs2QVC7V8YOBYHlNhw06aqAG9TeGfHVzcU6Xp-f4-bY_Z1w7nag9Rx/s1600-h/facebookfriends2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381112513430200466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 174px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-46an65R1h06PWfFaYJwc41knlBZVawKywKAh_bdyZRIgo2mKJwANFFpg5e_xg2tCtZfXNyQduL1XiqFs2QVC7V8YOBYHlNhw06aqAG9TeGfHVzcU6Xp-f4-bY_Z1w7nag9Rx/s200/facebookfriends2.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’ll just sit quietly and wait for invites from my high school friends, from junior high frenemies, from my 4th grade BFF Susie Pendleton (who recited A.A. Milne’s poem <em><a href="http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/A.A._Milne/14266">Disobedience</a></em> with me in front of Mrs. Savage's class) and from Cheryl Parana (whose mother had carpeted their house with stunning white shag that needed to be raked, an exotic care regimen that I instantly appreciated). Surely some of these people—people who would quickly dispense with me on Twitter, people who wouldn’t stop for a chat <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/shopping-after-midnight.html">if we met late at night at Safeway</a>—would friend me on Facebook.<br /><br />They’d friend me. Ah, that sounds much less threatening than follow. Friend.<br /><br />In Facebook, no-one cares if you’re boring. You just have to be friendly.<br /><br />If I promise not to say anything, will you be my friend?Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-68198308486535000382009-07-10T17:51:00.000-07:002009-07-21T18:28:44.843-07:00roommates, part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA13nhOLDwj0QnySfrlT63CdMIe2vgF0FbYC1LuaSdAnKurnhK9TSNFyouYmIS_wwAPtm701a5wVcZHnZlcIpFHqiZvwWaF3NW3EaPuUMUqU6EZj8Cclii3TuTS8hmd8y2YMRZ/s1600-h/HappyRoomMates.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357006446884288930" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA13nhOLDwj0QnySfrlT63CdMIe2vgF0FbYC1LuaSdAnKurnhK9TSNFyouYmIS_wwAPtm701a5wVcZHnZlcIpFHqiZvwWaF3NW3EaPuUMUqU6EZj8Cclii3TuTS8hmd8y2YMRZ/s200/HappyRoomMates.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’ve never liked to live alone.<br /><br />In spite of this, I’ve told friends things like: “Oh, you really don’t want him to move in with you. Right now you’ve got the best of both worlds. You’ve got a boyfriend, but the TiVo has all <em>your</em> programs on it. And you only see him when you want to.”<br /><br />Hypocrite. I’m a giant hypocrite.<br /><br />The last (and perhaps the only) time I lived alone was my stint in the Leon Capri Apartments, a two-story apartment court in Pasadena that was so depressing that every visitor I had over would ask me when I was going to move.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMRLrusu6xzVALOTYxJf7NWNKA9KRbt3Q-xh090hKplWh_aYbNyMu3hs7YvFeMUjSZevzkNPtJwDp29rBMuIgqpsE_t9uo2TF_Zzu7ta35wPKkqCWHR9BFbMZ5Iho6MpXmttZ/s1600-h/plaids.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357006735394805922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMRLrusu6xzVALOTYxJf7NWNKA9KRbt3Q-xh090hKplWh_aYbNyMu3hs7YvFeMUjSZevzkNPtJwDp29rBMuIgqpsE_t9uo2TF_Zzu7ta35wPKkqCWHR9BFbMZ5Iho6MpXmttZ/s200/plaids.jpg" border="0" /></a>They’d look around at the studio apartment, its ugly day beds ill-camouflaged by brown-and-orange plaid covers. They’d squint at the 1960s-era kitchen table and the noisy, aging window air conditioning unit. They’d note the perpetually dripping bathtub faucet that had left a hard water stain the color of dried blood. They’d wince at the coughs of the tubercular old man downstairs; he kept the drapes open so you could look in on him on your way up to my place, check on his steady downward progress. There he’d be, watching <em>The Price is Right</em> from his Barcalounger, just coughing his fool head off. Then they’d peek out my curtains at the useless swimming pool—that peculiar vestige of Southern California glamour—a kidney-shaped pool perpetually in shadow and unheated, too cold to swim in and littered with palm tree residue.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDBdQIpO1ouV5JPJlvJWWzOD8zD_7_Fu3p54TiSUMPp1GiOv_6EqKwt1vlrZu-lBNM5nZ0HFqAz7FwxTvBNWAPb526c3EAagoogSQorC4FfRB0e4gcKdc6xzbvsbIqAEByQyw/s1600-h/pools.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357008344794513922" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 142px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMDBdQIpO1ouV5JPJlvJWWzOD8zD_7_Fu3p54TiSUMPp1GiOv_6EqKwt1vlrZu-lBNM5nZ0HFqAz7FwxTvBNWAPb526c3EAagoogSQorC4FfRB0e4gcKdc6xzbvsbIqAEByQyw/s200/pools.jpg" border="0" /></a>Then they’d waggle their heads back and forth skeptically: “So how much do you pay for this place anyway? You found another place yet?”<br /><br />I was seeing a much older man, N., at the time. He lived around the corner in a larger, more modern, apartment building with his wife. He had talked me into renting the studio apartment; he was even with me when I first looked at it on impulse. I was living in the back of my car, an orange Opel station wagon crammed full of most of my earthly possessions, save four heavy boxes of vinyl records. Those would warp in the October heat if I kept them in the back of my car. As it was, the LPs were disappearing one-by-one, in order of desirability, from another friend’s living room.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0VnnyxbpXWj6jzm7D92qPcYfCq9pEGi1FOQW0W9p5gJcFE3L2wA9nOA0PIN1PmjPakMi_6SAHVq6MbG8gym9VvNmCSd6QZRtqHbWL0vdYtEiXc0tpgiyQXJ5pnAI6twbR0Ul/s1600-h/forrent.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357014081709564066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 152px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0VnnyxbpXWj6jzm7D92qPcYfCq9pEGi1FOQW0W9p5gJcFE3L2wA9nOA0PIN1PmjPakMi_6SAHVq6MbG8gym9VvNmCSd6QZRtqHbWL0vdYtEiXc0tpgiyQXJ5pnAI6twbR0Ul/s200/forrent.jpg" border="0" /></a>N. and I had driven by The Leon Capri Apartments on a Friday at lunch. There was a sign on the front lawn. VACANCY. Furn. Studio Apt.<br /><br />N. swung his Rabbit to the curb and we got out.<br /><br />He went in with me to look at the place. There wasn’t much to see. It was small; it was dingy; the furniture was particle board with wood-grained plastic veneer.<br /><br />He flushed the toilet. It worked.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1D0k2FC-bFQhFl-F-rDE0WbhwsGDbhODjX7cwWFl2G-ODEVRFu06uwJd9Dtq1zRZueCUqV_jFpYXtU_sllxftnuuOAYcD6BxIuWg-KfZ417pGVOvTAizZUA8dctLLJs2bGhu/s1600-h/badgers.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357014634221832066" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1D0k2FC-bFQhFl-F-rDE0WbhwsGDbhODjX7cwWFl2G-ODEVRFu06uwJd9Dtq1zRZueCUqV_jFpYXtU_sllxftnuuOAYcD6BxIuWg-KfZ417pGVOvTAizZUA8dctLLJs2bGhu/s200/badgers.bmp" border="0" /></a>“This looks fine,” N. said without much confidence in his voice. “It’s fine for you anyway. It’s not too big. You’re like a small animal. You don’t need much space.”<br /><br />I filled out an application.<br /><br />“When can I move in?” I asked Chip, the building’s manager, a short gay man with a bad toupee and numerous flesh-colored bandages that protected injuries that he’d been careful to attribute to the many repairs he’d been making on the apartments.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQio4woYb6wEjmH9-DdNxH1JOGsIaxYxz8LOJ_8_dE2QJY92mEyUxReQs1vDyuW9lRdOCLzzwYNL0A4dILyC6qL27nTsy1AiD2ykH-uVnHNGs5_nvvBsymUeAQ5EsDb3m7Hm5/s1600-h/320s_sierra02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357016067791958386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQio4woYb6wEjmH9-DdNxH1JOGsIaxYxz8LOJ_8_dE2QJY92mEyUxReQs1vDyuW9lRdOCLzzwYNL0A4dILyC6qL27nTsy1AiD2ykH-uVnHNGs5_nvvBsymUeAQ5EsDb3m7Hm5/s200/320s_sierra02.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Any time you want to, darlin’.”<br /><br />“You mean I could move in today?”<br /><br />“Yes. You could move in today.”<br /><br />“You could move in today.” N. nudged me. He winked. “She’ll take it.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQCNnWeeHzu62zU9TUOIsh0jreBPOuq_uLorUU5cycbjwxRSy_xsfXYOeYAMmo8REr8bQKq9LZcMIkOqCLWRYEnfwsRK-GXKEEeq8NZIm4oAv67FaqG24u84RXHg0bthS9Ezu/s1600-h/320s_sierra07.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357016303946464658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQCNnWeeHzu62zU9TUOIsh0jreBPOuq_uLorUU5cycbjwxRSy_xsfXYOeYAMmo8REr8bQKq9LZcMIkOqCLWRYEnfwsRK-GXKEEeq8NZIm4oAv67FaqG24u84RXHg0bthS9Ezu/s200/320s_sierra07.jpg" border="0" /></a>“I’ll take it,” I said. If I took it, I could stop looking for apartments. I hated looking for apartments. This was before Craigslist, and looking for apartments involved circling cryptic two- and three-line classified ads in <em>The Pasadena Star News</em> and wondering what ‘limited kitchen access’ meant.<br /><br />No ads. No calls. No driving around. I could start unloading my Opel this very afternoon. I could sleep here tonight.<br /><br />I wrote a check—it felt like a large check, the largest check I’d ever written—to The Leon Capri Apartments and handed it to Chip. He handed me the key to Apartment 24.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Xsfv6sd7nJzCnDm4-vlntWtpLVPmzYfUkA_aA23AqKRjN2kbJah66gdFpquF9I070WQeHT1cxz0N3U4xgXnE6gpEZSWv8YyZWk4kEBMF_ROrr4K0wlrsSGszrKqyiu_RCGFT/s1600-h/320s_sierra03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357016593403884610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Xsfv6sd7nJzCnDm4-vlntWtpLVPmzYfUkA_aA23AqKRjN2kbJah66gdFpquF9I070WQeHT1cxz0N3U4xgXnE6gpEZSWv8YyZWk4kEBMF_ROrr4K0wlrsSGszrKqyiu_RCGFT/s200/320s_sierra03.jpg" border="0" /></a>Less than a week after I had moved in, N. claimed that the apartment was so depressing that it made him impotent.<br /><br />“You should move,” he said.<br /><br />I didn’t move right away. Instead I slept. A lot. Normally I have insomnia that puts <a href="http://podcasts.scpr.org/loh/20090622_lohlife.mp3">Sandra Tsing Loh’s</a> insomnia to shame, but the Leon Capri Apartments acted like a barbiturate on me.<br /><br />There’s a lot you don’t notice when you’re asleep.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgb8rAI2PTKf8wHhpFbl1m8nC2Y3wAOIF6TfRAqs3UGlDYrhlCu04pD86fDF-emsFMyzNxUlbA0N8qgEYlzALcuNggSVzq_tqrF4zTUdUVLXuUYpCoZkB-f_L13wKC56SQWW2/s1600-h/phonebooth.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357018612991148594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgb8rAI2PTKf8wHhpFbl1m8nC2Y3wAOIF6TfRAqs3UGlDYrhlCu04pD86fDF-emsFMyzNxUlbA0N8qgEYlzALcuNggSVzq_tqrF4zTUdUVLXuUYpCoZkB-f_L13wKC56SQWW2/s200/phonebooth.jpg" border="0" /></a>I never bothered to install a phone in Apartment 24. Instead I made infrequent phone calls from a phone booth at the grocery store across the street. Chip had forgotten to give me the key to the mailbox. I could see through the slot that I had mail, but there was no way to retrieve it.<br /><br />Once in awhile a friend would drop by.<br /><br />“You should call before you come over. What if I’m not at home? Or what if I’m asleep?” I’d say.<br /><br />“You don’t have a phone,” they would tell me.<br /><br />“Oh.” I’d say. “Oh. Right.”<br /><br />I’d slept through most of the winter in the Leon Capri Apartments. Hibernated really. I stopped seeing N. Friends worried about me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZmFZWZudSclSD-xrd4fqsaAaUGmtJPs3jt8ZMzZnJ2O3HZmL1yrDduFg8ygfoADp-mmrDckYfe7PP22YeV5sMIjCevW04fRODgBIkMHgv1Mxz215-mDK_uWWaepydJmhtKEz/s1600-h/pie-n-burger2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357019376655066594" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 164px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZmFZWZudSclSD-xrd4fqsaAaUGmtJPs3jt8ZMzZnJ2O3HZmL1yrDduFg8ygfoADp-mmrDckYfe7PP22YeV5sMIjCevW04fRODgBIkMHgv1Mxz215-mDK_uWWaepydJmhtKEz/s200/pie-n-burger2.jpg" border="0" /></a>One day I heard through the Caltech grapevine that a Deadhead named Tom was looking for a roommate for his apartment on California Boulevard, close to <a href="http://www.pienburger.com/">Pie and Burger</a>. That he’d asked his last roommate, a purported meth dealer, to move on. Tom’s name was on one of the most coveted rental agreements in Pasadena: he was the official occupant of a flat in one of two neighboring fourplexes in a nice neighborhood near Caltech.<br /><br />Eight apartments with the cheapest rent in town.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcjQJExfIirJ6v_HQjv50WavNfA-n9Pvd1a50zJCdKeiMfN7xQM6qaa-9pM1UpTKVylVYLWWMjnkJ4rp61F250mFpXV1c91MoDsQoebLrGQF4a3nF4xRskObTwCl9YnXRabES/s1600-h/telenovela.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357019809154593906" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFcjQJExfIirJ6v_HQjv50WavNfA-n9Pvd1a50zJCdKeiMfN7xQM6qaa-9pM1UpTKVylVYLWWMjnkJ4rp61F250mFpXV1c91MoDsQoebLrGQF4a3nF4xRskObTwCl9YnXRabES/s200/telenovela.bmp" border="0" /></a>Everybody who was anybody had lived in those apartments. Steve, aka Mailbro, a postman with the Caltech beat. Martha, the welfare queen, whose kids lived with her mother in another city. Mike, the guy who lived in his van in the backyard. Dave, whose tortoise-shell cat was a cantaloupe-eating vegetarian. A lady lawyer who clicked around the bare hardwood floors downstairs in her high heels. Two Mexican guys who were prone to violent domestic disputes: a Telemundo/telenovela-ready couple.<br /><br />It was a colorful cast of characters, a WB sitcom. The minute I laid eyes on the place, I knew it was home.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8at0fcD-d2AsBkF_djJTbsjYo6zd3b2Fee5uGx5MFYhqDiFocvZbNkbZQ7rvjJjkA7-zI-XttAiAmOC8udAJeZ-5QIN2i37IaQlMNztBX-VJucZZZnMMvWsUNRBTBih2wvna/s1600-h/capri-pants.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357411407947488354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 196px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8at0fcD-d2AsBkF_djJTbsjYo6zd3b2Fee5uGx5MFYhqDiFocvZbNkbZQ7rvjJjkA7-zI-XttAiAmOC8udAJeZ-5QIN2i37IaQlMNztBX-VJucZZZnMMvWsUNRBTBih2wvna/s200/capri-pants.jpg" border="0" /></a>Goodbye, Leon Capri. Those cropped pants do make your butt look big.<br /><br />Tom had blue eyes, Grateful Dead posters that he’d tacked to the living room wall, and two black cats named Yin and Yang. He was a vegetarian. A devotee of zen poets like Gary Snyder and Allen Ginsberg.<br /><br />But none of that mattered.<br /><br />I renamed the black cats Fishbreath and Fuzzface and moved in.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pvw7RAlhW739oncAv3-DCEl4sDPoDlWBV6ZfADB7VLPqQTpGZVfsWTjoD91n9xgZ3_7WHK-9xjpbWBXO2hbxV9_wwRDReNQTUthH585-wKQVHjc5S7rA9AEAKUoJ0OnYWwtb/s1600-h/black-cats.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357413886776253410" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0pvw7RAlhW739oncAv3-DCEl4sDPoDlWBV6ZfADB7VLPqQTpGZVfsWTjoD91n9xgZ3_7WHK-9xjpbWBXO2hbxV9_wwRDReNQTUthH585-wKQVHjc5S7rA9AEAKUoJ0OnYWwtb/s200/black-cats.jpg" border="0" /></a>Tom was my new roommate.<br /><br />I threw my stuff—a scratched Teflon pot with a tight-fitting lid; a dented cookie sheet; a large square of foam rubber (my bed); several large pieces of velvet (the bedspread); some miscellaneous sheets and towels; a floor pillow; and four Xerox paper boxes that I’d been using as a bureau— back into the Opel and moved out of Apartment 24 and across town. It only took one trip.<br /><br />I moved out with as little ceremony and as much stealth as possible. I felt defeated by the Leon Capri Apartments. Done in by the details. Humiliated by the coffee table that’d gouged my leg. Debilitated by a relentless case of food poisoning that I’d weathered in the depressing little bathroom. Even my ironic love affair with N. had faded, overpowered by Apartment 24’s bad mojo.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4MVeAaLd2zwGwbds6wJmN6wDYSrOIv6AuK-hnoTGo-rOnMSBMCnPw_C4EJhrUBwet06q06aoYCsOUKKHf5rUmfqDEdrrKPpECmpGPWWD_vJ4Dko_m7CzE_wAswHx0OAMTsRA/s1600-h/toupee.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357415307534610802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 165px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4MVeAaLd2zwGwbds6wJmN6wDYSrOIv6AuK-hnoTGo-rOnMSBMCnPw_C4EJhrUBwet06q06aoYCsOUKKHf5rUmfqDEdrrKPpECmpGPWWD_vJ4Dko_m7CzE_wAswHx0OAMTsRA/s200/toupee.jpg" border="0" /></a>I slunk by Chip and Marty’s apartment with two Xerox boxes stacked in my arms.<br /><br />“Moving out?” Chip asked.<br /><br />“Yeah. I guess I am.” I said.<br /><br />“You should’ve given notice on the first. You’re late with your rent.”<br /><br />“It’s not the first today?” I feigned ignorance; it was already five days into March.<br /><br />“You won’t get this month’s rent back. You should’ve told us you were moving out.” Chip said. He wasn’t actually surprised I was moving, nor was he unkind. No-one lived in the Leon Capri Apartments for very long. I’d paid my last month’s rent when I moved in; it was almost 30 days’ notice. Close enough.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcpClQnp2e7smU1lrpyntC6W0eVFGtLzbrPN01NuRQWjTjw5FLWrFyoexq68wuE_k-P-uGBMAk7u3vp0ELVqdVyQ6MOHCT4sTvqm0D-JgZeufPniNRZyyPWzZn7XxMi-rqFFu/s1600-h/prescriptionbottles.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357415912447557346" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 169px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVcpClQnp2e7smU1lrpyntC6W0eVFGtLzbrPN01NuRQWjTjw5FLWrFyoexq68wuE_k-P-uGBMAk7u3vp0ELVqdVyQ6MOHCT4sTvqm0D-JgZeufPniNRZyyPWzZn7XxMi-rqFFu/s200/prescriptionbottles.jpg" border="0" /></a>I thought of the sad first-floor apartment Chip and Marty shared, littered with spent prescription bottles, TV Guides, and movie magazines. I was anxious to end our impromptu interview.<br /><br />“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “I don’t care about this month’s rent.”<br /><br />I was tempted to lie and to tell him I was moving out of state, simply because I’d been busted trying to sneak out. The truth was, I’d never given notice on an apartment before, and I couldn’t summon up the nerve. It was like I was rejecting Chip himself, his bad wig, his legitimate prescriptions, his bandaid-covered boo-boos, and every other gloomy detail of his life in the Leon Capri Apartments.<br /><br />In the end I wrote down my new address on a scrap of paper so the mysterious property owner in South San Gabriel could mail me back my damage deposit. It arrived not long after, minus fifty dollars for “cleaning the oven.”<br /><br />“I never even turned on the oven,” I explained to my new roommate Tom, indignant that my last landlord had confused me with someone whose oven needed anything beyond a quick dusting. “I just stored a few things in there. It wasn’t dirty.”<br /><br />Tom agreed with me that it was outrageous.<br /><br />The new apartment was, in my mind, gorgeous. I saw the high curved ceilings, the 19th century moldings, the burnished hardwood floors. My room had windows on three sides, windows facing west, south, and east. Even the closet had its own tiny south-facing window. A glass-paned door led to a shared balcony that looked like it hadn’t been used in many years. The neighbors’ ancient Siamese cat looked across the balcony at me and let loose a plaintive wail.<br /><br />I stashed my Xerox boxes in the closet; made up my foam rubber bed and covered it with the velvet remnants; and threw the floor pillow on—where else?—the floor. I fetched my remaining records from Holliston House; bought a new turntable and pre-amp from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Gross">Bill Gross</a> and a $19 floor lamp from the unfortunately-named “Lamps R Us”. Done. Done and Done.<br /><br />It looked a lot like home to me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamNWWWln5XP8EquBQAa2FRJ2geFdObCaxpOQ7wwXgEN8bwWnpNKM71QSjkDFDywq22QEZ17XQ5YOKLghopLKvS0-EGYlARRIhOu-x17Uz_xZkWq-4lJ70QfarxikMdO_uL2zD/s1600-h/JerryGarcia.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357416794500084386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 156px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamNWWWln5XP8EquBQAa2FRJ2geFdObCaxpOQ7wwXgEN8bwWnpNKM71QSjkDFDywq22QEZ17XQ5YOKLghopLKvS0-EGYlARRIhOu-x17Uz_xZkWq-4lJ70QfarxikMdO_uL2zD/s200/JerryGarcia.JPG" border="0" /></a>Really I’d fallen in love with my new digs. I failed to notice the numerous roaches in the kitchen scurrying hither and yon, busy and happy with their own ecological niche in the apartment. Didn’t mind that the ancient refrigerator needed to be propped closed with a folding chair. Didn’t quite see the long-term implications of the mountain of recycling—stacks of empty six-packs and old newspapers—that had amassed in a narrow hallway, rendering it impassable.<br /><br />I could even ignore the poster of Jerry Garcia staring down reproachfully at the two sad couches in the living room.<br /><br />“Be careful!” Tom said the first time I lowered myself onto the off-green couch, “That part is broken.”<br /><br />Indeed I could see that a stack of books was holding up the middle and there was a suspicious sag to the cushion I was about to sit on.<br /><br />“You’ll hit the floor if you sit there,” he said. “It’s much better to sit at the other end.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlfVZ61K4xKWihP_KdZpKPVUCMesYl0hGLH49DnAdkm79alitUOnaqKUXgx-0yhBTzI6HzfgqVhcyQNXzD3Z1ToRv4WBgnjw4Zq5fJ5zt1qv-Meb3X8Wxiz2iyx4-YZFKBHaU/s1600-h/JerryGarcia2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357416907597378706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlfVZ61K4xKWihP_KdZpKPVUCMesYl0hGLH49DnAdkm79alitUOnaqKUXgx-0yhBTzI6HzfgqVhcyQNXzD3Z1ToRv4WBgnjw4Zq5fJ5zt1qv-Meb3X8Wxiz2iyx4-YZFKBHaU/s200/JerryGarcia2.JPG" border="0" /></a>I moved a pizza box with a single congealed slice of cheese pizza still in it and sat down. Jerry Garcia scowled vaguely over my shoulder at some imagined audience. Or perhaps he was scowling at me; perhaps I had moved his piece of cold pizza.<br /><br />“They were going to throw both of these couches out. I had Mike help me get them up the stairs,” Tom said.<br /><br />I felt a flea bite my ankle.<br /><br />Tom plucked another flea off of his leg and pinched it between two fingers. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of soapy water which he set on the floor by his feet.<br /><br />“You just drown them in soapy water,” he said.<br /><br />“Oh.” I said. “Okay.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVXmpgsQHrk8e8r3vzVV-FgPKXv2owZzO5iLCatHzHVFT7Jo6Ih7biO7Lm_OMUnsS_HGu_RJ_n3CjTcW6IVAM61YKv5sYphS4iDTRQJgpt2SuT6QhFz978IAEVMxpTAT_WviO/s1600-h/cat-flea.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357451318566846946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 166px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfVXmpgsQHrk8e8r3vzVV-FgPKXv2owZzO5iLCatHzHVFT7Jo6Ih7biO7Lm_OMUnsS_HGu_RJ_n3CjTcW6IVAM61YKv5sYphS4iDTRQJgpt2SuT6QhFz978IAEVMxpTAT_WviO/s200/cat-flea.jpg" border="0" /></a>“They’re kind of hard to catch at first, but you can get good at it.” Tom drowned a second flea in the glass.<br /><br />“Do the cats need flea collars?” I said.<br /><br />“Pesticides aren’t good for them. I feed them yeast and garlic tablets instead. You can get them at Trader Joe’s; you just chop them up and mix them in the cat food.”<br /><br />“Does that work?” I asked.<br /><br />The glass was already dotted with tiny black flea carcasses. Tom had been drowning them steadily as we talked.<br /><br />“You should’ve seen how many there used to be,” he said. “Before I started putting garlic in the cat food.”<br /><br />We sat companionably in the living room reading copies of the <em>LA Reader</em> and exterminating fleas. The living room window was open and a gentle breeze rippled Jerry’s edges and tickled the top of the pizza; a discarded part of the newspaper fluttered into the corner of the room. I felt my depression lifting.<br /><br />I was so happy to have a roommate again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o8OCg_jYYp241YQ_NfMHJJy9IJPc3X6N_ihJDhMpLEj5QDmBBpEDuzieH2i3H6FdP7CgH4VtR3YFtmA0D5RzTGt2dkmJU0Ifir3leICIzfpE7DqPWchoa0XAfk0Ibg8XCX6M/s1600-h/birdie-and-persimmon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357453112351319458" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7o8OCg_jYYp241YQ_NfMHJJy9IJPc3X6N_ihJDhMpLEj5QDmBBpEDuzieH2i3H6FdP7CgH4VtR3YFtmA0D5RzTGt2dkmJU0Ifir3leICIzfpE7DqPWchoa0XAfk0Ibg8XCX6M/s200/birdie-and-persimmon.jpg" border="0" /></a>The rent on my new flat was indeed breathtakingly cheap, $115/month for my half of the two bedroom upper floor apartment. There was a banana tree growing on the front lawn and a magnificent persimmon tree on the side of the house. In the fall, sparrows would perch on each persimmon, which were by then just sweet bags of orange goo, and they’d tweet and eat, tweet and eat, tweet and eat. Birdsongs filled the apartment.<br /><br />The building had been condemned several years before I’d moved in and was in a state of genteel decline. The landlords, a corporation in the Valley, were waiting to tear the place down, so they did no repairs.<br /><br />The rumor about the building’s disposition changed weekly. Sometimes the owners were waiting for the permit that would allow them to tear it down; other times they were waiting for the permit to build the condos. Still other times, they were stalled out, pending undelivered financing for their project. Still other times, they were waiting for nothing at all and we expected to be awakened the next morning by a wrecking ball and the sound of heavy equipment, scraping our beloved building down to splinters and rubble.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKiSNe7HG5B2X7eRGheXfA-QvIA0LnpThhTOLtYwYyUQCFhm4SfGp9aQZ_RItja-BkC3afNEs1g-eIAQtCauDtKLMGpr8RP06eITkwi6S0XcQUDCCFweub0e2ZweVxzrjQp16/s1600-h/pizza-box.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357453764845594082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 180px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKiSNe7HG5B2X7eRGheXfA-QvIA0LnpThhTOLtYwYyUQCFhm4SfGp9aQZ_RItja-BkC3afNEs1g-eIAQtCauDtKLMGpr8RP06eITkwi6S0XcQUDCCFweub0e2ZweVxzrjQp16/s200/pizza-box.jpg" border="0" /></a>It wouldn’t have taken much to knock the place down; the rats could’ve stopped holding hands and the place would’ve fallen in on itself. Already a railing was missing from the back stairs, making them a treacherous proposition at night. A leak in the roof had so badly discolored and softened the ceiling in the back bedroom that a poke with the broomstick brought down a shower of plaster. The building no longer had trustworthy heat (a wall heater threw a giant line of flames into the living room) and the construction had long predated air conditioning.<br /><br />Tellingly, we wrote our checks to “California Street Condos,” a name which we rightly interpreted as threatening. Our corporate overlords were so oblivious that they didn’t even know that they wanted to tear down lovely old apartments on California <em>Boulevard</em>, not California <em>Street</em>.<br /><br />We alternated months for paying the rent. Tom paid one month; I paid the next. Toward the end of our tenure in the building, it turned out that we were only paying rent every other month—my months—but that was years later, and it was an effective cost-saving strategy. The landlords did not seem to care that one month they’d get a compulsively on-time check written with a triple-aught Rapid-o-graph in my small slanty hand, and the next they’d get nothing.<br /><br />While Tom and I lived there, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.<br /><br />We even supped together on occasion, moving us perilously close to being an actual household.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqLML0S1cX4NyGjqnlnN59w4mtaU3s-SY6uH7SdLNu99grJoU-KEndfAjgRlT93PXRjEDu20CQFj7J03sn9L9gPujdb61o8_gqqU4tjir34ZfjmWqY0HhyDW1FtJeIAasOX6G/s1600-h/brownrice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357459500401375570" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 130px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtqLML0S1cX4NyGjqnlnN59w4mtaU3s-SY6uH7SdLNu99grJoU-KEndfAjgRlT93PXRjEDu20CQFj7J03sn9L9gPujdb61o8_gqqU4tjir34ZfjmWqY0HhyDW1FtJeIAasOX6G/s200/brownrice.jpg" border="0" /></a>I wasn’t a vegetarian, but I also wasn’t a cook, so Tom’s gloppy cashew sauce, adapted from the <a href="http://www.molliekatzen.com/">Moosewood Cookbook</a>, poured over steamed vegetables and brown rice seemed like an exquisite culinary endeavor compared with the 29-cent canned pilchard from Trader Joe’s that was the staple of my own diet. I usually shared the pilchard with one or both of the cats, who would clamor around my feet as I opened the can and mixed in plain yogurt and diced avocado. The cats would gladly eat part of my dinner as long as I didn’t go to the trouble of seasoning it with cayenne.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1zA2H898GUuQcxk587vBf09qgGhRauXudprWISEpUPLkx5lzZEMttuFKMRPydE232OjTVgDfBm-cFX1XwpFZNJhIB50rTlcMO4_8csllXzfPNgRCtnvdq-o4b-hOioWzhxcV/s1600-h/in-and-out-burger.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357459797453208258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ1zA2H898GUuQcxk587vBf09qgGhRauXudprWISEpUPLkx5lzZEMttuFKMRPydE232OjTVgDfBm-cFX1XwpFZNJhIB50rTlcMO4_8csllXzfPNgRCtnvdq-o4b-hOioWzhxcV/s200/in-and-out-burger.jpg" border="0" /></a>As for Tom, he alternated between macrobiotic fare and delivered pizzas (and the occasional In-And-Out burger, I seem to recall). A Vietnamese woman dating a mutual friend asked me why Tom didn’t eat meat.<br /><br />“Oh, he’s a vegetarian,” I said, aware that I hadn’t explained anything.<br /><br />“I thought it was because he was poor,” she said, skeptical and somewhat convinced of my naïveté. “Is he poor?”<br /><br />“I don’t know,” I said. And in truth I didn’t know what motivated his mostly consistent vegetarianism. It’s not a question I would ask of a roommate.<br /><br />A few months after I moved in, out of the blue Tom said, “Don’t use my spoons.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZWPZPmDoHDUBnskTUVmOWdxS5sXpsUzI4G8_LkRbBYWdJJgQas1pI0hrZ0oZCcZEmCbt78IRYyjFG3Hg13Ez1R851pMgzhKsraAWFiJLa1Skc_H8IGCJ44kZNYNDM6pjS8DP/s1600-h/spoons.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357461451215658050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiZWPZPmDoHDUBnskTUVmOWdxS5sXpsUzI4G8_LkRbBYWdJJgQas1pI0hrZ0oZCcZEmCbt78IRYyjFG3Hg13Ez1R851pMgzhKsraAWFiJLa1Skc_H8IGCJ44kZNYNDM6pjS8DP/s200/spoons.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Don’t use your spoons,” I echoed dutifully, unsure of what lay behind this edict. “Okay. I won’t use your spoons.”<br /><br />Spoons? It probably didn’t have anything to do with eating meat. You don’t eat meat with a spoon. There is no beef-flavored ice cream, no chicken pudding. Perhaps he thought I’d use them to shoot up. Or perhaps he thought I’d use them to shoot up and eat venison sorbet afterward. As mysterious as the new rule seemed, it was a relatively simple one to follow.<br /><br />“Should I get some dishes of my own?” I asked.<br /><br />“No. No,” he said. “There isn’t room.”<br /><br />So I complied as literally as I could. Puzzled, I left several cheap spoons, borrowed from the Dabney House dining room, in the drawer.<br /><br />And he was right. There wasn’t room for any other kitchen supplies. Tom was an early proponent of recycle and reuse, a philosophy that I couldn’t disagree with. Hundreds of Molly’s Natural Yogurt containers were stacked in the cabinets. Glass jars were at the ready. Plastic tableware had been reclaimed, along with disposable chopsticks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieyeULVnG_29fKN2jrQhrmZTxt8L3C2l3SW_bVISGGxvf6gVqpQ5xECBZs8HM6BUART9ix1e65HC3i8Ix6WnkiNVA9SmhqTgCj2FUn82UBK_pn1dtlxMB6AljJsxF5fNJD8kcw/s1600-h/Mr-Natural.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357613140374579426" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 173px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieyeULVnG_29fKN2jrQhrmZTxt8L3C2l3SW_bVISGGxvf6gVqpQ5xECBZs8HM6BUART9ix1e65HC3i8Ix6WnkiNVA9SmhqTgCj2FUn82UBK_pn1dtlxMB6AljJsxF5fNJD8kcw/s200/Mr-Natural.jpg" border="0" /></a>The canonical Mr. Natural comic, “<a href="http://www.deniskitchen.com/docs/bios/bio_r_crumb.html">Mr. Natural Does the Dishes</a>”, had been hung above the sink well before I moved in. The comic—hung in dorms and communal kitchens everywhere—is a story without words that shows Mr. Natural gamely washing a veritable mountain of dishes. A mountain! He applies elbow grease and washes and washes until there is nary a mac-and-cheese encrusted pot in the sink.<br /><br />Good for Mr. Natural!<br /><br />The comic neither reflected the state of our kitchen sink (which was heaped with dirty dishes that showed no sign of being diminished by human action or act of god) nor motivated either of us to wash the dishes. I was moved to do dishes sporadically, not by disgust (I wasn’t easily disgusted), nor by duty (I seldom used many dishes, and hence felt no particular call to wash them), nor by kindness (I wasn’t particularly kind). Rather I washed them because I liked to wash dishes; it fulfilled some sort of compulsive urge. I could stand at the sink and daydream with no fear of interruption.<br /><br />But much of the time, the apartment teetered between unhygienic and downright filthy, and the level of clutter vacillated between simple disorder and out-and-out anarchy.<br /><br />Once I noticed that a houseguest had demurely slipped off to the Caltech campus to take a shower in the student houses.<br /><br />“You could’ve used our shower,” I told her, somewhat defensively. “It works. The water pressure is actually good, better than you’d expect.”<br /><br />“I was going over to campus anyway, so I thought I’d take a shower,” she said.<br /><br />I could tell she was lying.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IpSqstQoKinS5ZtrpWuEcgAH97CuWD5Z7InkUUD8NKciQCHBP62QWcavFgc98k2Wku5SlKUdptJ-GlEBImAzWCZGFjRP438zwLDlvIZrniH1hSw5zbnPPtMCM_j4JWW_h_Os/s1600-h/Cockroach_In_Bathtub.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357654540225000754" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IpSqstQoKinS5ZtrpWuEcgAH97CuWD5Z7InkUUD8NKciQCHBP62QWcavFgc98k2Wku5SlKUdptJ-GlEBImAzWCZGFjRP438zwLDlvIZrniH1hSw5zbnPPtMCM_j4JWW_h_Os/s200/Cockroach_In_Bathtub.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I looked in the shower later that evening, I noticed that one of the giant outdoor cockroaches (as opposed to the faster, sleeker, and more petite kitchen cockroaches) had become <a href="http://www.blogger.com/intracerswetrust.blogspot.com/">trapped in the tub</a>. The sides were somehow too steep and too slick for him to climb, although he tried again and again, failing before he’d gotten all the way up the side. I wondered whether it was the roach himself, or the futility of his endeavor, that had driven my friend a half mile to Caltech to use another, more public, shower.<br /><br />It didn’t turn out well, of course.<br /><br />Why “of course” you might ask.<br /><br />We’d lived there together for quite awhile—several years at least—by the time Tom moved out. Together we’d battled forces of man and nature: the 14-year-old squatters that’d moved in downstairs when the attorney moved out; the fleas and roaches and rats; several stalkers I’d absentmindedly accumulated; the negligent landlords in the Valley; and our own non-admirable tendencies (which this blog post will leave to the reader’s vivid imagination).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5w_zHuokqs9X-zOolNvtcaoOfYN7WrD_kG4M-2mw7gDXEaaRCwcp-MV2UIAJ7mrYvyVlCaEjSr7zXpf_Bg5LWYVEkIOOyplex8m9TPWnMZxBvFMLss2J6soA4Ldu57VRbMhR/s1600-h/BlackKittens.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357656588347266258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 156px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5w_zHuokqs9X-zOolNvtcaoOfYN7WrD_kG4M-2mw7gDXEaaRCwcp-MV2UIAJ7mrYvyVlCaEjSr7zXpf_Bg5LWYVEkIOOyplex8m9TPWnMZxBvFMLss2J6soA4Ldu57VRbMhR/s200/BlackKittens.jpg" border="0" /></a>Tom’s girlfriend Trish had finally taken Madame l’ Fishbreath to be spayed after numerous litters of kittens born as the result of an incestuous relationship between the original two litter mates. Tuna-toes, Meatloaf, and all the kittens who’d followed, needed care, catfood, and ultimately new homes. We were perpetually looking for friends and co-workers who would give a kitten a good home.<br /><br />Tom even decided that the kittens were better adopted in pairs, so once we’d enlist someone to take one kitten, we’d persuade them into taking two.<br /><br />In other words, we’d weathered innumerable crises together.<br /><br />I don’t have any desire to turn over those last few months in my mind. They were traumatic, almost as traumatic as a break-up, and in the end, the events had little to do with me.<br /><br />Mark had moved in.<br /><br />There is a physics to roommates. I’m sure you knew that already.<br /><br />Two roommates, oppositely charged, will bond together. Four roommates can yield an “us against them” chemistry that’s almost fun: the Oscar Madisons versus the Felix Ungers. The Kramdens versus the Nortons. Different pairs bond and re-bond.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBTL9EliFu8RYXKUl4s4PYNjieyJJMC6hAwlCuCG4AoHi9E3-aHMuXyNsOK_lkp0obtKXR-IT_yIySGL22P9qawqoOF5fOf_UA50OtRtUJ_OCTiCIQImauXb_HRcW6lFxhz62/s1600-h/Mr-Ed.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357656993054826242" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBTL9EliFu8RYXKUl4s4PYNjieyJJMC6hAwlCuCG4AoHi9E3-aHMuXyNsOK_lkp0obtKXR-IT_yIySGL22P9qawqoOF5fOf_UA50OtRtUJ_OCTiCIQImauXb_HRcW6lFxhz62/s200/Mr-Ed.jpg" border="0" /></a>But three, three’s unstable. Of course there’s Jack, Chrissy, and Janet. Right. <a href="http://www.museum.tv/archives/etv/T/htmlT/threescompa/threescompa.htm">And you remember what happened to Chrissy</a>. She got too big for her britches and was exiled to Fresno. That’s right. Fresno. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WLR4iZJLgc4">Then there’s Wilbur, Mr. Ed, and Carol, another troubled roommate triangle</a>. Remember: only Wilbur could hear Mr. Ed talk.<br /><br />Where there’s three, there’s trouble.<br /><br />Remember these plots?<br /><em>Wilbur pleads with Ed to stick to being a horse, especially when Ed wants to go to college to become a doctor.</em><br /><em>Ed answers a hard question regarding chess on a radio game show and ends up winning Wilbur a new color TV set.</em><br /><em>Carol attempts to publish Ed’s memoirs.</em><br /><em>A neighbor who happens to be a builder needs an architect. Ed comes up with an idea that go-go music might just help Wilbur get that job.</em><br /><br />See? Three leads to nothing but tension. Tension and go-go music.<br /><br />Tom moved out. We haven’t spoken since. There were no fisticuffs, although some were threatened.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvN5R0_p529airl_irMpZsrdli-ZtB0p7GjmRxSCj8maLS_j9dMQSZY12SkmgEG7eX_70YpaithZ45ZuWqzQ4jaHL9flQf-BtCrg6B0pZbf3H3-A3x6QoCkcdLh2WLM6t9Y4W/s1600-h/California-street-condos.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357657750967506482" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 132px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvN5R0_p529airl_irMpZsrdli-ZtB0p7GjmRxSCj8maLS_j9dMQSZY12SkmgEG7eX_70YpaithZ45ZuWqzQ4jaHL9flQf-BtCrg6B0pZbf3H3-A3x6QoCkcdLh2WLM6t9Y4W/s200/California-street-condos.jpg" border="0" /></a>The building was torn down soon after that. The promised condos were built. They were on the market for a long time without selling, but now they’re just part of the California Boulevard landscape. I’d imagine no-one even remembers those two ramshackle four-flats.<br /><br />Except the ghosts of so many roommates, and their roommates, and roommates beyond.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-10700893712760264662009-04-25T23:05:00.000-07:002009-04-26T10:36:09.534-07:00roommates<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaNZHm2xDWa5nna1wJBtiNbf0p4drIEtvJW0sClGAfAgsL-HJLD_YF77y0SrG85XKHBqslUSuo5EWj4aVW-YFqjgEoW4l4CJchH9ckdwaoyJa8_NkhEjol1B1Xn5FudOg-UJX7/s1600-h/asilomar1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328880462077931090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaNZHm2xDWa5nna1wJBtiNbf0p4drIEtvJW0sClGAfAgsL-HJLD_YF77y0SrG85XKHBqslUSuo5EWj4aVW-YFqjgEoW4l4CJchH9ckdwaoyJa8_NkhEjol1B1Xn5FudOg-UJX7/s200/asilomar1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>I hadn’t had a real roommate in an awfully long time.<br /><br />I was at a conference that was held at <a href="http://www.visitasilomar.com/">Asilomar</a> down in Monterey. Asilomar is owned by the government and ends up being something like a Best Western crossed with <a href="http://www.nist.gov/index.html">NIST</a>. But it’s in a beautiful setting—on the sand dunes by an unspoiled stretch of coastline.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEvP55xSYXrluZG7FUZU0gnZV7DxSMhQ9MTYoTdoY8BVQlqCuEUwKkiH7rEnecnrbcyNd1Cao1EQobxuSwWEHIYn39SO877yqDbEuDumqV3dPTWdxsmdd3QZceMC7NCUil3qwu/s1600-h/Threes-Company.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328886381625557746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEvP55xSYXrluZG7FUZU0gnZV7DxSMhQ9MTYoTdoY8BVQlqCuEUwKkiH7rEnecnrbcyNd1Cao1EQobxuSwWEHIYn39SO877yqDbEuDumqV3dPTWdxsmdd3QZceMC7NCUil3qwu/s200/Threes-Company.jpg" border="0" /></a>The clerk at the registration desk warned me that I had a <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/passiveaggressive/sets/72157601085861443/">roommate</a>. She told me my roommate’s name and waited for a reaction. But I was prepared: that’s the way facilities like this work. You either come in with a roommate (which I didn’t), or you’re assigned one (I was). I didn’t really recognize her name, but I didn’t NOT recognize her name either; it sounded vaguely familiar.<br /><br />Because Monterey’s a short drive from San Francisco—2 hours if you’re <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/05/commuting-my-sentence.html">not worried about speeding tickets</a>—I didn’t pack carefully. Instead, I just threw stuff into the car as I thought of it. My swell new red overnight bag with a change of clothes. A black grocery bag with some apples and a camera. A plastic bag with some wool socks and a t-shirt. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/chow-manhattan.html">My big lumpy briefcase</a>. My clogs. An extra sweatshirt. An extra bottle of Snapple. Another extra sweatshirt. Some miscellaneous power cords and chargers. Books, papers, magazines, half-finished crossword puzzles. My favorite pen. Flip flops. Did I remember the Tums?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QF2FxEa_VNywoVEjAH3sQRW1G9LNLCRfm3f31qVgLXmMVTydjiF9AdDTtkz1sXrGdcub5NEAPHvkTIuzsghN4gNLTXtHQzP-Y3BmfDYXInBzR2GFcqwiFjs0raCdXyJdxjrb/s1600-h/BagLady.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328889370156754002" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QF2FxEa_VNywoVEjAH3sQRW1G9LNLCRfm3f31qVgLXmMVTydjiF9AdDTtkz1sXrGdcub5NEAPHvkTIuzsghN4gNLTXtHQzP-Y3BmfDYXInBzR2GFcqwiFjs0raCdXyJdxjrb/s200/BagLady.jpg" border="0" /></a>Soon the back of my little white Honda looked like I was planning to hold a mobile garage sale. Or like I was homeless and living out of my car.<br /><br />I put one more sweatshirt in the backseat. Maybe I’d be moved to run into the surf. If that were the case, I’d most certainly need dry clothes. Never mind the fact that I haven’t done that since I was 21 years old and on acid.<br /><br />I’m better off flying: I’m more apt to pack a realistic amount of stuff. And I’m more apt to put it in a single suitcase. </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9djohygal9wSE-1He-rebQyUDYxZ2eo8ZG0HbyqPn9zIcXTloTMDvoOYMYtNFm3f6qWxWyWwYxV-zYLa8VF6HHCxj9KV-ED_iYB_QIaPBbVhjyhBIb2XaKrVwZJrxDeknafTH/s1600-h/asilomarbungalow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328889837988481090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 141px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9djohygal9wSE-1He-rebQyUDYxZ2eo8ZG0HbyqPn9zIcXTloTMDvoOYMYtNFm3f6qWxWyWwYxV-zYLa8VF6HHCxj9KV-ED_iYB_QIaPBbVhjyhBIb2XaKrVwZJrxDeknafTH/s200/asilomarbungalow.jpg" border="0" /></a>Transferring all that crap from the back of the car to my room in Willows Lodge was no mean feat. If I’d have been able to put it in a shopping cart, my look would’ve been complete.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWptPQLVKCkzdhhbnzg9CKJNC5AOqxhxc1FK2gMyLB0xLbbGXH5y8-47hXZuUqkcbjEU03t1iSchhgFzrLt-_ymvWnRhHdSbeIF_jJCWa-pUvhDUnO4U7MPh0sOv3K_SyMxfA/s1600-h/Asilomar_Beach.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328890222382615778" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWptPQLVKCkzdhhbnzg9CKJNC5AOqxhxc1FK2gMyLB0xLbbGXH5y8-47hXZuUqkcbjEU03t1iSchhgFzrLt-_ymvWnRhHdSbeIF_jJCWa-pUvhDUnO4U7MPh0sOv3K_SyMxfA/s200/Asilomar_Beach.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I opened the door to the room, I knew right away that my roommate-to-be and I had lucked out. The curtains were wide open – we’d scored a room with an unobstructed ocean view. The sun glinted off the whitecaps. Beautiful.<br /><br />My roommate wasn’t there yet. I dropped my numerous bags onto the floor in an ambiguous (but thoughtfully out-of-the-way) heap and looked around. Two beds. A great big king-sized bed and an itty-bitty single bed. The great big bed afforded the better view: you could see the broad expanse of Pacific Ocean when you woke up. The small bed was set at an angle to look out onto the other low slung Asilomar bungalows.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLztfgwxwGdJV1MYqfjFDMV-HYST25lqcpt0Mjh-ZK_CSAt6vLIAWEj0QIXun2A4xNopSp7V56zSXul8KA0pO_mRgq2hFl9_pn1x_YCvg7ST25bPHV_jutosvkn2GzVBEfpFS/s1600-h/afteryoualphonse.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328891993184270898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 166px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwLztfgwxwGdJV1MYqfjFDMV-HYST25lqcpt0Mjh-ZK_CSAt6vLIAWEj0QIXun2A4xNopSp7V56zSXul8KA0pO_mRgq2hFl9_pn1x_YCvg7ST25bPHV_jutosvkn2GzVBEfpFS/s200/afteryoualphonse.jpg" border="0" /></a>I decided not to deploy any of my belongings until she arrived. Surely my roommate and I would have the obvious discussion about who would take which bed. We’d laugh about the hilarious “<a href="http://www.toonopedia.com/alphgast.htm">after you, Alphonse</a>” way we were both being too polite to take the obviously much larger bed with the fabulous ocean view.<br /><br />I’d say, “Oh, I’m so much smaller. I’ll take the little bed.”<br /><br />And she’d say, “I feel awful doing that. Are you sure you don’t want the big bed?”<br /><br />And I’d say, “You must! I insist!”<br /><br />And she’d say, “Thank you so much! I adore looking out at the waves.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOaBv-FdZOuOPbmrTZrUvXUNU-XmB8CpCEIcXJIULbF3OOdR_vxrKGqq0yDN9xVDOfQd0bJcCQsRZdMADRt1Da-xIup_npHDHUK7zHDvLWaQiw7SDBztJ6U_FCzhZ09fSneV3L/s1600-h/AsilomarCoast.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328892478098759938" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOaBv-FdZOuOPbmrTZrUvXUNU-XmB8CpCEIcXJIULbF3OOdR_vxrKGqq0yDN9xVDOfQd0bJcCQsRZdMADRt1Da-xIup_npHDHUK7zHDvLWaQiw7SDBztJ6U_FCzhZ09fSneV3L/s200/AsilomarCoast.jpg" border="0" /></a>That’s not what happened. I left the room and dutifully went off to a conference session. I wasn’t giving my talk until the second day, but I thought I might get a sense of the audience. Besides, it was a little cold and windy for walk-taking—it was a better day for lying on a great big bed and looking out a picture window at the wind-whipped ocean.<br /><br />When I returned to the room at the afternoon break, I discovered that my roommate had arrived. She was sitting on the unmade king-sized bed, facing away from the ocean, propped up on all the pillows, reading. Her toiletries were on the counter by the sink. Her bags were on both chairs by the little coffee table. She’d made herself at home. There was to be no “after you, Alphonse” discussion after all.<br /><br />I was mildly surprised.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2kVs3GWcHbSP1M6zMD6QmBD0NXWha2lOOmwGwuj3F2B2tfQv-oTAEr41U1egkjB7BKvYQPf705dQrdAufYDn2vog1kxBSirv3O2izEWqkEalKSDmhPld_9fv7sgq8JYoRruN/s1600-h/president-and-ceo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328893539472341266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2kVs3GWcHbSP1M6zMD6QmBD0NXWha2lOOmwGwuj3F2B2tfQv-oTAEr41U1egkjB7BKvYQPf705dQrdAufYDn2vog1kxBSirv3O2izEWqkEalKSDmhPld_9fv7sgq8JYoRruN/s200/president-and-ceo.jpg" border="0" /></a>She looked up from her novel and introduced herself. A flicker of annoyance crossed her face when I asked her where she was from. Clearly I was supposed to have recognized her name, especially since her job title was President.<br /><br />My mind works slowly. It wasn’t until the second day that I remembered the gossip I’d heard about her. It had to do with her divorce from someone whose name was actually a household word (at least in geek circles). Right. It was a bitter divorce if you believed those rumors. She’d gotten everything. Her ex-husband was destitute.<br /><br />Oh, right.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-taWKZFYXBy6gshyphenhyphenvRCWhrIWxYt2zru2berL2AfRw9ETJSyTMBtRY03T0vMc_E7-qCu3LP9nkMEYWrVIey80gkRW_8jCYJLPsJrwgDb-kutaMFSYFcPx6ykjGULA3LvU8DnJ/s1600-h/poison.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328894216603117138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0-taWKZFYXBy6gshyphenhyphenvRCWhrIWxYt2zru2berL2AfRw9ETJSyTMBtRY03T0vMc_E7-qCu3LP9nkMEYWrVIey80gkRW_8jCYJLPsJrwgDb-kutaMFSYFcPx6ykjGULA3LvU8DnJ/s200/poison.jpg" border="0" /></a>The conference proceeded as most conferences do. My roommate and I were reasonably careful around one another: we neither became BFFs nor attempted to poison one another’s toothpaste. I doubt she put sand into my contact lens case, and I don’t remember spitting into her hair rinse. We negotiated nothing. She set an early lights-out hour and I made my way around the room in the dark using my flashlight as if I were a cat burglar. I scrabbled through my heaped belongings looking for my sweatpants and t-shirt by dim blue LED light.<br /><br />In true passive-aggressive fashion, I took a sleeping pill at bedtime, and passed the nighttime hours snoring with profound vigor, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2009/03/earpods.html">my mp3 player's earbuds snugly in my ears</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I54pwQ5mrJMQYFTVz0oipb6HHQ12Ogg4ipmRM7p-CNveso9FxNTkEYsC8EmAcjca0m5y6CpuUZV0JlAuS-4WS2DuKg7QT7zBn0LrV3ZkpV2KgLIiXzZOJ0u4raPaB-GIj2j7/s1600-h/dollar.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328896279149557394" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 87px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I54pwQ5mrJMQYFTVz0oipb6HHQ12Ogg4ipmRM7p-CNveso9FxNTkEYsC8EmAcjca0m5y6CpuUZV0JlAuS-4WS2DuKg7QT7zBn0LrV3ZkpV2KgLIiXzZOJ0u4raPaB-GIj2j7/s200/dollar.jpg" border="0" /></a>On the last day, when I returned to the room at checkout time to gather up my things, she had already left. All her stuff was gone. The bathmat lay crumpled on the bathroom floor, still damp from her morning shower. She had left a single crisp dollar on the bedside table for the maids.<br /><br />A one dollar tip.<br /><br />Roommates.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4-C95DVqppJUvJFs3pRrpi3wgYe6ZAvr2S-nHWUYTSjFgItc9kMjeXd5Q8M6Dai4WSMqPCNquZKDPQPTM6j-uMhU0CqleupvUsyqCHkuXBQWthgXLwOQFn4_8LAMQU5d3J-5/s1600-h/beads.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329039528521246306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4-C95DVqppJUvJFs3pRrpi3wgYe6ZAvr2S-nHWUYTSjFgItc9kMjeXd5Q8M6Dai4WSMqPCNquZKDPQPTM6j-uMhU0CqleupvUsyqCHkuXBQWthgXLwOQFn4_8LAMQU5d3J-5/s200/beads.jpg" border="0" /></a>I didn’t share a room while I was growing up. My brother and I each had our own rooms, and as a substantially older sister, I was able to enforce my own share of arbitrary rules about my bedroom. For example, my brother was not to touch the beads that hung in my doorway, beads that I believed lent my room a sophisticated opium den-like aura. I was especially sensitive to the idea that he might chew on them, since he was a late-teether. He might even pull them down. If he looked at them too long, I pounced.<br /><br />But really I had nothing to worry about. As a toddler, my brother was placid and easy to intimidate.<br /><br />So I was completely unprepared for college roommates.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRtpTct_WtYXEi-0LTiaj9ncuntTObeKPGzAyiruX4Nnyf8JAhXRTXC4i-nBEuGUK_ZgMyk_TCLq7pPDuTryJi5O1GaPUg7M8dz1CMLf28cSeNsnacKi_YIUVlxodfu0UXeZz/s1600-h/dabney.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329040408750945730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoRtpTct_WtYXEi-0LTiaj9ncuntTObeKPGzAyiruX4Nnyf8JAhXRTXC4i-nBEuGUK_ZgMyk_TCLq7pPDuTryJi5O1GaPUg7M8dz1CMLf28cSeNsnacKi_YIUVlxodfu0UXeZz/s200/dabney.jpg" border="0" /></a>My first college roommate was a guy who’d been to boarding school. He was mature and had excellent study habits; he went to bed by 10pm and was wide awake for his 8am chem lab. A sober fellow, tall with a neatly trimmed beard, the kind of roommate you’d want for your son. I’ve googled him, and he’s still a solid citizen, a doctor, the head of a blood bank at a major university’s teaching hospital.<br /><br />We’ll call him Bob.<br /><br />I don’t know what Bob made of me; it didn’t occur to me at the time that he might be the least bit disturbed by a female roommate.<br /><br />Rooming together wasn’t his idea.<br /><br />He’d left campus on the night of room choice, and he’d entrusted me with his proxy to pick him a room and a roommate.<br /><br />For fairness sake, room choice went by seniority, then by card draw, aces high like in poker.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AyF33Ybu96GrfhhH7JY6gIQDNNk_T1ubYK6uzsKoKBvypOlIqqvXxcOC6x20eilyYR5lcBX5_NzDSbAz6XLnwlsaK-O57GcvG40Wf5y5DC6d4-09NKQN2dutEkqRIBxDTpQ6/s1600-h/queen-of-spades.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329043108697578322" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 145px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AyF33Ybu96GrfhhH7JY6gIQDNNk_T1ubYK6uzsKoKBvypOlIqqvXxcOC6x20eilyYR5lcBX5_NzDSbAz6XLnwlsaK-O57GcvG40Wf5y5DC6d4-09NKQN2dutEkqRIBxDTpQ6/s200/queen-of-spades.gif" border="0" /></a>We were freshmen. Single rooms were out of the question. It’d be a matter of picking a roommate and choosing which double the two of us would live in.<br /><br />There were only three girls, which theoretically gave me only two choices for a roommate. Then one of the girls, the precocious one among us, a pretty blonde girl, decided she’d shack up with her boyfriend RIGHT AWAY.<br /><br />That left one other girl. One other girl. Not much of a choice. I probably would’ve gone with that, but this remaindered girl was a social leper. She was a smart girl—I think she’d been on the team that won <a href="http://math.scu.edu/putnam/">the Putnam</a> and was planning to be a math major—but she was also a scary girl, an outcast. A girl so loud and annoying that even at Caltech (which at the time had a gender ration of 10:1) she was shunned. And I did not have an open mind: I could not envision myself rooming with this girl. I knew it. (What I did not understand was that I had universal sympathy, and I probably would’ve been able to get myself a single if I’d just said something).<br /><br />My turn to draw came around. I drew a Queen of Spades for Bob and three of hearts for me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJs2IO8UVnQ4n3ZadCmq9BOvZJQ0Ksw4rJG8G6TUjoy-0tAGlPldUbx4s0Eh3Lit2HwFyQQN1-fuqUiYnXygRNVKQJnXo1hPjacJLXzyU1Gl2N-OxJfGuLwJA9RIcS0erIBAO/s1600-h/quiet-alley.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329044902271122002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJs2IO8UVnQ4n3ZadCmq9BOvZJQ0Ksw4rJG8G6TUjoy-0tAGlPldUbx4s0Eh3Lit2HwFyQQN1-fuqUiYnXygRNVKQJnXo1hPjacJLXzyU1Gl2N-OxJfGuLwJA9RIcS0erIBAO/s200/quiet-alley.jpg" border="0" /></a>I chose Bob a good room, a big room with a sleeping porch and no immediate neighbors. The upperclassman who was running the show asked me who Bob’s roommate was going to be. Roommate? Right! I was supposed to pick him a roommate. I looked around at the other freshmen and panicked.<br /><br />“Me.” I said.<br /><br />“You? Does Bob know that?”<br /><br />“No.” I said, “But I’m sure he won’t mind. He told me to pick someone for him. And I did. Me.”<br /><br />Indeed if Bob was unhappy with this whole arrangement, he hid his displeasure well. Looking back, I’m sure he was just good-natured and his temperament had been shaped by an adolescence spent at East Coast boarding schools. He’d probably dealt with any number of undesirable roommates already and wasn’t about to get upset by something this minor.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCJRb1_3ptKI3f3zJbisFy-ZZuIKFdM_KaUnn8I3rzzAH6odDOk6RkK9r_Ucbr8rRBHuE0fgraXLY5-WTENCPvraBiElAjHgJh3NaoVgtKmkBQgjeeeFkVSIY75f6DZpXC0f4/s1600-h/threeOfHearts.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329046639198164370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCJRb1_3ptKI3f3zJbisFy-ZZuIKFdM_KaUnn8I3rzzAH6odDOk6RkK9r_Ucbr8rRBHuE0fgraXLY5-WTENCPvraBiElAjHgJh3NaoVgtKmkBQgjeeeFkVSIY75f6DZpXC0f4/s200/threeOfHearts.png" border="0" /></a>My parents, on the other hand, surprised me with the vehemence of their displeasure. I was too naïve to realize that they’d be unhappy with this set up; I somehow thought they’d congratulate me on my ingenuity. I’d turned my unlucky three of hearts—a card so low that I would’ve surely been left with the worst room in the house, a tiny double painted a depressing shade of olive drab with military-style metal bunk beds overlooking the driveway where the dumpsters were emptied at 6am two mornings a week—into a Queen of Spades and a big desirable room with a sleeping porch. And my roommate was an absolute peach, a guy three years my senior who could help me with my physics homework and who didn’t turn every weeknight into an occasion for drunken revelries.<br /><br />We were not to be roommates for long.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZLWinC5Um4pDuE_EgfbewZkSoIvifl6isTgFsXWNhOdYiAw13pNZ9urulI4J01Q3Efm5Q10SvKl3ymGL_tNUUwmidwbnHbev5oM9zn0JO9yTS_BiU7Al_N0o8SWw9RH9t2P6/s1600-h/dorm-bed.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329046928318276722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 187px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZLWinC5Um4pDuE_EgfbewZkSoIvifl6isTgFsXWNhOdYiAw13pNZ9urulI4J01Q3Efm5Q10SvKl3ymGL_tNUUwmidwbnHbev5oM9zn0JO9yTS_BiU7Al_N0o8SWw9RH9t2P6/s200/dorm-bed.jpg" border="0" /></a>My parents threatened to intervene. Fortuitously, before they did, the lovely blonde girl dumped her hastily-chosen freshman BF, and she and I were thrown together into the tiny olive-drab double with bunk beds. Sure enough, the dumpsters were emptied at 6am two mornings a week. It was noisy and depressing and my roommate was not much better at the physics qualifier problems than I was.<br /><br />She’d already picked the top bunk. That left me with the bottom bunk, and she had the temerity to entertain gentleman callers in our room. Naturally I was supposed to find some other place to hang out during the naughty part of the visit, but she’d have her guests sleep over, and the mattress would sag down low invading the depressing cave-like space offered by the lower bunk.<br /><br />There’s something about lower bunks anyway that connotes younger siblings, and sleepers too inept or too fearful to sleep high in the air. The daring, the skillful, the free-spirited sleep in top bunks; the fraidy-cats, the clumsy, and the weak sleep in lower bunks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfbkwUvqHTWqWdhUxYykdxNNXe7j79vkXfeIvo2p2xaMl1Vtzj9NY14wni7A2cOHEfuNNZXr5ZIPDW9nL-gaQw9np2ZggdaezQzlLoiXKwASKk7k2iDUUA_V7pkfsAAsA_wyy/s1600-h/eatapeach.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329049804763987218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsfbkwUvqHTWqWdhUxYykdxNNXe7j79vkXfeIvo2p2xaMl1Vtzj9NY14wni7A2cOHEfuNNZXr5ZIPDW9nL-gaQw9np2ZggdaezQzlLoiXKwASKk7k2iDUUA_V7pkfsAAsA_wyy/s200/eatapeach.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Don’t touch my stereo when I’m not here,” my new roommate warned me.<br /><br />“I won’t,” I said, looking around for something of mine I could ask her not to touch. There wasn’t anything cool enough. Nothing to protect. What, don’t touch my manual typewriter? Even my stuff betrayed my lack of promise as a roommate.<br /><br />“And don’t play my records. Especially not on your stereo,” she added. She had a shelf-foot of LPs, good ones, cool ones. Allman Brothers and Mothers of Invention. She had a real turntable too. A stereo with components. A separate receiver and power amp. Speakers with real wood cabinets.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCp50gCeNp_O9Gg4wqy4hoFkX5sn9IpBKcuN57Ulwdmd2IzytNJM9CfXFcTka6k-sfiidsiKkbvv4fZUiijvCvvpkOw8MhXE46uPi0nUktlTKvAFpvWkBgGRpZfxLVoESgfsS/s1600-h/recordplayer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329049881082272434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 178px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOCp50gCeNp_O9Gg4wqy4hoFkX5sn9IpBKcuN57Ulwdmd2IzytNJM9CfXFcTka6k-sfiidsiKkbvv4fZUiijvCvvpkOw8MhXE46uPi0nUktlTKvAFpvWkBgGRpZfxLVoESgfsS/s200/recordplayer.jpg" border="0" /></a>I still had my geeky kid stereo, the moral equivalent of a close-the-top-to-play record player. I’d loved my stereo when I lived at home, but now here I was, embarrassed by the thing. Of course I wouldn’t be so stupid and thoughtless as to play her copy of In Memory of Elizabeth Reed on it. I knew that the way I weighted the needle arm with a penny so it still tracked the grooves would spoil her pristine LPs.<br /><br />Soon after that, I dragged home a discarded mustard-and-white striped rug to cover our cold cement floor. She wrinkled her pretty nose at what I saw as my newfound resourcefulness. The next day, one of her gentlemen callers burned a hole in the rug with a fumbled Winston.<br /><br />“It was old anyway,” I said. I felt miserable. Before the wrinkled nose and the burn hole, I’d thought it was a pretty nifty rug; I’d never furnished anything with found household goods before.<br /><br />By winter term, we had singles.<br /><br /><em>To be continued</em>...</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-59579016719651074712009-03-29T12:53:00.000-07:002009-03-29T20:58:19.425-07:00Earpods<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHBHXnmn_SVoE9wO8wzA6kKC5fRwCIek4CBrFMQqwtUsQMal8C410tMMXbHThG9fkoIEgFrKAZ4j6GNzDYtLz2evjytoyJxzv-Heb_skUAb31sJTYwQjdFsUdnuYa6WZc9Wkj/s1600-h/girl_with_pearl_earbuds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318702885298148354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 164px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTHBHXnmn_SVoE9wO8wzA6kKC5fRwCIek4CBrFMQqwtUsQMal8C410tMMXbHThG9fkoIEgFrKAZ4j6GNzDYtLz2evjytoyJxzv-Heb_skUAb31sJTYwQjdFsUdnuYa6WZc9Wkj/s200/girl_with_pearl_earbuds.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>One hot summer day some years ago, I went to visit my friends Alan and Hana. I’d pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, just to feel the breeze on my neck during the bike ride over.<br /><br />When I got there, Hana’s eight-year-old niece studied me briefly and said, “You shouldn’t wear your hair that way. Your ears are too big.”<br /><br />What she’d said had merit: my ears are indeed unusually large, and the ponytail had exposed them for casual inspection by eight year olds. Too large in some absolute sense? It would be hard to say. Too large for someone my size? Very likely. They’re some big ears.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-cWxEhjTidcuw6858iXt0wXZJGxTU9MtGofA-OXJMa4TSY4F-hFvwBYJU1h_CeYqwaWiKLI66pA0aCwr11-Kot9_MpEAODcK28kzAjS4MRIcXu0ny3P_iybJeIb-BvPhyphenhyphenSA5/s1600-h/Elephant_ears.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318707184206007698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 132px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ-cWxEhjTidcuw6858iXt0wXZJGxTU9MtGofA-OXJMa4TSY4F-hFvwBYJU1h_CeYqwaWiKLI66pA0aCwr11-Kot9_MpEAODcK28kzAjS4MRIcXu0ny3P_iybJeIb-BvPhyphenhyphenSA5/s200/Elephant_ears.jpg" border="0" /></a>I think someone—her mother, perhaps—admonished her to not say such a thing.<br /><br />“No. She’s right,” I said. “I shouldn’t wear my hair like this.”<br /><br />It wasn’t exactly one of those adorable ‘<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDI6GuAyo94">kids say the darnedest things</a>’ moments. Nothing adorable about some snotty eight-year-old giving you personal grooming tips. But it was a turning point, one in which I decided that my ears required some sort of persistent cover. Camouflage even.<br /><br />If the eyes are windows onto the soul, what are the ears?<br /><br />I believe <a href="http://www.online-literature.com/shakespeare/hamlet/6/">the ghost in Hamlet alludes to the porches of his ears</a>, so perhaps my ears are the verandas onto my soul; my ears do have a certain deck-like quality (minus the Adirondack chairs), especially since they protrude on the sides.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KhyphenhyphenBCzJp_n4ekAwp_aCEPO12SqwRuJHrQyEUXgeFz5uiRsqbjNrRl8vQxxmLcQPaWzPQgmOtDX1ocgz0D0sAKEbXoDNduv9B8A8o3olN6GV8M5Oadk26wGMxRi6oAK7xoksd/s1600-h/murakami-story.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318712461469266242" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 157px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KhyphenhyphenBCzJp_n4ekAwp_aCEPO12SqwRuJHrQyEUXgeFz5uiRsqbjNrRl8vQxxmLcQPaWzPQgmOtDX1ocgz0D0sAKEbXoDNduv9B8A8o3olN6GV8M5Oadk26wGMxRi6oAK7xoksd/s200/murakami-story.jpg" border="0" /></a>But for Shakespeare, the dead King’s ears are only incidental—they’re just a place to pour in the poison, a literary device to move the story forward. The only writer I can think of who waxes rhapsodic over ears is Haruki Murakami. The women in his stories often have exquisite shell-like ears, delicate in form, unspeakably lovely. Inspirational ears. Mystical ears. Erotic ears.<br /><br />“I’ve been told my ears are my best feature,” they say in their Match.com profiles. And for them, that’d be an understatement.<br /><br />“My ears inspire poets. They drive the emo-inclined to the brink of Cure-like weepy poesy.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuT2N24sYg08K8jGp7d_yXr-wV0hleo2kI7E5_4Fa4bYFFHndXZdDOFjelgmHaC2zHzpaEXWjft3b2kxhsgxqEuuQH02jifapoFcL-q5wck9RB5ejG-1gutwUDZwXtwxYQjYi/s1600-h/delicate-shell-like-ears.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318712833659401634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFuT2N24sYg08K8jGp7d_yXr-wV0hleo2kI7E5_4Fa4bYFFHndXZdDOFjelgmHaC2zHzpaEXWjft3b2kxhsgxqEuuQH02jifapoFcL-q5wck9RB5ejG-1gutwUDZwXtwxYQjYi/s200/delicate-shell-like-ears.jpg" border="0" /></a>“My closest friends spread out their checkered tablecloths and have picnics on the porches of my ears.”<br /><br />“Six demure Latinas celebrate their <a href="http://www.valleymorningstar.com/sections/quinceaneras/">Quinceañeras</a> on the wisteria-entwined plump pillows of my earlobes.”<br /><br />Given the scope and reach of the Internet, I’m sure there’s even porn devoted wholly to ears. There’s got to be. Ear Porn. You’ll have to look for it yourself on XTube; I’m scared of what I might find.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeof_0dJ1cPObZvGYtml5sUPzQZ5kHdujZAfNmSddPNOh64FkINjXUPZtgyn74PQhVqd7v-POuJgVXkDkoVnQPNl_lZgLDlTrQGBD83Jl-j0x1_9fQTvGed8tClpNyNmy0Y3z1/s1600-h/flounder.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318713264005874258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeof_0dJ1cPObZvGYtml5sUPzQZ5kHdujZAfNmSddPNOh64FkINjXUPZtgyn74PQhVqd7v-POuJgVXkDkoVnQPNl_lZgLDlTrQGBD83Jl-j0x1_9fQTvGed8tClpNyNmy0Y3z1/s200/flounder.jpg" border="0" /></a>Why, you might ask, am I so focused on my ears today? Now that I’ve learned to keep them in an undisclosed location on the side of my head (yes—I keep them both on one side, much like a flounder’s eyes), you might think there’d be no particular reason to dwell on them.<br /><br />But that’s not so.<br /><br />When I was younger and less self-conscious, I flirted with the idea of piercing my ears. But even back then, piercing both lobes seemed too ordinary. My BFF Carol and I decided we’d each pierce one lobe in a gesture of friendship and solidarity; besides, that way we could split the cost. Irony played a role too: her research involved earrings in the Late Bronze Age Aegean.<br /><br />It was a lovely theory and a sensible plan. It was cost-effective, social, and required only minimal effort. Did we do it? Of course not!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbP_jXdFbbfKoH_R4wQEOao_yH2JU-jjAmQkgFLN_V5_R8ES_JlPiubgkj3pcfsG6jze5457kcKi2adMDRKKOKmt12IeED4x9HXUIGZ6TtRhaQlgFIOEhCWUWd4M7Szhg4SHFJ/s1600-h/paper-punch-ear-piercing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318714212090882002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 147px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbP_jXdFbbfKoH_R4wQEOao_yH2JU-jjAmQkgFLN_V5_R8ES_JlPiubgkj3pcfsG6jze5457kcKi2adMDRKKOKmt12IeED4x9HXUIGZ6TtRhaQlgFIOEhCWUWd4M7Szhg4SHFJ/s200/paper-punch-ear-piercing.jpg" border="0" /></a>I googled Carol recently to see whether she’d gone ahead without me. A photo reveals that both of her ears are pierced. And a quick look in the mirror reveals that neither of mine is. Not with an ordinary dainty hole in the lobe. Nor with the hardware store assortment of studs, clips, and rings that are so common now. Nor with the 0 gauge plugs or 4 gauge steel claws that make me so squeamish when I see someone with them down in the Castro. Come to think of it, I’m probably the last adult in San Francisco with nary a <a href="http://bang.calit2.net/tts/2008/07/11/dreaming-of-molly-millions-the-panther-moderns-and-body-hacking/">body modification</a>.<br /><br />But none of this has anything to do with why I’m obsessing about my ears.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFj5smsJQS-yXkYd7HDsdurWo5tDlVscNoCw19wyIHTkhGH4btqrsg6rNM01L6qpW63t2VV_Y_vvQM8frMxsmHl-_7tG8JAXNOKec_YPPkqM56Q1OKehM-fNuxuoArPdcCzO_/s1600-h/pig-earbuds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318716468987590658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 152px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFj5smsJQS-yXkYd7HDsdurWo5tDlVscNoCw19wyIHTkhGH4btqrsg6rNM01L6qpW63t2VV_Y_vvQM8frMxsmHl-_7tG8JAXNOKec_YPPkqM56Q1OKehM-fNuxuoArPdcCzO_/s200/pig-earbuds.jpg" border="0" /></a>It’s the earbuds.<br /><br />You heard me: earbuds. Oh. Maybe you’ll have to shout to tell me if you heard me: I’m wearing my earbuds. I never thought I’d be one of those people who walk around plugged into a portable music player, oblivious to what’s going on around them.<br /><br />What makes matters worse is that I’m not even listening to music like most of the students one encounters on every college campus, wandering to the dining hall or to their afternoon class in Eastmost Hall. Instead I’m listening to podcasts. I don’t subscribe to just two or three podcasts; I listen to an extensive network of natterers, some of them broadcasting in twos and threes, using conversation to fill the time, others monologuing from the barest of notes. Many of them know each other and cross the porous podcast boundaries the way <a href="http://www.tvacres.com/cities_hooterville.htm">Petticoat Junction characters would sometimes show up in Green Acres</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh22k65VMeY6FdR3fFoAcs-YHYNvWooUBpu6ZlZpCHa-k56DAIFOwgXtQkr59KNrcZ8YqFyGCAvsKuTA69NS63p8iTIWi19A3GqPd4RCfV9hhkLQXxt7K0OccnCO20OM93McK/s1600-h/mp3player.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318717031215881634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJh22k65VMeY6FdR3fFoAcs-YHYNvWooUBpu6ZlZpCHa-k56DAIFOwgXtQkr59KNrcZ8YqFyGCAvsKuTA69NS63p8iTIWi19A3GqPd4RCfV9hhkLQXxt7K0OccnCO20OM93McK/s200/mp3player.jpg" border="0" /></a>It drives Mark crazy.<br /><br />“I’m competing with your friends in the plastic box,” he says, annoyed that I’m listening to strangers, and am unavailable to him when he shouts at me from another room.<br /><br />I switch off the player, leaving the earbuds dangling from my ears.<br /><br />“I can hear you.” I tell him. “I can hear you! I’ve turned it off. Now say what you want to say!”<br /><br />“I don’t want to talk to you now. I just want to be able to talk to you.”<br /><br />“It’s more fun to do the dishes when I’m listening to podcasts,” I whine.<br /><br />“I think you like your friends in the plastic box better than you like me and Lumpy.”<br /><br />“That’s so not true!” I switch the mp3 player back on so I can return to Michael and Kevin on the <a href="http://qcastct.blogspot.com/">QCast Connection</a> or Walt and Holly on <a href="http://weremeanbecauseyourestupid.blogspot.com/">We’re Mean Because You’re Stupid</a>. “You know it’s not true.”<br /><br />But I don’t just listen to podcasts while I’m doing the dishes or taking out the garbage. I listen to them other times too. When I’m gardening. When I’m cooking. When I’m walking to the store. When I’m driving. When I’m shopping.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiill-uQlzwiilsVJX2FD4RxpsKEFJZw-DvJrcOCn2A8swGF3-bCVU0mjn0-q3IHL_HF2RV8hBqLMnySa6hz4cOo3WVjburPptMND0qLbQ9pfizC_N1LoIvFX3a-whd-cSXr5de/s1600-h/Benzodiazepines.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318802769708293890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiill-uQlzwiilsVJX2FD4RxpsKEFJZw-DvJrcOCn2A8swGF3-bCVU0mjn0-q3IHL_HF2RV8hBqLMnySa6hz4cOo3WVjburPptMND0qLbQ9pfizC_N1LoIvFX3a-whd-cSXr5de/s200/Benzodiazepines.jpg" border="0" /></a>I most certainly crossed a line though when I started wearing the earbuds to bed. I can’t help it, really. The podcasts help me sleep. In fact, they’ve helped me conquer a period of almost profound insomnia, insomnia that would not yield to benzodiazepines or Nyquil. There are a couple of podcasters who are almost preternaturally boring—they narrate their lives, right down to the time they spend snuggling with their partners, cleaning their apartments, clipping coupons, installing software, or eating macaroni and cheese—and if even they let me down, there’s always that old standby, NPR.<br /><br />A little <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.whyy.org/freshair/today.html">Terry Gross</a> or a dose of <a href="http://archerradio.com/">Archer</a> goes a long way to curing even the most intractable sleeplessness.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjNfHryvF_aDNyGjg1m1U4Zi6frKBvfZme7yMSsGEeExEbQgX_u3VnW-nNRvjWH-xP4DtcJO9iDZ9bj-zp7wKxS0acrnLEzszFUymV2ixDwbTZvjdxwJTJ2sTypI23_lT7h8I/s1600-h/earbud-people.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318804010657728210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjNfHryvF_aDNyGjg1m1U4Zi6frKBvfZme7yMSsGEeExEbQgX_u3VnW-nNRvjWH-xP4DtcJO9iDZ9bj-zp7wKxS0acrnLEzszFUymV2ixDwbTZvjdxwJTJ2sTypI23_lT7h8I/s200/earbud-people.jpg" border="0" /></a>In fact, I have a special pair of earbuds that I wear at night. They don’t stay in my ears very well, but if I sleep on my side, they don’t dig in and cause injuries like my daytime earbuds do. Instead they fall out harmlessly and get tangled in the bedding.<br /><br />If I wake up in the middle of the night, instead of dwelling on something unfortunate that happened during the day, I start up the player again, click-click-click-click, until I find the place in the podcast where I finally drifted off to sleep. Something that put me to sleep once is very apt to put me to sleep twice, a third time, and a fourth. Often I’ll listen to the same five minutes of rambling talk over and over again all night long.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RLLH_OruJD4aCLwKimIgUIxpEugDV_12KAWmPxmq0w1Ni9X9dai63nNxW8iBXz3AMkx8Sn3pE3IkMXnsF_WalVKB75rkM7Hj2WK5hyKWegroqd8ufQSJ7qquWqi6mgPoR2-v/s1600-h/lumpy-buffet.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318805441063557298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 178px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8RLLH_OruJD4aCLwKimIgUIxpEugDV_12KAWmPxmq0w1Ni9X9dai63nNxW8iBXz3AMkx8Sn3pE3IkMXnsF_WalVKB75rkM7Hj2WK5hyKWegroqd8ufQSJ7qquWqi6mgPoR2-v/s200/lumpy-buffet.jpg" border="0" /></a>The problem is, the cat hears the clicking. Even the single click that’s the minimum interaction necessary to start the podcast playing again is enough to alert Lumpy that I’m awake and perhaps might be persuaded to replenish the kitty buffet in the kitchen.<br /><br />He meows quietly when he hears the click. He knows that if he wakes Mark up, he’ll get locked in the garage until morning; it’s the current feline behavior modification strategy. But Lumpy also knows that I’m too softhearted—and too nearsighted—to hustle him downstairs and into the garage for a timeout.<br /><br />So, in his quietest possible kitty-voice, he says, “Cathy? Cathy? You awake?”<br /><br />Click. Click. I’m clicking through the menus on my mp3 player, trying to settle on something fresh to listen to. Something that’ll send me back to blissful sleep. Click. Click.<br /><br />And now there’s a second set of meows that means something like, “Quiet now. Let’s sneak into the kitchen and check out my food bowls. Oh! Don’t make too much noise. You’ll wake him and he’ll lock us in the garage.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTu1eH0hOtlkr8dmfLFoYM5iU15jayNlkmLlq8vOBZ8veuguvrOhnKNRKWL2AhonBWMNE-KLNkfiA04MvCXg-YhOWogF6OoQiR1vixDY36wl4XjAQFJTEMMlEG5JzGxKQbRgOs/s1600-h/ear-closeup.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318819941040318258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTu1eH0hOtlkr8dmfLFoYM5iU15jayNlkmLlq8vOBZ8veuguvrOhnKNRKWL2AhonBWMNE-KLNkfiA04MvCXg-YhOWogF6OoQiR1vixDY36wl4XjAQFJTEMMlEG5JzGxKQbRgOs/s200/ear-closeup.jpg" border="0" /></a>Click. Click. I’m trying to fast-forward through the portion of the podcast that I was listening to before I fell asleep. Click. “Shit!” I mutter. Fast forward is non-linear on my player, and it advances increasingly fast: 1-2-3-4-5-6 seconds. 20-30-40-50-60 seconds. 2-3-4-5 minutes. 1-2-3 hours. Whoops. Because there is no 2 hour mark for most podcasts—even the most marathon talkers of the bunch seldom go beyond 1 hour—I’m sent to the beginning of the next podcast. And that means backing up and starting all over again.<br /><br />Click. Click. Click.<br /><br />The cat is increasingly restive. All of this clicking confirms that I’m actually awake. His sweet quiet little meows stop, and he starts a second game, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/09/cold-comfort.html">hunt the earpod cords</a>, which are tangled among the sheets and lead to the player which is under my pillow. He grabs the cord with his sharp claws and attempts to chomp down on it.<br /><br />“Lumpy! Damn it! Stop!” By now, all three of us are wide awake. Lumpy is meowing extra loud at the injustice of being yelled at. I jam the earbuds back in my ears and click-click-click the volume button on the player until it’s loud enough to drown out the cat. It’s doubtful any of us will be getting any more sleep.<br /><br />Except—at about 7:15, a few minutes before I should be getting up and at ‘em, I fall into a deep sleep. And I don’t wake up again until 8:30. An episode of <a href="http://www.oksopodcast.blogspot.com/">Pod is My Co-Pilot</a> is playing full blast and I wonder how I could’ve slept through it thusfar.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVg1rZX33w3ybLx5Xc9hU1ukREeHwlWw0K-kT6pJTkmKxe7U3d_BR9aj9-mz5eYV3ANbLTHSrq9gIEtWPQcvCwLeNdOdwgeziWY1hen2cje-3gjvgkSt7XtygE7d3q9aX0-If/s1600-h/clip-earbuds.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318811769681924722" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVg1rZX33w3ybLx5Xc9hU1ukREeHwlWw0K-kT6pJTkmKxe7U3d_BR9aj9-mz5eYV3ANbLTHSrq9gIEtWPQcvCwLeNdOdwgeziWY1hen2cje-3gjvgkSt7XtygE7d3q9aX0-If/s200/clip-earbuds.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I get out of bed, I swap my nighttime earbuds for my daytime ones. These fit a good deal better—they don’t keep falling off—but they interrupt the solid curtain of hair and only serve to emphasize that my ears have been built to a different scale than my other features.<br /><br />The funny thing about all of these pairs of earbuds is how long the cords are. My mp3 player is tiny and the cords are long, long, long, and oddly prone to complicated tangles and unfathomable knots. I’ll take out the earbuds for a few seconds—say, to pull a sweatshirt over my head—and when I go to replace them in my ears, the cords will have snarled into the worst knot possible.<br /><br />“How did this happen?” I ask Mark as I try to unsnarl the cords.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gnCjtLpJZjxbZvc7F56SRl3f9hVKZUYezlXbX_okjDNIDxpW2Lilw3wZYeDYqQYBdcESQ8mttLoYznVA0yYxvo_6j6c-yEsgy9fq8y0738u-ssOk910H5Je1eTggnYooFG2f/s1600-h/negative_earbuds_ads.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318818245854696898" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gnCjtLpJZjxbZvc7F56SRl3f9hVKZUYezlXbX_okjDNIDxpW2Lilw3wZYeDYqQYBdcESQ8mttLoYznVA0yYxvo_6j6c-yEsgy9fq8y0738u-ssOk910H5Je1eTggnYooFG2f/s200/negative_earbuds_ads.jpg" border="0" /></a>The cords have become mysteriously braided with the Honda’s seat belt and looped around the gear shift. They have slipped between the steering wheel and the steering column. The player itself is clipped to something too. But what? It is nowhere in sight. I start frisking my pockets and following the cords with my fingers, hoping to find their point of origin.<br /><br />Mark is angry, but he’s trying to be patient. He eventually locates the recalcitrant mp3 player and starts to untangle the cords himself.<br /><br />“Drive,” he orders me.<br /><br />It surprises me how often the cord tangles itself around something that has nothing to do with me, nor with my mp3 player, nor with podosphere in general. I’ll get up to de-plane, groggy from hours of minimal oxygen, and the cord will be insidiously snagged on the armrest of my airplane seat. Or I’ll bend down to feed the cat (a motion undertaken many thousands of times each day), and the cord will snake itself around poor Lumpy’s neck. Or the cord will have threaded through my clothing during the course of a day in a way that seems at first blush to be topologically impossible. Or I’ll be trying to proceed through airport security in a calm and well-organized way, and the cord will be doing its level best to wrap around my knee and trip me as I slide my shoes back on.<br /><br />It’s never ending.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI72OH_y_3hZNd2nLoudtDUQjz4JfD9Wqhoh9aL43e34UTBZF4ZhRBLMbfSafrz_9BTSBKlIaX_-qP8AGgDtjh1PQ5WS0PGObvc36ZKGbnF_d7QZ-Ql5IVfDLQQuEfojfxNCwq/s1600-h/sansa-ui.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318818885134419778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI72OH_y_3hZNd2nLoudtDUQjz4JfD9Wqhoh9aL43e34UTBZF4ZhRBLMbfSafrz_9BTSBKlIaX_-qP8AGgDtjh1PQ5WS0PGObvc36ZKGbnF_d7QZ-Ql5IVfDLQQuEfojfxNCwq/s200/sansa-ui.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’m sure that all of the Mac-ophiles would attribute most (if not all) of these problems to the fact that my mp3 player is an off-brand, a Sansa, the Radio Shack special, instead of the real-deal iPod. In fact, most of the podcasters seem to fetishize their iPods and iPhones (if not the entire Apple brand) and attribute to them magical life-changing properties.<br /><br />“If you had an iPod, the clicking wouldn’t wake up the cat.”<br /><br />“If you had iCords, they wouldn’t try to mate with your seatbelt.”<br /><br />“If you had an iPhone, you’d be hip in spite of the fact that both of your ears are in an undisclosed location on the side of your head.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1Q8l6KQkecZLLYw70emT_eDKppKXjvxZGeMssaJ_rvP0dVP88CmoCzDT-yshSgoR_HEf2NjswRLFWN8QXMdXdJZXRBpBRBZG1zryDe0NMyytEgBfyDxKkOmb5KuAy6XvZxQS/s1600-h/hodgman-apple-ad.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318819232348094658" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 124px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK1Q8l6KQkecZLLYw70emT_eDKppKXjvxZGeMssaJ_rvP0dVP88CmoCzDT-yshSgoR_HEf2NjswRLFWN8QXMdXdJZXRBpBRBZG1zryDe0NMyytEgBfyDxKkOmb5KuAy6XvZxQS/s200/hodgman-apple-ad.jpg" border="0" /></a>But I’m afraid that in addition to having very large ears, I’m also a cheapskate. A stubborn cheapskate. I just don’t want to pay extra for my player to support Apple’s doubtlessly pricey advertising campaigns. And I like John Hodgman much better than the snarky hip Mac dude anyway.<br /><br />Most recently Mark has suggested that I simply have the earbuds permanently implanted in my ears.<br /><br />It’s not a bad idea. I’ve got the ears for it. </div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-31464160229437938682009-01-04T14:03:00.000-08:002009-01-04T16:16:12.645-08:00list five new bands<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzFdxMlhAhJJlyanlTxcsXdNYbAI_F6mxOe2siIin656HGHujKsziToi1gaFinEvWJHeL_0YGnh0jOT5SW7KfGkJ1hF8-7w0qQ-EnQ4CMMd-ZaboVfAwXg06KqXSlewMS-P4z/s1600-h/white_stripes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287563310155536194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 195px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzFdxMlhAhJJlyanlTxcsXdNYbAI_F6mxOe2siIin656HGHujKsziToi1gaFinEvWJHeL_0YGnh0jOT5SW7KfGkJ1hF8-7w0qQ-EnQ4CMMd-ZaboVfAwXg06KqXSlewMS-P4z/s200/white_stripes.jpg" border="0" /></a>Last night my old roommate Steve said that legacy music is crowding out anything new, that new bands don’t stand a chance in our content-saturated world.<br /><br />I didn’t know what to say. Silently I tried to list five new bands—bands that’d appeared on the scene in the last five years—and I couldn’t do it.<br /><br />I felt so out of it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFzLFc9SruTJXCWf8_52uZjNA8J7xCG4p6vHi-n9z-ZjJNs63KeZ8sFdGsUzJpZ4TlMIRbOBA6fEbJBFXYTkByHqREyNAsbWXxat23IBAQ5VV0i5Cz66_omdQbgXWDYAHmDDX/s1600-h/gnarls-barkley.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287563491557009778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFzLFc9SruTJXCWf8_52uZjNA8J7xCG4p6vHi-n9z-ZjJNs63KeZ8sFdGsUzJpZ4TlMIRbOBA6fEbJBFXYTkByHqREyNAsbWXxat23IBAQ5VV0i5Cz66_omdQbgXWDYAHmDDX/s200/gnarls-barkley.jpg" border="0" /></a>Oh, I can conjure up a pop music princess or two—foxy little <a href="http://www.tmz.com/2008/12/29/miley-cyrus-like-a-virgin/">Miley Cyrus</a> comes to mind—and rappers with clever names and sidearms. There’s 50 Cent and Eminem. Then there’s <a href="http://www.tmz.com/2008/11/19/amy-wino-starts-jewelry-line/">Amy Winehouse</a>, who in spite of her obvious talent is best known for her tats and her ability to make a spectacle of herself. How about <a href="http://www.gnarlsbarkley.com/">Gnarls Barkley</a>—that’s two people, almost a band, although I wouldn’t be able to pick out a Gnarls Barkley tune from the shuffle on the average iPod Touch.<br /><br />What I mean is, even if I can scrape together the names, I don’t actually spend much time listening to their music and probably won't be able to come up with a song. And I think Steve was referring to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_styles_of_music:_N-R">a rather more specific genre of music</a>, one in which there’d be a bass player and a guitarist and perhaps a drummer or two.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBrKYGjJPRtDNRPlXAu6-j2GyZHkAVNQqzHdkaxwJdRLQKpCBS4cjfroMGYLx9AusjBSW3P8Ik1tMbSfcp2Ia1gbjIxvt1HoEwCqXGNvjO4FvjmiLNRmty8b18RtxBOjwmxAv/s1600-h/flaming_lips__christmas_on_mars.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287569792426027586" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdBrKYGjJPRtDNRPlXAu6-j2GyZHkAVNQqzHdkaxwJdRLQKpCBS4cjfroMGYLx9AusjBSW3P8Ik1tMbSfcp2Ia1gbjIxvt1HoEwCqXGNvjO4FvjmiLNRmty8b18RtxBOjwmxAv/s200/flaming_lips__christmas_on_mars.jpg" border="0" /></a>You know: a band.<br /><br />The four of us were sitting together at Steve and Kathy’s dining room table, me and my three old Mentor Street roommates. Steve, Kathy, Chris, and I. Here it was, the waning hours of 2008 and we were talking about music. Just like we did almost every evening those decades ago when we were roommates.<br /><br />Music was the backbone of our lives back then.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQykurRA4cKs0iEl3Nzy00zIAX_Ttfpp8wa8KbPzJDEscuONw9he-Pow4ED91hpegfv5jhZM7r1Gremw7aDjtmDrXk12IYX9PTntR1NaDWFCfC7QwfKMaPvIxucbBefnOWzW74/s1600-h/guitar-chair.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287571556502987042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 189px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 199px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQykurRA4cKs0iEl3Nzy00zIAX_Ttfpp8wa8KbPzJDEscuONw9he-Pow4ED91hpegfv5jhZM7r1Gremw7aDjtmDrXk12IYX9PTntR1NaDWFCfC7QwfKMaPvIxucbBefnOWzW74/s200/guitar-chair.jpg" border="0" /></a>I remember falling asleep in my room on a rainy Pasadena night long ago. Steve was playing his guitar in our dining room. He was singing too. He had a pleasant, reedy voice and he could play the guitar very well. The rain was pattering on the roof and on my windows, which were just two pieces of glass that slid in a wooden track. Every so often raindrops would sputter in where the panes of glass met.<br /><br />It’s hard to feel any more secure or happier than that. I was 20 years old.<br /><br />We’re quite a bit older now, graying even, but I had a suspicion that Steve—or Kathy or Chris—could name five new-ish bands if they wanted to, without even straining. Five bands Steve had discovered through MySpace, or had seen serendipitously at some club in San Francisco.<br /><br />Even the newer bands that crossed my mind weren’t new enough. I knew Steve and Kathy had just seen the <a href="http://www.mermen.net/">Mermen</a>, a band I think I like too, but they don’t count as new. Haven’t they been around since the late 1980s?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8MER58kjiWAhQ_UpHq8aJqf6aQ8IETxZzsjxJotJrwqLAsYBjmEikh7945q3oupz8LC7Covrs1DXMia4w3UE4fRt0qVoSR_kB4_kxIy8XErde6hZ2EXIzL_J0agAc0e9e8Py/s1600-h/lucky13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287574326794907506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8MER58kjiWAhQ_UpHq8aJqf6aQ8IETxZzsjxJotJrwqLAsYBjmEikh7945q3oupz8LC7Covrs1DXMia4w3UE4fRt0qVoSR_kB4_kxIy8XErde6hZ2EXIzL_J0agAc0e9e8Py/s200/lucky13.jpg" border="0" /></a>It’s not just the bands. I can’t name very many local clubs, although there are at least a dozen within walking distance from our house.<br /><br />Chris has an excuse. He books real acts for a well-known cultural venue in LA and has done so since we were roommates. He’s familiar with other genres. With classical music. With avant garde. With Celtic music. I recall, with no small amount of gratitude, the tickets he’d pull for me, tickets for great seats. Tickets for sold-out shows.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnvXZCM0Jtwes0l_GM9wsI5cqaqC1WlKitsxgLXBLynvHznY9_UxGg5EGN7shguJc9fstnH23urTRbd6TFGC9eyghAvuazldbNK381Gkuky-M-HZ2uPW7IbNotdVETLbED86B/s1600-h/LAX-photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287575730476859810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 125px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnvXZCM0Jtwes0l_GM9wsI5cqaqC1WlKitsxgLXBLynvHznY9_UxGg5EGN7shguJc9fstnH23urTRbd6TFGC9eyghAvuazldbNK381Gkuky-M-HZ2uPW7IbNotdVETLbED86B/s200/LAX-photo.jpg" border="0" /></a>Wasn’t it because of Chris that over the course of three consecutive evenings in the early 1980s I’d seen Lou Reed, Neil Young, and Bruce Springsteen in concert? Didn’t we fly up to San Francisco together to go to a Hot Tuna show, killing time in the iconographic bar at LAX while we waited for our much-delayed flight, drinking pina coladas because Warren Zevon happened to use that drink as a prop in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhSc8qVMjKM"><em>Werewolves of London</em></a>?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgkIatdiwrfLay3HM90EdYCDbP_go9QwAuEUxcYqmmsY4mv5DoqLypr3u6euTLlTQK-n2-uXUUnFpMnrR4km7EtOrbLmtO7XXSqavze2rOIhaHjf5ag_1pkVNEDZT5F5sSkCj/s1600-h/pinksection.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287576544692029842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 165px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgkIatdiwrfLay3HM90EdYCDbP_go9QwAuEUxcYqmmsY4mv5DoqLypr3u6euTLlTQK-n2-uXUUnFpMnrR4km7EtOrbLmtO7XXSqavze2rOIhaHjf5ag_1pkVNEDZT5F5sSkCj/s200/pinksection.jpg" border="0" /></a>Because the <em>Chronicle’s</em> Pink Section, the one with the entertainment listings, has three crossword puzzles, a cryptogram, a jumbo Sudoku, a jumble, and a number puzzle, I sometimes remember to check who is playing where and to read the reviews of a show or two. The problem is, I save the puzzles, so usually by the time I get around to paging through the Pink Section, the bands have played and moved on to the next city on their tour.<br /><br />But even the Pink Section names don’t leap to the tip of my tongue. The occasional brush with a publicity flyer or a club ad isn’t enough to fix the names securely in my mind.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZawMVa27ckQKh999GgsA-Hz03f8FTLf3OPSgNEYLZ2UUhp209jlYX3Lfukwd-XxOxCPelMoxcZNO-9GloHAgywzD28_UM1LilfLCYnJsCXC_lbgEf-CBHP1p55IwN6guaOcsI/s1600-h/cinnamon-girl-at-the-eagle.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287576969218270226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 198px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZawMVa27ckQKh999GgsA-Hz03f8FTLf3OPSgNEYLZ2UUhp209jlYX3Lfukwd-XxOxCPelMoxcZNO-9GloHAgywzD28_UM1LilfLCYnJsCXC_lbgEf-CBHP1p55IwN6guaOcsI/s200/cinnamon-girl-at-the-eagle.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yeah, I remember a few local acts, the ones that offer a mnemonic, the bands I’ve seen performing on floats at the Pride parade. Mandonna ("The All-Male, All-Live Tribute to the Queen of Pop") or The Cinnamon Girls (an all-bear Neil Young cover band that Yoram took me to see at The Eagle). Or Three Day Stubble, a bizarre geek band that’s been around for a quarter of a century.<br /><br />Not new.<br /><br />When I was a little kid, I was amazed that my parents didn’t seem to listen to music. In our undisturbed living room, they’d parked a big mid-century hi-fi in a Danish modern teak cabinet. The centerpiece of the hi-fi was a reel-to-reel tape deck, which even then wasn’t that common. There was probably a turntable involved with this setup too, because my folks owned five or six stereo albums. Nat King Cole. Tony Bennett. Mantovani. A tape of <a href="http://www.jerryjazzmusician.com/shop/shopmain.cfm?CatalogName=hungryi">Lenny Bruce live at the Hungry i</a>, which was the only thing I’d even tried to listen to.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM6Ln9eanHFE_BhT7C5Bw39IoZkSc2dd-J_MnLKNoVLaXR46KeHvJoSBiNL1W2OVTP_l_NNueWB_aVsKe19BUXMeUEDxglyHgISU3pYbM0Jfxf3x8DWtEPDl7yeKXWYEz-uzN/s1600-h/midcenturyhifi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287577533600943090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOM6Ln9eanHFE_BhT7C5Bw39IoZkSc2dd-J_MnLKNoVLaXR46KeHvJoSBiNL1W2OVTP_l_NNueWB_aVsKe19BUXMeUEDxglyHgISU3pYbM0Jfxf3x8DWtEPDl7yeKXWYEz-uzN/s200/midcenturyhifi.jpg" border="0" /></a>My parents never listened to the records or the tapes. Nor did I, because I had my own record player upstairs, a Decca, that I played monaural Beatles records on, over and over, until they developed skips and pops that I associate with the Beatles to this day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkY8IqzDKWJrqZb5L9JfNkii97rPhPa30gSx8Wkd-PuCODGrA95w__Ia5JF7dxlGTIHlqtjh2gJypxyKUVqa6CuuSFVR9pvQ1UImBeXo1PiUHmQU2eJA9nkbzH8Rr5zHVbzwf/s1600-h/The-Beatles-Help.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287580268441493266" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkY8IqzDKWJrqZb5L9JfNkii97rPhPa30gSx8Wkd-PuCODGrA95w__Ia5JF7dxlGTIHlqtjh2gJypxyKUVqa6CuuSFVR9pvQ1UImBeXo1PiUHmQU2eJA9nkbzH8Rr5zHVbzwf/s200/The-Beatles-Help.jpg" border="0" /></a><em>Hel—you can I’m feel—down and I do appreciate—round</em>. Just like that.<br /><br />Later, when I was in college, I helped my parents pick out some new stereo components for the den. A Pioneer turntable. A receiver. Some speakers. I even lent them some records, the Simon and Garfunkel albums that I’d bought in junior high, but had decided were pretentious and embarrassing by the time I got to high school. But they really needed something to play on the stereo. Something. Something was better than nothing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZo5kXAxPNUbBgX_rD4HMk8GFjz-gshCEbDejWEgb3TjCu0QT29Rhm6RMVHGIDZGvoEt_bJOLWTZjU07LRMfQMi8xxrb2T9XpYpEUvkjZ9DzI0yABpKIC7317v4-iW9X5vVV80/s1600-h/JimCarrollBand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287581600039748578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZo5kXAxPNUbBgX_rD4HMk8GFjz-gshCEbDejWEgb3TjCu0QT29Rhm6RMVHGIDZGvoEt_bJOLWTZjU07LRMfQMi8xxrb2T9XpYpEUvkjZ9DzI0yABpKIC7317v4-iW9X5vVV80/s200/JimCarrollBand.jpg" border="0" /></a>I didn’t expect them to listen to the Ramones or develop a taste for the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9F1ikcuQpg">Jim Carroll Band</a>.<br /><br />Not only did I leave my Simon and Garfunkel at home; I also left the Mamas and Papas and Buffalo Springfield, all the recordings I thought they’d find palatable at their advanced age. Melodic things. Stuff I’d abandoned, but nothing unspeakably horrible. They could develop their musical sensibilities.<br /><br />I came home to find my mom listening to KNX News Radio (“All news, all the time”) using the new receiver. I was appalled.<br /><br />“You got this new stereo and you’re listening to AM radio?” I asked, incredulous. “AM RADIO?”<br /><br />AM radio. Not music, just newsmen with smooth unaccented homogenous voices. Unimaginable.<br /><br />I’m loath to admit to Steve, Kathy, and Chris that I’m that unimaginable person now with no musical taste.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3C1TzmL7H0SD0xZ6qxqq6j3eGG4zY2lLzBvcikgSxPV6qP7iGH_C_zi3XWjvytSsniI2qsLsrtC1hkF1_P38gukJdYvCdDShbEASwYF1JjaZ6g8MWJR1SAuZwM2mqopJxjwiz/s1600-h/the_rolling_stones_cartoon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287584284872456290" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3C1TzmL7H0SD0xZ6qxqq6j3eGG4zY2lLzBvcikgSxPV6qP7iGH_C_zi3XWjvytSsniI2qsLsrtC1hkF1_P38gukJdYvCdDShbEASwYF1JjaZ6g8MWJR1SAuZwM2mqopJxjwiz/s200/the_rolling_stones_cartoon.jpg" border="0" /></a>I can keep up with the conversation about what Steve’s calling ‘legacy bands’. It’s not that I’ve listened to any of them recently; it’s just that I can remember some of the music.<br /><br />“I never saw the Rolling Stones,” I offer, unsure of whether that’s good or bad.<br /><br />In the hierarchy of musical experiences, there are some things that are unambiguously good: say, seeing Nirvana play in a small club in Seattle. Catching the New York Dolls at Max’s Kansas City. And there are other things that you just know you want to have expunged from your musical permanent record: anything to do with David Lee Roth. Bob Dylan in the late 1970s, when he was in his Jews for Jesus phase. And there are some things that I’m just not sure about.<br /><br />“I’ve seen the Stones—“ Chris stops to count. “Four times. The last time wasn’t worth it. Keith Richards and Mick Jagger were old and just a parody of themselves. But the first time was in 1975. They were just incredible.”<br /><br />As long as we stick to the far distant past, I can dredge up some comparable experiences. But no-one wants to hear another joke about Keith Richards being the work of a particularly talented and ambitious embalmer. I’m tempted to talk about the time Rock Howard and I saw <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monkees">the Monkees</a> at Disneyland: a show that’s so bad it’s good.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6o5SB5dstASGcZmT1oO6D31DXJ7c9181pBV6Jh32eL_B66b-iQXIQikzEoRMEvKuXJ_Df1TPFkz0wkrE6UAuHZdGWJIdq0x4ZK0n_uavLYnya4WsCrrjlFIqJhTR94tzOaTm7/s1600-h/Dreadful-Grate.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287588066980922386" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 135px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6o5SB5dstASGcZmT1oO6D31DXJ7c9181pBV6Jh32eL_B66b-iQXIQikzEoRMEvKuXJ_Df1TPFkz0wkrE6UAuHZdGWJIdq0x4ZK0n_uavLYnya4WsCrrjlFIqJhTR94tzOaTm7/s200/Dreadful-Grate.jpg" border="0" /></a>No-one says much about that sacred cow of bands, the <a href="http://arts.ucsc.edu/gdead/agdl/puff.html">Grateful Dead</a>, even though they figured prominently in our lives at Mentor House. Deadheads would camp out in the living room when the Dead were in town, running up thousand dollar phone bills and leaving wafting clouds of patchouli hovering over our beanbag chair. One winter we decamped to San Bernardino, Bakersfield, Sacramento, following the band northward through the center of California and keeping a cold virus alive among us for the entire season. We thrilled to the knowledge that the band had the same rhinovirus we did.<br /><br />“That liver transplant guy,” Chris says now, referring to <a href="http://www.gdforum.com/phil_recovery.html">Phil Lesh</a>.<br /><br />Like David Lee Roth, Phil Lesh falls into the unambiguously bad musical experiences. We all dutifully chime in something about Phil Lesh. That Phil’s side projects had always been lame. Someone remembers the name of <a href="http://www.philzone.com/leshlinks/seastones.html">an unlistenable song he recorded in 1974</a>.<br /><br />We still refer to him as Phil, as if he were someone’s older brother’s best friend whose dubious musical taste was some kind of inside joke. That somebody’d snort every time the name was mentioned.<br /><br />Phil. Snort. Phil. Snort.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8BGKWU6G6-oej716AGfHbLF75nEnU3O4Nmtd9fnBMb7ktTJMlp6TurcaIkm_7lxDInPPMMmGUP0W5maWCrfiATpscviB6lkhUU_gm3vhEgR-hDE6IRB0bi8hI4YKhE5brwjmC/s1600-h/smoke-on-the-water.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287592333929627010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 186px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8BGKWU6G6-oej716AGfHbLF75nEnU3O4Nmtd9fnBMb7ktTJMlp6TurcaIkm_7lxDInPPMMmGUP0W5maWCrfiATpscviB6lkhUU_gm3vhEgR-hDE6IRB0bi8hI4YKhE5brwjmC/s200/smoke-on-the-water.jpg" border="0" /></a>Have you ever noticed that most peoples’ musical taste is enmired in whatever they listened to in college? Whatever they blasted out their dorm windows on sunny afternoons when their classmates were basking on the lawn?<br /><br />That’s what I’m afraid of.<br /><br />You can find these people everywhere: the biker whose bell-bottoms date back to the 1970s listening to the Doobie Brothers and Lynyrd Skynyrd on the juke box. “<a href="http://www.swampland.com/posts/view/title:free_bird_factoids">Play <em>Free Bird</em></a>” they yell at the cover band playing at the neighborhood dive bar. “Play <em>Free Bird</em>!” And you almost expect them to hold up their lit cigarette lighters as if they had been transported in time and space back to the Inglewood Forum.<br /><br />Oh, most people are more discreet than that, but if you catch the distant jangle of their cell phone ring tone, it’ll give them away every time.<br /><br />“Isn’t that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jp3de50_d8"><em>Smoke on the Water</em></a>?” you ask a co-worker suspiciously.<br /><br />Marcia’s phone plays <em>Hey Jude</em>. I can hear strains of Beatle coming from her purse.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBM_BR4BWrd9nKTx7GSLVIDUP70F8DqrJTOXk8CZjrfXwCFOStT7lZrHU-B4vmh9c2SnWnm24XXDfkICPRIYSrkcXIhwSu44GJTmJrrO1r3KR_IDrODSMdUgxk9gFgbCY4Q3BM/s1600-h/my-vinyl.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287593372648598530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 84px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBM_BR4BWrd9nKTx7GSLVIDUP70F8DqrJTOXk8CZjrfXwCFOStT7lZrHU-B4vmh9c2SnWnm24XXDfkICPRIYSrkcXIhwSu44GJTmJrrO1r3KR_IDrODSMdUgxk9gFgbCY4Q3BM/s200/my-vinyl.jpg" border="0" /></a>I still have a sagging shelf of vinyl records: Allman Brothers, Clash, Dead Kennedys, Jimmy Cliff, the Doors, the Cramps. Utterly predictable. The bursar must’ve issued the darned things on registration day.<br /><br />I never bothered to convert the vinyl to CDs, so my tiny CD collection is a testament to how little I’ve expanded my musical repertoire in recent years. <a href="http://www.killrockstars.com/artists/viewartist.php?id=721">Stereo Total</a> and Shonen Knife. Beck. The Red Hot Chili Peppers.<br /><br />I might as well have been in a musical coma for the last decade or two.<br /><br />How could that be? My MP3 player is my constant companion. Whenever I walk alone or drive alone, I’ve got those dorky ill-fitting ear buds jammed into my ears. The music files are, of course, invisible, since there’s no album covers or jewel cases on my shelves to represent them, just a couple of folders in my file system (and who besides me rummages through peoples’ file systems?).<br /><br />Fooled you!<br /><br />I’m not listening to music at all. Rather I’m one of those people who listen to a chaotic, ever-expanding collection of podcast subscriptions. Amateur natterers and small-time philosophizers. Chroniclers of the local bars and <a href="http://bigfattyonline.com/">Chick-a-fils</a> (or is that Chick-fil-As?). But they seldom play music. And when they do, I fast forward through it to get back to the words, because these podcasters seem to have execrable taste in music. One of them plays Barbara Streisand on purpose, for godssakes. I didn’t know anyone actually listened to Barbara Streisand. I thought she was like <em>Stairway to Heaven</em>—iconic and seriously dreadful.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2b8htZKfy5jynKuwi5t-ygctQSVXdYj2pyDAfL_ZahGREYUae_dh17KgzqEXqq28RX1sCPe1hS4MRtAQRKGR8YKSoooOeGfHnE9qF8K6eWBjHoWgonJV_yS75epjcyNQN-pB/s1600-h/LawrenceWelk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287596265372448882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 152px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS2b8htZKfy5jynKuwi5t-ygctQSVXdYj2pyDAfL_ZahGREYUae_dh17KgzqEXqq28RX1sCPe1hS4MRtAQRKGR8YKSoooOeGfHnE9qF8K6eWBjHoWgonJV_yS75epjcyNQN-pB/s200/LawrenceWelk.jpg" border="0" /></a>You’d be better off with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UV3kRV46Zs">Lawrence Welk</a>, his accordion and bubble machine, and <a href="http://www.welkmusicalfamily.com/welkcomepage.html">his band full of “fine family men”</a>.<br /><br />When I admit to my friends that I don’t listen to music very often, Mark usually adds, “You can blame it on me. It’s because I can’t stand the music you listen to.”<br /><br />It’s true that he can’t abide by my taste in music, as stuck in the past as it is. He gets cranky when I put X on the car CD player when we’re on road trips.<br /><br />“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “Don’t you think I could put it on my earPod? You wouldn’t have to listen to it then.”<br /><br />I mean, I could even listen to the soundtrack from Bye Bye Birdie on my MP3 player, and no-one’d be the wiser.<br /><br />For one term in college I lived across the hall from this guy named Ed Bielecki. Like my parents, he had a reel-to-reel tape deck. But unlike my parents, he used it, and used it often. He played theme songs, hit singles, and commercial jingles in heavy rotation—Gilligan’s Island, the Andy Griffith Show, Green Acres, Petticoat Junction. He’d turn up the volume. And sometimes he’d leave, and leave the tape deck running. He locked his door and left.<br /><br /><em>Cause we gotta little ol' convoy,<br />rockin' through the night<br />Yeah we gotta little ol' convoy,<br />ain't she a beautiful sight?<br />Come on an' join our convoy,<br />ain't nothin' gonna git in our way<br />We're gonna roll this truckin' convoy,<br />cross the USA<br />Convoy... Convoy...</em><br /><br />It must’ve been a tape loop. It’d repeat for hours. I banged on his wall with a metal cookie sheet, but he couldn’t hear it. The music was just too loud.<br /><br /><em>The mate was a mighty sailing man,</em><br /><em>The skipper brave and sure.</em><br /><em>Five passengers set sail that day</em><br /><em>For a three hour tour, a three hour tour. </em><br /><br />I wonder if he still listens to the same music he listened to in college. Or has he moved on? There’ve been plenty of jingles and theme songs between then and now. Maybe he’s full of secret regrets.<br /><br />It’s late now. Steve, Kathy, Chris, and I have been drinking from two bottles of single-malt scotch.<br /><br />“I didn’t like Stairway to Heaven even back then,” Steve says.<br /><br />“I didn’t either,” I say.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-71145133687174337812008-11-22T19:03:00.000-08:002008-11-24T15:42:20.528-08:00election day stunner<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1SS7V6VJbnrJVuxWFGy5ihWNWkleDrOA3GlOX0Sg_gHYB4ODs32TbQ6669Lkh5uELAAVeLggauu0GUkybbNpirbFZeUSpfKM-Muquj1YcW3GclOuW6p_pPqGEvhAKXbHItOa/s1600-h/death-of-a-refrigerator.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271695414237014098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1SS7V6VJbnrJVuxWFGy5ihWNWkleDrOA3GlOX0Sg_gHYB4ODs32TbQ6669Lkh5uELAAVeLggauu0GUkybbNpirbFZeUSpfKM-Muquj1YcW3GclOuW6p_pPqGEvhAKXbHItOa/s200/death-of-a-refrigerator.jpg" border="0" /></a>Election day was stunning in many ways.<br /><br />I need not comment on our President-Elect: I went down to Castro and Market on election night and felt the buoyancy of the human spirit. What lies ahead—after the initial euphoria of having elected the intellectual, thoughtful, and sentient candidate wears off—remains to be seen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx0nsc5ILRrn8oP08gvTdQ2XyF3Y-GDMzFngutC7J76ppVxCyO-12h5rSD5Zq-OVVHBP93LV_RG-rj7MB5i-uFBM7Gnwf6SSY08lFqt0hWSKPzG36MeVr8lvTV8epcZQWYt9X/s1600-h/election-night-in-the-castro.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271695548510775074" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 148px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx0nsc5ILRrn8oP08gvTdQ2XyF3Y-GDMzFngutC7J76ppVxCyO-12h5rSD5Zq-OVVHBP93LV_RG-rj7MB5i-uFBM7Gnwf6SSY08lFqt0hWSKPzG36MeVr8lvTV8epcZQWYt9X/s200/election-night-in-the-castro.jpg" border="0" /></a>In fact, I feel a little sorry for incoming POTUS 44, but I am relieved beyond measure to entrust the failing economy, the disintegrating environment, and several unnecessary wars to him. If anyone can take care of this mess, Barack Obama can. His will be a presidency consumed by <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/past-potuss.html">repairing the rampant damage wrought by Dubya's eight-year-long frat party</a>.<br /><br />Dubya's one of those party boys who, instead of vacuuming the cigarette ashes out of the rug and cleaning the stalactites of pizza cheese out of the oven, burns down the house when he moves out.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhjsT1WNcwGxA0X4AKD92JHEzxCE2A5E1mND3Nsee3Lfe-t7vv78iyRvNLheslgnjpujP5WX3wOR7ToSO9IqhPAndS6zdDEFl2851n8wDgxfzmJ3cdLch7pet3rpB360jO482/s1600-h/HouseFire.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271696176807909810" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 190px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhjsT1WNcwGxA0X4AKD92JHEzxCE2A5E1mND3Nsee3Lfe-t7vv78iyRvNLheslgnjpujP5WX3wOR7ToSO9IqhPAndS6zdDEFl2851n8wDgxfzmJ3cdLch7pet3rpB360jO482/s200/HouseFire.jpg" border="0" /></a>Hey, if you're not going to get the deposit back, might as well do some real damage.<br /><br />Party hearty, Dubya!<br /><br />Nor need I comment on Prop 8. It is shocking that so many voted to incorporate blatant discrimination into California's constitution, but <a href="http://bigfattyonline.com/?p=735">others have reminded us</a> that this fight has just begun. We should never be cowed by this vertiginous blending of church and state, by sanctimonious homophobia.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1s7WbY-cVuZfll1MYXtDk7oirmiJkDEZTb_gFi1vAtPIJEfDAXzIsCxOwotEq-c1lsM8RdBhwuJTYRp4KhIivZh3RP7caljbFCcR-2qSo8bd-vG2J1q_uDb-ovrUyejAs6hq/s1600-h/palin_moose.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271714239894586402" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 147px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW1s7WbY-cVuZfll1MYXtDk7oirmiJkDEZTb_gFi1vAtPIJEfDAXzIsCxOwotEq-c1lsM8RdBhwuJTYRp4KhIivZh3RP7caljbFCcR-2qSo8bd-vG2J1q_uDb-ovrUyejAs6hq/s200/palin_moose.jpg" border="0" /></a>And Sarah Palin? Her <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyoafptEm5c">willful ignorance</a> and wanton assault on the English language have been dispatched back to Alaska. Mooses, on your guard! Wolves, run and hide! I can only hope that she's as appealing in the rearview mirror as she was when she was in the news cycle's headlights. She will, at least, be well-dressed for her return.<br /><br />But really the most stunning thing about election day was our refrigerator's reaction: <em>the election killed our refrigerator</em>.<br /><br />I'm not sure whether it was exposure to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=thOxW19vsTg">CNN's feckless holography</a>, the mildly unfunny Comedy Central election coverage, or the implicit threat of Ms. Palin at the helm that killed our largest of large appliances.<br /><br />All I know is, the day before the election, our refrigerator kept things cold. The day after, not so much. Or at all. To cool down the refrigerator, you'd have to cool down the house and leave the refrigerator door open.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIIE7LxbxZhdwE6ncltV3IKLsLpbAWZdJZUpiCArAd6PM_qha1chdjFXw4BSSSmXlfxg3D_-_TcxL7EXLwKm6xdiGSO9pUlKzo-xVScDr0_qTTewBOv4s7Cr2dbBWEVYZHwRc/s1600-h/cerealtarian-home.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271714907798630914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 185px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIIE7LxbxZhdwE6ncltV3IKLsLpbAWZdJZUpiCArAd6PM_qha1chdjFXw4BSSSmXlfxg3D_-_TcxL7EXLwKm6xdiGSO9pUlKzo-xVScDr0_qTTewBOv4s7Cr2dbBWEVYZHwRc/s200/cerealtarian-home.JPG" border="0" /></a>It's funny: I would've thought that I'd hardly miss the refrigerator. As <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/09/cerealtarian.html">cerealtarians</a>, we really only need enough refrigeration to keep the milk cold. The average hotel mini-bar refrigerator would surely suffice for us. Just remove the Jack Daniels and Gordon's Gin miniatures, and it would be good to go. I thought I'd never miss that hulking Frigidaire Gallery Series Side-by-Side. Not me.<br /><br />But I do miss the refrigerator. I miss it a lot.<br /><br />Actually I don't miss it. And that's part of the problem. It's still in the kitchen. Big as day and twice as ugly as a Jagermeister hangover. A hulk of an appliance.<br /><br />Damn you, Refrigerator! Damn you!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSTVVMBvLiiHsRYDLjgz5wO7rGOHmVzSPPIL8FpPXpsKB8I1wQnp_me-J0hyVlnAc_5oRJVFxCTiSryE-SvmlxJp7G_BHF38T_zYK00by4ODs9vzUoBThW_VD4snL-GqnkNP8/s1600-h/big-old-frigidaire-open.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271717003565247154" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 148px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHSTVVMBvLiiHsRYDLjgz5wO7rGOHmVzSPPIL8FpPXpsKB8I1wQnp_me-J0hyVlnAc_5oRJVFxCTiSryE-SvmlxJp7G_BHF38T_zYK00by4ODs9vzUoBThW_VD4snL-GqnkNP8/s200/big-old-frigidaire-open.jpg" border="0" /></a>How did they even get that thing in the house? This Frigidaire Gallery Series Side-by-Side is BIG. And I have to admit, upon closer inspection, it's none-too-appealing either. I've left it uncleaned for too many years. There are bits of onion skin everywhere. Evidence of past condiment spills. Remnants of vegetables gone to liquid and soy milk turned solid. Traces of leftovers lubricate the removable—and presumably washable—shelves.<br /><br />Okay. This is not the first refrigerator to give up the ghost. This is a problem that can be solved with the gleeful application of money. We're still working; we have money.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-rRIhWTGaiRbjVaN38_ryRe71B2zPi_zopig_afXlSyWrgO5munomwoEJjLnElEE8-BckaqO2kNzJk4yrdJpV9cZEbP8bOz8ckR2jkIZi1L4IKV-qayZoKaLbHE59JThKq3JE/s1600-h/fistful-of-credit-cards.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271719345478977314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-rRIhWTGaiRbjVaN38_ryRe71B2zPi_zopig_afXlSyWrgO5munomwoEJjLnElEE8-BckaqO2kNzJk4yrdJpV9cZEbP8bOz8ckR2jkIZi1L4IKV-qayZoKaLbHE59JThKq3JE/s200/fistful-of-credit-cards.jpg" border="0" /></a>What kind of bait do you use to catch a large appliance? A fistful of major cards, that's what!<br /><br />Last time I had to buy a refrigerator, the whole affair was reasonably simple. Refrigerators belonged to two species: the side-by-side kind that you bought if you were a breeder living in the suburbs or the kind everybody else had with the refrigerator compartment below and the freezer above. Because people had learned their lesson from the excesses of the 1970's color palette (Harvest Gold or Avocado Green, anyone?), the only appliance color that made sense in those days was white. Because <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/small-appliances.html">Signature Gourmet Coffeemakers</a> are offered in Black, I could extrapolate that now refrigerators must be available in black too. That was the extent of my refrigerator knowledge.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugwAS8vL0dBmUI-YodGdGcmTbuGvs-EKsVbzPMmryP0YobdXfWXisW266Q8f_rgVV-IzIAbJaqTmS4AuXnB7OjgFiy78p9ogA1s0oBya7vdSJSEwGJYsgrZBmPkwtq59ocyq-/s1600-h/wifesaver1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271719980577305490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 143px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugwAS8vL0dBmUI-YodGdGcmTbuGvs-EKsVbzPMmryP0YobdXfWXisW266Q8f_rgVV-IzIAbJaqTmS4AuXnB7OjgFiy78p9ogA1s0oBya7vdSJSEwGJYsgrZBmPkwtq59ocyq-/s200/wifesaver1.jpg" border="0" /></a>And where did you go to buy a major appliance in those simpler times? Sears. Anyone with a modicum of sense hauled their sorry butt down to Sears, plunked down their Sears Credit Card, and said, "I need a refrigerator right away. It's an emergency. That one will be fine."<br /><br />Oh, sure, there'd be the usual delivery snafus, but unless you went wild and got a refrigerator with an automatic ice maker, there wasn't much to it. A couple of beefy dudes would haul an impossibly large white box up your staircase, around a corner, and into your kitchen. Some molding would be knocked off and some walls dinged. Then they'd plug it in. It'd get cold and that'd be that. Done and done.<br /><br />Of course I've conveniently forgotten a past trauma or two.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhTAfijboDF-2sukzPlt29v-h6IfxnK-UFnb9NqX0-idqaDj4bp7qUYzZ3hXGNOBuoby-bUC6gUcs3lPDQ-BuEUshYZ0HrDTGc8-vOediuJpr0pTkY_uGrQDPtJX5KRp8yfc1/s1600-h/cockroaches.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271720878613216818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhTAfijboDF-2sukzPlt29v-h6IfxnK-UFnb9NqX0-idqaDj4bp7qUYzZ3hXGNOBuoby-bUC6gUcs3lPDQ-BuEUshYZ0HrDTGc8-vOediuJpr0pTkY_uGrQDPtJX5KRp8yfc1/s200/cockroaches.jpg" border="0" /></a>Like the time that we discovered that the warmth of the old refrigerator's coils had attracted a nest of extra-large cockroaches (<a href="http://www.bugman-texas.com/cockroaches.htm">Texans call them <em>water bugs</em></a>). The brown bugs were numerous and athletic, even vigorous. This was in Pasadena in the mid-1980s, when <a href="http://www.pasadena.edu/about/history/alumni/vanhalen/vanhalen.cfm">Van Halen was Van Halen</a> and <a href="http://www.buginfo.com/article.cfm?id=43">roaches were roaches</a> and you didn't have to pay to get rid of an old dead refrigerator. You'd just leave it on the sidewalk and little kids would come around and use the thing as a fort or something. You'd hope they had the great good sense not to close one of their number inside. If they did, well, it was Darwinian.<br /><br />Anyway, we had lived for many months with a blissful lack of awareness of our roach roommates. They were quiet and by-and-large invisible during the daytime, comfortably ensconced in the back of our refrigerator. But then the fridge stopped working and we'd arranged to replace it. We were hefting the broken refrigerator down our narrow front staircase (actually Mark and a friend were hefting; I was watching and offering helpful comments) when, to our horror, a broad river of roaches came boiling out of the back of the refrigerator and up over the top of it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzeu32w3qEg-bEg8pxJpqk0kp0n5xDAdccdj7CTsDnOsHowQ_5py2tfL6j7GrjgR0GTVtbjhSelVlaIFVayaZEDpixUyQcGsM1Y8Gu_kTaAQL2uSZTwfLzKHJNtm1c4a8k3zSu/s1600-h/wii_cockroach.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271721014772931970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 134px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzeu32w3qEg-bEg8pxJpqk0kp0n5xDAdccdj7CTsDnOsHowQ_5py2tfL6j7GrjgR0GTVtbjhSelVlaIFVayaZEDpixUyQcGsM1Y8Gu_kTaAQL2uSZTwfLzKHJNtm1c4a8k3zSu/s200/wii_cockroach.jpg" border="0" /></a>Really. A literal river of roaches. They were big. They were brown. They were legion. And there's not much you can do about zillions of roaches climbing all over you when you're carrying something heavy down a steep flight of stairs.<br /><br />I still shudder when I think about it.<br /><br />But that was many years ago in a place far away.<br /><br />Because we're more sophisticated now, and because there's no Sears in San Francisco, we actually started with the idea that we'd shop for the fridge locally. I can't recall how I found House of Louie, but I do remember that it sounded appealing, not at all like an appliance store, but rather like a cheap Chinese restaurant, the kind that still uses lots of MSG. A place that serves good wonton soup and pressed duck. The <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/house-of-louie-san-francisco-3">reviews in Yelp</a> were comforting; they reassured me that even though House of Louie had a reputation for only serving Chinese-speaking customers, that reputation was wholly undeserved:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHvJUmSQrafwjsgE2NE4W39Cg9zClz2-yGAkx-T8TpwunkJhzq9b9zTJMWFVC7-A_eF8F-tAbsI_4-tISbBv1WZen-gCdxju4KJPC1RhJj1i1B8pahZCPVqUgJdrbEqGDoU_y/s1600-h/cat-in-fridge.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271722526721883682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHvJUmSQrafwjsgE2NE4W39Cg9zClz2-yGAkx-T8TpwunkJhzq9b9zTJMWFVC7-A_eF8F-tAbsI_4-tISbBv1WZen-gCdxju4KJPC1RhJj1i1B8pahZCPVqUgJdrbEqGDoU_y/s200/cat-in-fridge.png" border="0" /></a>"I am an old white guy, and they took GREAT care of me. I will go back next time I need something. So there!"<br /><br />Recommendations don't get much more convincing than that. To House of Louie we went.<br /><br />House of Louie is just what you'd expect in San Francisco. A modest urine-soaked storefront South of Market, and a showroom packed with $8,000 Bosch, Viking, and SubZero refrigerators. A young Chinese couple conversed with the salesman in rapid Cantonese. We wandered, pulling open refrigerator doors and checking out specs and price tags. The salespeople ignored us.<br /><br />The thing about refrigerators is that the price tags and specs are inside the things. So you investigate them one by one. There's some suspense. You pull open the heavy door—and—will it be an $800 refrigerator, a $2,500 refrigerator, or an $8,000 refrigerator? They all look the same inside except for the price.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qYiOPBYp-c4deL05qh0ZzokILS6Bft-OsZZIBGluar8nm4GbJqKndvmFf-9BQbPyvZQMs5TOhAwqRxK4YvE80JpCzXSoWdYHxcZ6OmCrXb2-B_malT9qM-jmukuXSD0THflV/s1600-h/fridge-photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271724491969080434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qYiOPBYp-c4deL05qh0ZzokILS6Bft-OsZZIBGluar8nm4GbJqKndvmFf-9BQbPyvZQMs5TOhAwqRxK4YvE80JpCzXSoWdYHxcZ6OmCrXb2-B_malT9qM-jmukuXSD0THflV/s200/fridge-photo.jpg" border="0" /></a>I mean, how creative can you get when you design a refrigerator?<br /><br />Nonetheless, after I had opened and closed every refrigerator door in the showroom several times, I was ill-convinced of House of Louie's ability to provide me with a satisfying refrigerator buying experience.<br /><br />But now that I'd seen a large number of refrigerators in the flesh, I could retreat to the comfort of online shopping. No-one was stopping me from going to the virtual Sears that has set up shop in my very own living room.<br /><br />And this is where trouble began.<br /><br />We are in America, and what we have is choice. Choice! Lots of choice! A surfeit of choice! Did you know that Sears has more than <a href="http://www.sears.com/shc/s/c_10153_12605_Appliances_Refrigerators">1135 kinds of refrigerators</a> in 7 basic styles?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sxqhJQPdYMMj9VVsfP7GWMfV8n1K_P1pvyIyEGZvqbhYimpyM63L8QwRgzi9YOOavp6fo_2UPCR9q5UdVmouVg0BODe_lqUX7oSE_S71MneL7jDpo62HbjMlgc6pW_rv5myG/s1600-h/ice_rink.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271725341120840466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5sxqhJQPdYMMj9VVsfP7GWMfV8n1K_P1pvyIyEGZvqbhYimpyM63L8QwRgzi9YOOavp6fo_2UPCR9q5UdVmouVg0BODe_lqUX7oSE_S71MneL7jDpo62HbjMlgc6pW_rv5myG/s200/ice_rink.jpg" border="0" /></a>I moused here. Clicked there. Answered a questionnaire. Watched some videos. Did a couple of side-by-side comparisons. Checked specs.<br /><br />French doors. Bottom freezers (is that like walking in an ice storm with your pants off?). Water dispensers on the outside. Water dispensers on the inside. Ice dispensers. Is that a <em>skating rink</em> I see in the lower compartment of that SubZero?<br /><br />And yes: in the end I made a spreadsheet. One with prices, dimensions, makes, capacities, model numbers, and notes.<br /><br />You learn a lot of things when you put refrigerators into spreadsheets. One is that it's still pretty hard to tell them apart. They're all almost the same. The more research I did, the more confused I became about what to buy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-_rfcUkTvp88qic2gE-POrFO8NrXCKRUslrfEelNlPfox64d9JxcPKUUwwXVvH3r7W8S9eVL-9k3GKpo7XiRO4ynkszRV_rUI9IHU6pNDsACWBr_U9KMaSxfiAFasAuycuB-/s1600-h/refrigerator-spreadsheet1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271725679475138322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 63px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik-_rfcUkTvp88qic2gE-POrFO8NrXCKRUslrfEelNlPfox64d9JxcPKUUwwXVvH3r7W8S9eVL-9k3GKpo7XiRO4ynkszRV_rUI9IHU6pNDsACWBr_U9KMaSxfiAFasAuycuB-/s200/refrigerator-spreadsheet1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Virtual Sears had defeated me. I returned once again to a local appliance store, ABC Appliance this time. <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/abc-appliance-san-francisco">Every Yelp reviewer loved this place</a>. Loved it!<br /><br /><em>Good old Abe from ABC Appliance has been running this business for over 50 years!</em> says Andrew W.<br /><br />Good old Abe! I felt better already, much less overwhelmed. Here I could buy a refrigerator. It would be homey. They would invite me in for <a href="http://missionpie.com/">pie</a>. I'd become a close personal friend. Good old Abe.<br /><br />So I called them.<br /><br />"Hi," I said, "I'm looking to buy a refrigerator. Mine's broken."<br /><br />"What brand are you interested in?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDW-ajR0L8xNJd2w5EZn0EM6sECK1fZgWyEXN5-uM6EF7osn60dNez9QOGpmGcaYzHv0DcS02v2wB6XBzPIonZ51U1KTwBGcVpcABGZIgbzjwSHFSXCwrRD2IVKhR8Ssj0aED/s1600-h/LgLogo.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271726947567871378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 187px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDW-ajR0L8xNJd2w5EZn0EM6sECK1fZgWyEXN5-uM6EF7osn60dNez9QOGpmGcaYzHv0DcS02v2wB6XBzPIonZ51U1KTwBGcVpcABGZIgbzjwSHFSXCwrRD2IVKhR8Ssj0aED/s200/LgLogo.gif" border="0" /></a>I didn't know. I'd seen an LG at House of Louie, and I liked the design of its handles. They were nice. Sleek. LG sounded modern. And cheap too. But House of Louie had only one LG refrigerator available, a floor model, pre-broken. So LG was the first brand that I asked after.<br /><br />"We don't carry LG," the voice on the other end of the phone growled at me.<br /><br />"Um. Okay. Why not?" I asked.<br /><br />"Because they break down all the time. And when they break down, you wanna know where the parts come from?"<br /><br />"Where?"<br /><br />"Korea. That's where! It takes forever. That's why we don't carry LG."<br /><br />"Well, what brands do you recommend then?" There was a slight tremor in my voice. I was daunted by this guy.<br /><br />"GE is good. And KitchenAid."<br /><br />I sorted my spreadsheet by make. GE. "Can you give me a price on a GE refrigerator?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_1dAZ26R7_JhApMU26GGCFKPxRP2evk-jh1664QaT8xu6McqwrwP9c0n48xxi0Cazou0EOlcFQXglzb4vIGAwAp1Hab0xgK9XKmkH2RrT4_vrLU96PCjo1eooDOF30QxVznq/s1600-h/ge-fridge-ad-circa-1944.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271727438602208978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_1dAZ26R7_JhApMU26GGCFKPxRP2evk-jh1664QaT8xu6McqwrwP9c0n48xxi0Cazou0EOlcFQXglzb4vIGAwAp1Hab0xgK9XKmkH2RrT4_vrLU96PCjo1eooDOF30QxVznq/s200/ge-fridge-ad-circa-1944.jpg" border="0" /></a>He sighed. "Which one. I gotta know which one, lady. There are a lot of them."<br /><br />"Oh, I have a model number right here. P-F-S-S…"<br /><br />"I don't have time for this right now. Call me back tomorrow," he said. And then hung up.<br /><br />Even though I'd been rebuffed, I felt pleased: he'd let me in on a bit of arcane appliance knowledge. GE. I'd buy a GE refrigerator. And Mom had recommended GE too—both Abe <em>and</em> Mom thought GE refrigerators were reliable. You don't get much more authoritative recommendations than that. <em>Consumer Reports</em>, eat your Nader-esque heart out!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PjDz_z_LlcKzPhpyM5ZBkrJt9dyF9nVJZbYgwWUG1LqH4dldQkpbeO2DqY3XnMsbItxvGrNay7p5KiX2lT0y8vSwAJIIFJimeksjAnyfGIbSA6r-Pfk_UqQChIm4OLyEbhGE/s1600-h/algorithm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271728002853337634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 189px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PjDz_z_LlcKzPhpyM5ZBkrJt9dyF9nVJZbYgwWUG1LqH4dldQkpbeO2DqY3XnMsbItxvGrNay7p5KiX2lT0y8vSwAJIIFJimeksjAnyfGIbSA6r-Pfk_UqQChIm4OLyEbhGE/s200/algorithm.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was refortified. I'd call my local Sears and apply the Safeway wine buying algorithm (you buy the bottle with the largest discount whose original price is between $10 and $20. In other words, you'd buy the $13 bottle of wine with the $5.50 discount rather than the $10 bottle of wine with the $3 discount, even thought the second is cheaper than the first). It's an algorithm that sometimes results in bringing skunky bottle of wine to a dinner party, but at least you have the satisfaction of knowing that you got a great deal on it.<br /><br />Refrigerators aren't exactly like wine (for example, wine isn't available in stainless steel, and refrigerators don't have <a href="http://www.rhapsody.com/goto?rcid=alb.160950&artistId=3796">tiny bubbles</a>). But it still seemed like a good strategy.<br /><br />And using the Safeway wine algorithm, the choice was dead-simple. By my reckoning, I wanted the GE GFSL6KEXLS, a monster of a fridge. French doors. 25.8 cubic feet of refrigerated space. It was a GREAT deal. At $1,445 it was practically free.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv_ocM2ew-jqaxQX61Nu0QXnwL8R9Zf8MTPxvJiRebxWxKbP-1MG8ZnUAdHhobqP0OCM4VvtACxgfXQC4CyahFD_7muTEasgNWj3wSbHB8ty8vrgN1QB3XwK1BQILAyPwDVms/s1600-h/thxgvg.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271729490860802514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtv_ocM2ew-jqaxQX61Nu0QXnwL8R9Zf8MTPxvJiRebxWxKbP-1MG8ZnUAdHhobqP0OCM4VvtACxgfXQC4CyahFD_7muTEasgNWj3wSbHB8ty8vrgN1QB3XwK1BQILAyPwDVms/s200/thxgvg.jpg" border="0" /></a>I called the Sears at the Tanforan Mall and told the salesguy my story, how I was without a fridge, and how I needed one by Thanksgiving. It felt almost as compelling as that story that they tell on TV Xmas specials. You know, a holiday weekend is approaching. All the hotels are full, even the skanky Holiday Inn with bedbugs. This nice pregnant lady and her boyfriend need a place to stay. And it turns out all happy and stuff, with a certain amount of singing and incense burning.<br /><br />"And I want the delivery guys to take away the old unit." I said after I’d procured the GFSL6KEXLS.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHeTYTjk-HIh-0OI57t0ixHUDk0TJDQpDPDCkfa2aWGwEqmwwvOXgXDGd7OaCFowFEHrfh65djYhJd_2jxYlTx-wdvfbyGyd1By34QvKItfE4N1IMkigY0ZAWvWQPYNfgVsufP/s1600-h/dead-fridges.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271730079990941954" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 134px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHeTYTjk-HIh-0OI57t0ixHUDk0TJDQpDPDCkfa2aWGwEqmwwvOXgXDGd7OaCFowFEHrfh65djYhJd_2jxYlTx-wdvfbyGyd1By34QvKItfE4N1IMkigY0ZAWvWQPYNfgVsufP/s200/dead-fridges.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Okay, ma'am. I've checked that box," said my new BFF.<br /><br />Simple. As simple as that. You just check a box, and the old dead refrigerator <em>just disappears</em>.<br /><br />"Is delivery next Wednesday all right?" he asked.<br /><br />I assured him that it was, that it was more than all right: it was perfect. That'd I'd be home and waiting.<br /><br />"You'll get an email that will act as your receipt. Anything else I can do for you today?"<br /><br />"No thank you," I said. "You've been incredibly helpful. Really you have!"<br /><br />"Thank you for shopping at Sears," he said. It even sounded sincere.<br /><br />Ha-ha! I did it! Score! I gave myself an imaginary high-five. I bought a refrigerator. I navigated an unimaginably complicated purchasing process, one in which I had to choose among 1135 options. I bought a major appliance!<br /><br />I was indeed pleased with myself.<br /><br />That euphoria lasted more than 24 hours; it lasted until the email from "Support Representative" appeared . In fact, it even lasted a little bit longer than that.<br /><br />I scanned the delivery order. "***PLEASE NOTE," I read aloud. "Sears is unable to install to LP (liquid propane.)"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscIzN2Jt90M_c8ZHgC9piiouporM1xCXVdvOfl-9aqmMjRBIUqrTQySTZmG9FS7tfmV8-cgzDX7AGWw1sujJYjSH5A13Q5Y_9bkF10F0CFHyXITP83gtdsR9eU9BXNEdBfRTW/s1600-h/propane.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271731026370288818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 158px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscIzN2Jt90M_c8ZHgC9piiouporM1xCXVdvOfl-9aqmMjRBIUqrTQySTZmG9FS7tfmV8-cgzDX7AGWw1sujJYjSH5A13Q5Y_9bkF10F0CFHyXITP83gtdsR9eU9BXNEdBfRTW/s200/propane.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Ha!" I said to Mark. "Good thing we don't have liquid propane!"<br /><br />My glee was short-lived. "Hey. Wait a minute. You know what it says here? <em>The merchandise is scheduled to be delivered to the delivery address on 11/29/08</em>. What's with that? 11/29 is a long time from now."<br /><br />Mark goes, "You better call them then. Didn't you say it was coming next Wednesday?"<br /><br />My mood darkened as I prepared to call my Support Representative. Her name was Pravina P. and her phone number was 1-800-349-4358. But Pravina P. didn’t say to call her if I had any questions; rather I was to call 1-800-732-7477 if I had any questions. And in the next paragraph, Pravina P. somewhat ominously added that if I had any questions <em>about the scheduled installation</em>, I was to call 1-800-326-8738 ext. 4389.<br /><br />This soup of unrelated 800 numbers confused me. Which one should I call?<br /><br />Surely there had been a mistake. Maybe they didn't like delivering large heavy appliances to San Francisco, a city of steep hills and switchback streets. Maybe I'd gotten a homophobe who had voted yes on Prop 8 and recognized my Castro zip code. Maybe I shouldn't have revealed the number of stairs from the street to the kitchen. Or said anything about Mr. Roper, our territorial neighbor who chases delivery trucks off of the easement we use as a driveway.<br /><br />The 800 number that I’d chosen at random had a voice recognition system.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZligD8p6C2Z9v6_fzVWSwSyC_fbIK8_XvpZhT7IV_wsMbE06VTUTb5dIeqXbewIzBkO_G2X3exx0vZCWMNKkajxzxVhykFXbgZvEyFqz8gXHYX-rFDbl0SUDEAivHW2EXibF/s1600-h/operator.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271731555560341666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 151px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZligD8p6C2Z9v6_fzVWSwSyC_fbIK8_XvpZhT7IV_wsMbE06VTUTb5dIeqXbewIzBkO_G2X3exx0vZCWMNKkajxzxVhykFXbgZvEyFqz8gXHYX-rFDbl0SUDEAivHW2EXibF/s200/operator.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Which department may I connect you with?" a preternaturally cheerful voice asked.<br /><br />"LARGE APPLIANCES." I said, loud and clear. I don't think of myself as a mumbler, but in cases like this, I take out all of the stops.<br /><br />"I hear that you said MEN'S JEANS. If you did not say MEN'S JEANS, please press 1 for more options."<br /><br />I pressed 1.<br /><br />"Which department may I connect you with?" the voice was forgiving. The voice was going to give me another chance.<br /><br />"LARGE APPLIANCES." I said it a little bit louder and a little bit clearer this time.<br /><br />"I hear that you said MATERNITY. If you did not say MATERNITY, please press 1 for more options."<br /><br />I pressed 1.<br /><br />"Which department may I connect you with?" the voice said pleasantly, as if our past interaction had never occurred.<br /><br />"FUCK YOU." I said very distinctly.<br /><br />"Connecting you with a customer service representative," the voice said, unperturbed.<br /><br />And I told my whole sad story to a customer service representative. I said that I was certain there was a simple clerical error at the root of this misunderstanding, that I had been promised a delivery date of Wednesday the 19th of November.<br /><br />The customer service representative was cooperative. We agreed that I certainly did need a refrigerator sooner rather than later, and that the 19th was a perfectly reasonable delivery date.<br />"I'll change the date, ma'am. Expect a call the night before to reconfirm your address and finalize the installation details," said my newest friend.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNehT3URFTM5lqYPYs2xkxjkGKLiYCfahuLwUw3imq0LzdQhTr-pRu1vNuKw9ItGNpoy-s4n5z9bSVNHpHAe08k_dnDtd1IYbsqiLU5QiADZYLPI6HpqhhPLnmR2HmQS4q-kjI/s1600-h/calendar.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271732582584229554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 136px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNehT3URFTM5lqYPYs2xkxjkGKLiYCfahuLwUw3imq0LzdQhTr-pRu1vNuKw9ItGNpoy-s4n5z9bSVNHpHAe08k_dnDtd1IYbsqiLU5QiADZYLPI6HpqhhPLnmR2HmQS4q-kjI/s200/calendar.bmp" border="0" /></a>"That was easy," I said to Mark after I'd hung up. "No problem. It was evidently just a clerical error. Got it changed back to the 19th."<br /><br />But on Tuesday, the Sears installation guy who called Mark told him he'd be out to plumb in our new refrigerator on the 18th. He said that he'd be out even though it looked like our refrigerator wouldn't be delivered until the 29th. It never hurts to be ready for the arrival of a new refrigerator.<br /><br />Mark called me as soon as he’d hung up.<br /><br />"The 29th?" I said. "The 29th? You heard me talking to the guy. I'm sure he said the 19th."<br /><br />How much of our lives is spent in abject frustration while we navigate labyrinthine customer service systems? These Sears reps had learned to mumble their names so they never had to speak to the same frustrated customer twice in a row. Should it have surprised me that no-one was able to do anything about the revised delivery date? I went back and forth through cycles within cycles of transfers to among the three service departments; they tossed me among reps in an afternoon-long game of hot potato.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlaF7UU08sZaRJVbNW9Kh_-wADi5VQNq40OWJeIbFiMhQtfU6hB2EiouoA37p_s_wnWJgzL86tehnFRYdzpDKS-glB8xQazA9KBEGBrWtqk37PFthvZulwBR6L4YBq77fJ0jru/s1600-h/prison-labor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271732874294144514" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlaF7UU08sZaRJVbNW9Kh_-wADi5VQNq40OWJeIbFiMhQtfU6hB2EiouoA37p_s_wnWJgzL86tehnFRYdzpDKS-glB8xQazA9KBEGBrWtqk37PFthvZulwBR6L4YBq77fJ0jru/s200/prison-labor.jpg" border="0" /></a>"The computer won't let me change it, ma'am" said one of the reps; this seemed to be the story they were converging on. Were they prison labor? I couldn't find it in my heart to abuse them or to ask for a manager. We were playing by <em>Lord of the Flies</em> rules: there were no managers at 1-800-349-4358. Eventually I gave up and called the Sears store I'd called in the first place.<br /><br />This time I reached Brandy. I liked Brandy right away; Brandy was a sympathetic listener and a sensible girl.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.superseventies.com/sl_brandy.html"><em>Brandy, you're a fine girl/What a good wife you would be/But my life, my lover, my lady/Is the sea</em></a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhu_hgXsQ4wPgeHPP3tfhSCwG8BSj-3c38d9bRUqZx9ca8KzoYUibjZ1w7ibKHNGSDYO0Zoup3tvnpfRLNvkfM7WfCFnrcJuOtUtQ7NRucJkLo60F1iJ3ix2lkjXDYbRG0nGw9/s1600-h/brandy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271733766720982930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhu_hgXsQ4wPgeHPP3tfhSCwG8BSj-3c38d9bRUqZx9ca8KzoYUibjZ1w7ibKHNGSDYO0Zoup3tvnpfRLNvkfM7WfCFnrcJuOtUtQ7NRucJkLo60F1iJ3ix2lkjXDYbRG0nGw9/s200/brandy.jpg" border="0" /></a>Brandy was not a nay-sayer, not by any means; Brandy was a woman of action. Brandy was not going to let me spend Thanksgiving without a new refrigerator in my kitchen.<br /><br />She said, "You know what I recommend? I recommend you cancel this order and buy another refrigerator."<br /><br />I was afraid it would come to that. "I don't know," I said pathetically.<br /><br />"I can help you do that," she said.<br /><br />"Aw, let me try to change the delivery date one more time," I said.<br /><br />"I can transfer you. But you call me back if you need to buy a different refrigerator," my new friend Brandy told me. With that, she transferred my call.<br /><br />"Which department may I connect you with?" the preternaturally cheerful voice asked.<br /><br />"Arrrrggghhhh!" I hung up the phone. Hard. I couldn’t go through this again. I'd been on the phone all afternoon.<br /><br />My mother is an expert in dealing with situations like this. I asked her what to do.<br /><br />And so I found myself calling GE. "Is there <em>anything</em> you want to tell me about model GFSL6KEXLS?" I asked a cheerful GE consumer helpline representative. "Anything at all?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwF6vp-zg4pgEC-H_ZV2SWAPwRUUplbhNq3Fw16rlGY6qwxZz2i1TNkdTyhkD7x9yt6hpM8e29JTXrMLihBvlv94BB4lmWtvvShUqXo7BDkLNPwXVx1PdaK0K1khLDkkai20-J/s1600-h/harvey.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271735006059407170" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwF6vp-zg4pgEC-H_ZV2SWAPwRUUplbhNq3Fw16rlGY6qwxZz2i1TNkdTyhkD7x9yt6hpM8e29JTXrMLihBvlv94BB4lmWtvvShUqXo7BDkLNPwXVx1PdaK0K1khLDkkai20-J/s200/harvey.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yes, in fact, there was. I had ordered <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0042546/">an imaginary refrigerator</a>. "It'll be a month or more before you get one of those," the rep told me. She agreed with Brandy; Brandy is a girl who knows her stuff. "I suggest you buy a different refrigerator," the GE rep said sunnily.<br /><br />The next day I was talking with my neighbor Evert.<br /><br />"Where did you buy your refrigerator, Evert?" I asked him.<br /><br />"Cherin's." he said, "But that was ages ago."<br /><br />"Well, we need a refrigerator. Like, right away."<br /><br />"Everyone goes to Cherin's. Just don't let them talk you into a SubZero," he said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOCfr0hUlC6mFRmhDOusxakgvyGN-IXNopfLbjSHXKryLXTpwDjOHHiaRMdYdO1SkOQ9upU24ow4YbXCRLQvNPvpelt0k9L0hyTXgCQgfeT1yr463tZtwlvH-34-jvkKfXnY-/s1600-h/cherins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271735322464532210" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 112px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUOCfr0hUlC6mFRmhDOusxakgvyGN-IXNopfLbjSHXKryLXTpwDjOHHiaRMdYdO1SkOQ9upU24ow4YbXCRLQvNPvpelt0k9L0hyTXgCQgfeT1yr463tZtwlvH-34-jvkKfXnY-/s200/cherins.jpg" border="0" /></a>Cherin's. Why didn't I think of that? I'd walked by that place countless times and although it never looked particularly inviting, appliance stores rarely appear to be the kind of place that you'd spend idle hours browsing.<br /><br />I walked out of Cherin's several hours later and several thousand dollars poorer, with a delivery promised for Thursday. Done and done. I was afraid to congratulate myself this time.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRZiMz1WHWdYBdqaxD9yacFaQslQs-MyvsCOYgnSvtZWwSimWz6MZ0Di7fg-1jyXGSl6HASBfFDvqsPPyRRPduuBQrgjO6PdtCb4AeDWoi682Qb2OShy0Gk1PC5NK7Lx0vbMz/s1600-h/GE-fridge-closed.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271735746289312114" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 192px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRZiMz1WHWdYBdqaxD9yacFaQslQs-MyvsCOYgnSvtZWwSimWz6MZ0Di7fg-1jyXGSl6HASBfFDvqsPPyRRPduuBQrgjO6PdtCb4AeDWoi682Qb2OShy0Gk1PC5NK7Lx0vbMz/s200/GE-fridge-closed.jpg" border="0" /></a>Now I had <em>three</em> refrigerators. Big ones. Two new ones; one old one. Two hypothetical ones; one actual one that was beginning to smell pretty rank. I could weld them together and they’d be as large as the average graduate student apartment. Perhaps I could rent them out.<br /><br />In case you're wondering, last Thursday I got my happy ending. I waved an unsentimental goodbye to the smelly old nonfunctioning refrigerator. A big snappy new stainless steel beast with a heart of ice is in place in our kitchen, just waiting for <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/shopping-after-midnight.html">a midnight Safeway run</a>. Soon I’ll have put the magnets and photos back on the non-stainless side panel; <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/10/mail-call.html">Alicia Tam will once again be the queen of my kitchen</a> and American Express will be the official sponsor. Aging photos of Susie, Beth Ann, and Nephew Dave in his Boy Scout uniform with his pre-orthodonture teeth will go up too.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6dvHAyUbTfBdZu5S59LIKmJ9jI1gWZ4r5DUE68OXWh-89akFyhLz3Fe5XY4YauvSIJLTMh1YX1LLxcvQ4O7QhJT-qDGOa0qLyXuQu2rzyTK9_lYPrlWRfmH2tl8Rfr4S8k-0/s1600-h/kid-pictures.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271741566538166962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 169px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE6dvHAyUbTfBdZu5S59LIKmJ9jI1gWZ4r5DUE68OXWh-89akFyhLz3Fe5XY4YauvSIJLTMh1YX1LLxcvQ4O7QhJT-qDGOa0qLyXuQu2rzyTK9_lYPrlWRfmH2tl8Rfr4S8k-0/s200/kid-pictures.jpg" border="0" /></a>And come January, we'll have a guy in the White House who I wouldn't mind having a beer with.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju98z6P7QdDrfDWcoy6D948EAuEJWLQ485xLYsP0BF2yfpSCP2PEE2xw2H1iYhOC2xj5CQkYpBxmbp8XAnxYfcZMyu4e7f0kTX2rADvimN2_w1Rtlrgt9wxrDmh6Hm41AiSCDE/s1600-h/wedding-cake-figurines.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271742228937745106" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 98px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju98z6P7QdDrfDWcoy6D948EAuEJWLQ485xLYsP0BF2yfpSCP2PEE2xw2H1iYhOC2xj5CQkYpBxmbp8XAnxYfcZMyu4e7f0kTX2rADvimN2_w1Rtlrgt9wxrDmh6Hm41AiSCDE/s200/wedding-cake-figurines.jpg" border="0" /></a>Hey, he can even come over and drink it at my place. The new fridge has room for a couple of six packs of next to the bottles of Cristal. Maybe there'll be some weddings again by then.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-59758154126534164642008-10-13T15:03:00.000-07:002008-10-13T18:45:53.195-07:00Sistine in the Castro<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucET6yAgDXKe45y62j8ZLy62yLymy57-ot0jbu6IvE_4Uz5942rVnME2IXdkmrGze_oywam55aeuzqQqfpqrGvc8GKzzy33nzrcd_qxYse8_O4Bk8qtG50sS8KhLCToUjAR6m/s1600-h/sistine-small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256768657082944034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjucET6yAgDXKe45y62j8ZLy62yLymy57-ot0jbu6IvE_4Uz5942rVnME2IXdkmrGze_oywam55aeuzqQqfpqrGvc8GKzzy33nzrcd_qxYse8_O4Bk8qtG50sS8KhLCToUjAR6m/s200/sistine-small.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div>Yes, we are still painting our house.<br /><br />Yes, we are very much like the contractors whom we have so roundly <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/03/windows-upgrade.html">criticized</a>.<br /><br />Yes, it has been almost five months since we started this project, an effort that was slated for completion in July. The house was going to look great and it was most certainly going to look great by summer's end. Not great like <a href="http://jainabee.com/">Granny's Empire of Art</a>, but great like a house with fresh paint on it. Great for us. Great for people who are <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/">Cerealtarians</a>.<br /><br />Y'know, great. Meaning not abandoned. That kind of great.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hbjbzRUsg7KxnYKXEXPVacTnd8Igwr7VGnj1xo20nh8HGs3HwnbFZ61tVqcWrhMEsLxtQK-2r3xhLIdGqiZlOeYXvHMRQjuXmRBbiX251y9Ra95OFUDhbHAcOtofB1Sz5JFv/s1600-h/spectacular-dust-bunny.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256770598214651202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6hbjbzRUsg7KxnYKXEXPVacTnd8Igwr7VGnj1xo20nh8HGs3HwnbFZ61tVqcWrhMEsLxtQK-2r3xhLIdGqiZlOeYXvHMRQjuXmRBbiX251y9Ra95OFUDhbHAcOtofB1Sz5JFv/s200/spectacular-dust-bunny.JPG" border="0" /></a>Great for people who are intimate with the concept of <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/07/afflicted-with-lassitude.html">perma-dirt</a> and who aren't daunted by dust bunnies big enough to knit an extra cat.<br /><br />So here it is mid-October. Much of the front of the house remains to be painted. And two rooms upstairs and two rooms downstairs have not seen the business end of a roller yet either.<br /><br />It's October. The leaves are changing colors. They are changing colors much faster than the house is. Then again, the leaves will die and fall off of the trees. I’m hoping the outside of the house will do nothing of the sort.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM08gGtuEweIO8tJWAtsV99xV6mg3bRBurDYANg6CsQp1kVmSwETNAuGsoeJmnTuiuyY2THiF6tGkKrNR1sc-0OMcetNqr7fJbtg0DNAGkIcFAfDdARapmRLGckfjUYmor8AE/s1600-h/backdoor1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256771116987235794" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRM08gGtuEweIO8tJWAtsV99xV6mg3bRBurDYANg6CsQp1kVmSwETNAuGsoeJmnTuiuyY2THiF6tGkKrNR1sc-0OMcetNqr7fJbtg0DNAGkIcFAfDdARapmRLGckfjUYmor8AE/s200/backdoor1.jpg" border="0" /></a>It just seems that everything we do happens very slowly. Very, very slowly. Last Saturday I spent the whole day painting the ugly security door. The whole day. I listened to podcasts (<a href="http://bigfattyonline.com/">Big Fatty</a> and <a href="http://www.myspace.com/auntievera">Auntie Vera</a> this time) and dabbed and daubed at this monster of a door, trying to thwart runs and get an even coat of paint over the whole thing. It was a royal pain.<br /><br />I don’t know if you even know what a security door is, but I think a persuasive salesman hit our neighborhood in the 1970s—a period when people were addled by some toxic combination of disco, poppers, polyester shirts, and (god forbid) Earth Shoes—and managed to sell security doors and window bars to all kinds of households who’d formerly never even thought about break-ins. So we have a big hulking security door barring entry to the front of house and another big hulking security door in the back. And a twenty-year-old 19-inch Sharp TV that they’re protecting. It makes absolutely no sense.<br /><br />Up until last Saturday, both security doors were silver. And perhaps there's nothing wrong with that.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsm3hhhZYewknAtdWXZDpbMWjh48K-mlbZ_oatb3REQ-WgVXTCOjXN7fHAsXK3hC4HTRN3CvfbIVXmAlMRGZ8D1lDpJpMEmKtltsJlDzGs2RzBszX5T95NvahxuPa6MGZR9HY/s1600-h/unspecified-security-door.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256778142151310562" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsm3hhhZYewknAtdWXZDpbMWjh48K-mlbZ_oatb3REQ-WgVXTCOjXN7fHAsXK3hC4HTRN3CvfbIVXmAlMRGZ8D1lDpJpMEmKtltsJlDzGs2RzBszX5T95NvahxuPa6MGZR9HY/s200/unspecified-security-door.jpg" border="0" /></a>But for weeks before that I’d been scrutinizing every security door in the neighborhood. And it seemed that there are only three things you can do with them: (1) Forget about it, leave the damned things silver, and pretend the 1970s never happened (a good strategy in general); (2) Paint them black and pretend they’re stylish ornamental wrought iron; (3) Paint them the same color as the house and hope that they’re camouflaged to a reasonable extent.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2-0aS1meyzrD43It1QSI0oFbyNO0018Jll0Hy3Yp4OFFHE71KO0WVDPxJVuFVvXtZSzgRq5plllZb7_OWgVNh4k61t1q0IEIS4WLlG8SHOR2WEqyizEe-lqGrqSIcL6LUOa4/s1600-h/family-feud.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256778817413915010" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2-0aS1meyzrD43It1QSI0oFbyNO0018Jll0Hy3Yp4OFFHE71KO0WVDPxJVuFVvXtZSzgRq5plllZb7_OWgVNh4k61t1q0IEIS4WLlG8SHOR2WEqyizEe-lqGrqSIcL6LUOa4/s200/family-feud.jpg" border="0" /></a>Of course the smart thing to do is to leave them silver and pretend they don’t exist. We’d done that so far quite successfully with other 1970s artifacts: like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxGGckAc1rs">Jefferson Starship</a> (follow the link at your own risk), <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhh5djH7id8">Ingmar Bergman</a> (ditto), and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hGPVoJinn0A">Family Feud</a> (bad perm central).<br /><br />But once we started painting, every time we walked past any security door in our neighborhood, I’d turn to Mark and say, “Didja see that one? That one’s black.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4G5_l5HycR4C8nH-wH-NdBJ-WA4sUNj0uJtc3kcpCZbQ9ww7rnmT9gZ2fbpA37ccRVX-Bj1_HRiBsgjF_0ooHY-REMUdcMLf3R3-ElovpAR-Dqti4tqre-GroN_gVryhrH30a/s1600-h/backdoor2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256783139727786674" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4G5_l5HycR4C8nH-wH-NdBJ-WA4sUNj0uJtc3kcpCZbQ9ww7rnmT9gZ2fbpA37ccRVX-Bj1_HRiBsgjF_0ooHY-REMUdcMLf3R3-ElovpAR-Dqti4tqre-GroN_gVryhrH30a/s200/backdoor2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Or “That one’s silver. It’s really ugly, isn’t it?”<br /><br />And that’s how I ended up listening to podcasts and dabbing and daubing Swiss Crème paint on a metal security door long into the fall twilight.<br /><br />By that time I was painting with a repurposed paint-by-numbers brush, the skinny kind with 5 bristles so you can keep the paint within the little numbered areas. The brush was left over from a paint-by-numbers Jesus I’d bought at Cliff’s Variety a few years ago, a project in which my lack of ambition overwhelmed my sense of irony by, say, an order of magnitude.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrxRNdpzoCSzsMI5YBm6kmrzBx7uh9EDnJd8BRIdmecJaYo9je__eV8XJ0bN7MLUtIDddbO89YnkrrUaRWs8n6PPBvC14APL27mqS_7oKmLE6Y6uMMfcCvdvH2ApXMyfsti7C/s1600-h/paint-by-Numbers-Jesus2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256783512509814866" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsrxRNdpzoCSzsMI5YBm6kmrzBx7uh9EDnJd8BRIdmecJaYo9je__eV8XJ0bN7MLUtIDddbO89YnkrrUaRWs8n6PPBvC14APL27mqS_7oKmLE6Y6uMMfcCvdvH2ApXMyfsti7C/s200/paint-by-Numbers-Jesus2.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’m glad I only decided to re-use the brush and not the teeny-tiny cups of oil paint. I could’ve decided to accent the door . Sometimes it's better that I’m lazy.<br /><br />It takes a good long time to paint a security door with a paint-by-numbers brush. But the thing is, you can't get paint in all the places you're supposed to if you use a normal Purdy trim brush. You just can't. The paint stubbornly refuses to flow onto the backs of the bars, into the corners of the screen. Then, finally it flows: it doesn't just flow; it runs down the metal grate in long gloppy drips.<br /><br />I only hoped that Mark wouldn’t catch me painting with a paint-by-numbers brush. It would drive him crazy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqq9W-z3tLCTe5caxjsENhihStQMxhamTGzqCCpM3ZtQydxlFV30rll543WZlrdV1AW-jOw8PMEFXSfSdPxJEfPCJCBEVRo4PYWDHN2HZJThrejnSqge89GLord6wGMePqAsRg/s1600-h/birdofparadise.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256783958612714738" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqq9W-z3tLCTe5caxjsENhihStQMxhamTGzqCCpM3ZtQydxlFV30rll543WZlrdV1AW-jOw8PMEFXSfSdPxJEfPCJCBEVRo4PYWDHN2HZJThrejnSqge89GLord6wGMePqAsRg/s200/birdofparadise.jpg" border="0" /></a>It was getting late by the time I had gone through the Mark-approved brush-cleaning protocol, a process which involves a great deal of splashing in the laundry sink. As far as I can tell, you're not done cleaning the paintbrush until you're completely soaked. So I changed clothes and hustled across the Mission to a party I was now three hours late for. </div><div></div><div>It was a party in one of those live-work spaces that sprang up like mushrooms nourished by the tail end of the dot com boom. Little fairy-rings of live-work spaces have infected the Mission, displacing dealers, homeless folks, hookers, and just about everybody else too. Lofts never need painting. If a loft needs painting, you just deflate the old one and move to a new one. This loft was a nice one with polished cement floors, original art, an admirably large Bird of Paradise, and a Mac with a big flat screen display. (And, yes, like poor <a href="http://www.engadget.com/2007/01/28/im-a-pc-and-im-also-a-pc-gates-vs-hodgman-on-daily-sho/">John Hodgman</a>, I am a PC. And I am an advertising victim.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxQu2oydLqY_2vz94O7lUcS9A1_XCgyBSqOzZabPfeWdKjhecSz7T8OeoIpNV3-fyG5zM72e6hTjYyADtR8QatIqdddA2FuTzH4i8bP-CFU81Y4sR1hOhp8pXDhHBfiL9WKPp/s1600-h/loft.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256784763549202706" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxQu2oydLqY_2vz94O7lUcS9A1_XCgyBSqOzZabPfeWdKjhecSz7T8OeoIpNV3-fyG5zM72e6hTjYyADtR8QatIqdddA2FuTzH4i8bP-CFU81Y4sR1hOhp8pXDhHBfiL9WKPp/s200/loft.jpg" border="0" /></a>The room was abuzz with well-dressed hip people; the full assortment of Trader Joe's party food had been set out on the dining room table.<br /><br />I arrived empty-handed and stood off to the side, my mind on a particularly recalcitrant part of the security door, a place where silver still showed through the fresh paint.<br /><br />A couple danced languidly, doing the White People Shuffle.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIJ0Va7L5L9hQ_eB3HQevOhkth3JtZEiBK8-m9vy3R1QivCkdnV_A3JponseiG8QwuDvo4oTZVZRTLySnyJVPhtX8SUJDEHIjhuLE_JGcYHW_GyuKNrjNjXy0nH9PtAIMTLp2/s1600-h/burning-man.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256785039353760498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIJ0Va7L5L9hQ_eB3HQevOhkth3JtZEiBK8-m9vy3R1QivCkdnV_A3JponseiG8QwuDvo4oTZVZRTLySnyJVPhtX8SUJDEHIjhuLE_JGcYHW_GyuKNrjNjXy0nH9PtAIMTLp2/s200/burning-man.jpg" border="0" /></a>"He was scratching before anyone knew what to call it," a tall handsome Englishwoman was saying above the music. I think she was talking about hip-hop, not eczema or flea bites, which would've been topics within my reach on a good day.<br /><br />Her audience nodded in assent. I scraped a few flecks of Kelly-Moore Dura-Poxy (Swiss Crème) off of my fingernails.<br /><br />These are the people who migrate en masse to Burning Man over the Labor Day holiday. <a href="http://orbswarm.com/">They have spent the summer building art projects</a> and <a href="http://valleywag.com/tech/burning-man/the-orb-swarm-rules-the-night-295729.php">being interviewed about them</a>. They have not been painting, or if they have been painting, they have been painting an artifact that went with them to the Playa and is now in storage for next year. They are tanned and strong and do not have flecks of Kelly-Moore Dura-Poxy (Swiss Crème) in their hair and on their knees. They have things to talk about. Interesting and important things.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvai3P_YlzEbYxYEE9fG3Knb-Y4ij5x21aSr8YEBTqD4UcuxPkP1FqTwMJWSs56OkqK7d4fKQ5kzrkRBZgfRUdOJ0mEviYEENn5u5zZ7ibJ1iS7I5pLyXVjAfsUhZLZnQy4kqE/s1600-h/robot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256785187818590834" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvai3P_YlzEbYxYEE9fG3Knb-Y4ij5x21aSr8YEBTqD4UcuxPkP1FqTwMJWSs56OkqK7d4fKQ5kzrkRBZgfRUdOJ0mEviYEENn5u5zZ7ibJ1iS7I5pLyXVjAfsUhZLZnQy4kqE/s200/robot.jpg" border="0" /></a>I remained mute. I'd spent the entire day daubing cream-colored paint on the back security door and I had nothing intelligent to say.<br /><br />In fact, the longer I didn't talk, the less I had to say.<br /><br />We migrated as a group to cluster around the Mac’s display and stood watching <a href="http://current.com/items/76404702_burning_man_swarm">a TV show about Burning Man</a>. The interviewer was a middle-aged man clad in a Hawaiian shirt in clueless imitation of midcentury cool. But the people he was interviewing—the people who were watching the show with me—were coming off rather well. Articulate and creative. I wanted to run and hide.<br /><br />But how could I leave? I had just arrived.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfXTNWXPh19JaO-9J-c_9UPYh5gmaL-Waz94C2kg02W4ZQQG-YE11aC1zsr1hlqdd2XiKTqTJTcUfmnYtQGxcp8kG6tQCrXKGX9TW0IEKkZwflcSByLUye0Dyng5pgGjFUJzR/s1600-h/bubonic-plague.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256786101275512402" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHfXTNWXPh19JaO-9J-c_9UPYh5gmaL-Waz94C2kg02W4ZQQG-YE11aC1zsr1hlqdd2XiKTqTJTcUfmnYtQGxcp8kG6tQCrXKGX9TW0IEKkZwflcSByLUye0Dyng5pgGjFUJzR/s200/bubonic-plague.jpg" border="0" /></a>Perhaps my throat was getting sore. I discreetly palpitated the glands on my neck and swallowed hard once or twice. It was kind of sore in places. And if it wasn’t fully red, it was at least Kelly-Moore Scarlet Sumac. I put the back of my hand to my forehead. Warm, just as I suspected. Or warm compared to my clammy hands. Better go.<br /><br />Better go before <a href="http://www.emedicine.com/emerg/topic428.htm">the buboes emerge</a>.<br /><br />It wouldn’t be hard to leave unnoticed; no-one was, in fact, paying any attention to me. They were watching TV and they were watching each other. And I don't think anyone was even planning to say anything to me as the evening progressed. The Kelly-Moore Dura-Poxy (Swiss Crème) was obviously working its magic. It was every bit as effective a camouflage on me as it is on security doors.<br /><br />I beat a quick diagonal retreat across the loft and out the front door, easing the door closed behind me.<br /><br />I hesitated right outside the door. Shouldn't I go back in and say goodbye?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4Ig4mSowuyYZI9ym_0qitVePcACDoPUQG6uW4DqZMNph5a-9uJjunkKhIUNlXnjdE0tQixy0dAvgHcVG28nEBbdTY0dSL8aoOsdF-Lv2cINg-ZxJvOC18Bni1SP-7owx-24Y/s1600-h/scraper1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256790879222671266" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4Ig4mSowuyYZI9ym_0qitVePcACDoPUQG6uW4DqZMNph5a-9uJjunkKhIUNlXnjdE0tQixy0dAvgHcVG28nEBbdTY0dSL8aoOsdF-Lv2cINg-ZxJvOC18Bni1SP-7owx-24Y/s200/scraper1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Thud-thud-thud. Down one flight. Two flights. Three flights. Four. And out onto the street. It was warm outside. Yet another hip white couple rode by on bicycles, one of them a <a href="http://www.scraperbikes.net/">scraper bike</a> that blared dance music. The door to the loft complex clicked behind me.<br /><br />I am so rude. I can't believe I did that.<br /><br />Have I ever left a party without saying one word? It must be the fumes from the Kelly-Moore Dura-Poxy (Swiss Crème).<br /><br />I drove across the Mission, ear pod securely in place. My friends on the memory stick. The podcasters still liked me; their demands were simple.<br /><br />Mark said, "You're back already?"<br /><br />"Yeah. I'm back," I said. "I was really tired. And I think I might be getting sick."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVp3uSjlsWmU1kDi2SYOYT68J-SFfyFGUmYKIsscXNzK4sV4-9fldibX-4Jjo96HVKZ2IxY9v3vIojl6Bd4amVHDMnc3GFA1CxUYZlcylef739Av-ZoonL0vOnLJEOen8YiMZW/s1600-h/sarah_palin_katie_couric_interview.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256796901847638642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVp3uSjlsWmU1kDi2SYOYT68J-SFfyFGUmYKIsscXNzK4sV4-9fldibX-4Jjo96HVKZ2IxY9v3vIojl6Bd4amVHDMnc3GFA1CxUYZlcylef739Av-ZoonL0vOnLJEOen8YiMZW/s200/sarah_palin_katie_couric_interview.jpg" border="0" /></a> There's little worse than having nothing to say (although <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nokTjEdaUGg">there are people who confuse</a> <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2008/10/13/081013fa_fact_wood?currentPage=1">verbage with garbage</a>; I’m not that far gone yet).<br /><br />And we still have a whole side of the house left to paint: if I'm mute now, just wait 'til we've finished the front.<br /><br />Good thing that our house only has two sides.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7Aybebg4846mZY8hmHUULrmdozKwLZ6WotqdtHw2mPIzdfhfAcPDm18yCv3Kvxy4moNi4PMzMfQuisgaiVjNqC3gJeDWuTu3uFygYir2FT-MGhQx-_dVw1SOB7XqwKOVs1kt/s1600-h/twodimensionaluniverse.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256797415368147890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7Aybebg4846mZY8hmHUULrmdozKwLZ6WotqdtHw2mPIzdfhfAcPDm18yCv3Kvxy4moNi4PMzMfQuisgaiVjNqC3gJeDWuTu3uFygYir2FT-MGhQx-_dVw1SOB7XqwKOVs1kt/s200/twodimensionaluniverse.jpg" border="0" /></a>Oops. Wait. I keep forgetting. Our house has four sides. We don't live in an alternate two-dimensional universe. But two of the sides are gracefully irrelevant by virtue of facing Evert's house and Stacy's house (respectively) with about an inch of clearance between adjoining buildings.<br /><br />You'd have to be a cranefly or a supermodel to paint between the houses. And thankfully I am neither.<br /><br />How long did it take to paint the Sistine Chapel? That’s the question that occurs to me on Sunday. I interrupt my painting and perch in front of the living room laptop. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sistine_chapel">The Sistine Chapel: clearly a question for the Wikipedia</a>, since the veracity of the answer doesn't matter nearly so much as the fact that I am transferring a great deal of Kelly-Moore Dura-Poxy (Swiss Crème) from the seat of my pants to our sofa while I find the answer to it. The gooey paint is clotting up with cat hair to form a brand new exciting texture. Some people would pay good money for a texture like this. They would.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrQQNSeGBK4ndgL3pUUA5-xx25j8SrvzKLW8dUSbFFXUyI3X6i7tk0ufFkOwfT27MzGKaeTQ3j043H9uLbcYNJMgKkOjWNz2iZU6U7hH63VDW9F2ItetmufbGCynBlMyvS5Mn/s1600-h/sistine-chapel-picture.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256797862138256626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrQQNSeGBK4ndgL3pUUA5-xx25j8SrvzKLW8dUSbFFXUyI3X6i7tk0ufFkOwfT27MzGKaeTQ3j043H9uLbcYNJMgKkOjWNz2iZU6U7hH63VDW9F2ItetmufbGCynBlMyvS5Mn/s200/sistine-chapel-picture.jpg" border="0" /></a>It seems that under the patronage of Pope Julius II, Michelangelo painted 12,000 square feet of the chapel ceiling between 1508 and 1512<br /><br />So that's 12,000 sq ft over 5 years. 5 years is 1825 days. Minus 10 days/year for holidays, 2 days/year for floating holidays, 20 days/year vacation, and 20 days/year sick leave. That's 1825-260=1565. Let’s round it off so it comes out an even 1500.<br /><br />That'd be 12,000 sq. ft divided by 1500 days or 8 sq. ft/day.<br /><br />Ha! We're doing better than that. 8 sq. ft/day. Ha!<br /><br />But not much better.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxuS63tpsGdRtKy43nQLpGgBMl1OZstvvMCi3zMVaW19XzEx350YnQqujcK-03DRKQiZ7u1BfAkm_CQaHrJmilfAPaX3z55TmLJbCYlZet-hGPn-_36SwWeEEy3fVFLSAsPn2/s1600-h/balcony1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256799378356850258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxuS63tpsGdRtKy43nQLpGgBMl1OZstvvMCi3zMVaW19XzEx350YnQqujcK-03DRKQiZ7u1BfAkm_CQaHrJmilfAPaX3z55TmLJbCYlZet-hGPn-_36SwWeEEy3fVFLSAsPn2/s200/balcony1.jpg" border="0" /></a>At this writing, we’ve actually started on the front of the house. We've painted the balcony.<br /><br />"Interesting choice," I hear you think. "The balcony. Exactly what I would do."<br /><br />The balcony does seem much safer now that it's painted. The paint makes it hang together. Or at least gives it the appearance of solidity and permanence.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvDS9XE1bOtLX7CYg8a7lrIUTLhjYMTwxSAXJUJ_zPwtEArYp70uwJJg4qXfHuIXnpDwAk8socSGGbntYl9_cka90-Y2q87cKuVuJBPHgYFbm-4MQvXIpbtsOfWKBLbuD8h-Q/s1600-h/wrought+iron+balcony.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256799466550508626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvDS9XE1bOtLX7CYg8a7lrIUTLhjYMTwxSAXJUJ_zPwtEArYp70uwJJg4qXfHuIXnpDwAk8socSGGbntYl9_cka90-Y2q87cKuVuJBPHgYFbm-4MQvXIpbtsOfWKBLbuD8h-Q/s200/wrought+iron+balcony.jpg" border="0" /></a>The other houses in our row have replaced their wooden balconies with wrought iron (ask Evert if you want an impassioned account of the contemptible design poaching perpetrated on him by another of our neighbors), but our house is still graced with its original funky-looking wooden balcony. When Mark used to smoke, he spent a lot of time out there on the balcony, leaning on the rail, puffing on his Marlboro, waving at the tourists passing by. Pretending to be the Pope.<br /><br />It was when John Paul was still alive—when the Pope looked less sinister and when one would want to pretend to be the Pope. Before I suffered <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/09/its-academic.html">my colossal disappointment</a> and found out that I was not John Paul's replacement. That the world was not ready for a short, Jewish, female Pope. That Pope John Paul's replacement was destined instead to be a dangerous-looking wolverine with needle-sharp teeth and black circles around his eyes. I didn't even know that guy was on the short list.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfACLHud3eb3YAbvjpC-dxlSWMwXTSRQ0mtsHpiM-AxlLr9LZb7Ih-K2UxlY0ZQ-Cn80nAvFfWun9lhTjOLjQGuC4UlAmHLRvyIuOrB76roG7LD6QRcclWDUHRt2pHKIc1q-5E/s1600-h/wolverine.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256800049169934354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfACLHud3eb3YAbvjpC-dxlSWMwXTSRQ0mtsHpiM-AxlLr9LZb7Ih-K2UxlY0ZQ-Cn80nAvFfWun9lhTjOLjQGuC4UlAmHLRvyIuOrB76roG7LD6QRcclWDUHRt2pHKIc1q-5E/s200/wolverine.jpg" border="0" /></a>Notice how many fewer Pope promotional products there are these days? How many fewer Pope mugs, change purses, postcards, and Franklin Mint plates?<br /><br />That's because they chose a wolverine. They'd have done so much better if they'd let me do it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5UiWLXF3VPwdkrSdL64k7e4J-Nectp0OdDsxUTB-siUv4n8-G3EFogxwD0mW4ZtrHORSiE6sviHkReV7wMtZ2pRgiDnUCCGsfs1LoEpfM5CdDL-mWx7ttcTi3D27O0gc6o-U/s1600-h/wolverine3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256800132909101954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5UiWLXF3VPwdkrSdL64k7e4J-Nectp0OdDsxUTB-siUv4n8-G3EFogxwD0mW4ZtrHORSiE6sviHkReV7wMtZ2pRgiDnUCCGsfs1LoEpfM5CdDL-mWx7ttcTi3D27O0gc6o-U/s200/wolverine3.jpg" border="0" /></a>Anyway, back then—"back in the day" as all the kids say now—Mark would stand out on the balcony, and smoke and wave. Tourists gasping for breath at the top of the hill snapped his picture. He's a part of hundreds of vacation memories.<br /><br />And a half-dozen of us crowded out on the balcony to watch fireworks at the dawn of this millennium—Y2K. Neither the computers nor the balcony crashed under the weight.<br /><br />The balcony has always seemed like a prime architectural feature of our house.<br /><br />That's why I was so disappointed when we discovered just how rotten it is.<br /><br />"Stop it!" I said as Mark dug his pocket knife into the crosswise boards. The wood yielded like a ripe banana; you could take big scoops out of it. " Just stop it! Don't dig any more out!"<br /><br />"Why not?" Mark said. "I want to find out how much is bad."<br /><br />"No! If we know, we won't be able to go out there anymore."<br /><br />But Mark stubbornly kept digging.<br /><br />I've always operated under the theory that it's often better not to know, especially if you're not planning to do anything to address the problem. As you might expect, Mark and I carried on a brief but intense spat, during which many holes small and large were dug and filled with the wood filler that smells like fiberglass. Primer was recklessly applied (primer which later crazed in the cold of night like a broken windshield and had to be scraped off), and matters got worse rather than better.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-cul4QQHnJ9F7J1e-rOyzDd5xk5jfVit3UwpqzYa0rikJ-kshlq6dssZF7d4mUPw2zsCPHOWTvSzxyG09DSf6a-Ng8HnPhFFXR3egnt4hOMV2PqtTIhcQe7FcAZoflgXfMsi4/s1600-h/balcony2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256800780890697314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-cul4QQHnJ9F7J1e-rOyzDd5xk5jfVit3UwpqzYa0rikJ-kshlq6dssZF7d4mUPw2zsCPHOWTvSzxyG09DSf6a-Ng8HnPhFFXR3egnt4hOMV2PqtTIhcQe7FcAZoflgXfMsi4/s200/balcony2.jpg" border="0" /></a>In the end, our dubiously safe balcony absorbed several quarts of sealer, tubs of filler, and was daubed with a patchwork of different colored leftover primers. It looked almost as dangerous as the new Pope.<br /><br />That's why the first thing we painted on the front of the house was the balcony. It's amazing how much safer it looks now with a fresh coat of paint.<br /><br />Lumpy still does not think it's safe. "You guys are crazy if you think I'm going out there," he tells us. "I'm a cat, not a dirigible."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qd1dNVtUrEXZYfyFClsb-Qwd4N9flJk-Y0yAN480v1iqqTQrniRXz8Bua_P_A7tYUenSncDWSuOMet8iifZpRDUDYCA1sWhwTN2OvkPkBHDqdX6fVHefL7RTi61J43XZG6kg/s1600-h/petronas-towers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256802815498934418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Qd1dNVtUrEXZYfyFClsb-Qwd4N9flJk-Y0yAN480v1iqqTQrniRXz8Bua_P_A7tYUenSncDWSuOMet8iifZpRDUDYCA1sWhwTN2OvkPkBHDqdX6fVHefL7RTi61J43XZG6kg/s200/petronas-towers.jpg" border="0" /></a>But unfortunately, finishing the balcony removes the last obstacle between us and the rest of the job: the tall parts of the front of our house. Perhaps our house isn't the Petronas Tower, but in the front, it's a good three stories high and the ground below is an uneven platform for the extension ladder. Worse yet, if you look behind you, it's a long, long way down to the street, a very long way down to the tourists who are now snapping pictures of the fools on the ladders. They don't seem to realize that we are not part of their San Francisco tourist experience.<br /><br />"Are you sure we should be doing this ourselves?" I ask Mark.<br /><br />I've asked him this question so many times that he's starting to get angry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuF4IxNVFxI5cpDTQoZNN72KJ_Ze035XwmuFFCrkdWp8crb-cHsmelq9ebxmJf67KNI5k42AmazQRmqSIvH8ZXXxE_x9MKpdGqPbYbZUNG9q1B53pVP1vLIoohTwr5J0nCWpUL/s1600-h/extension-ladder.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256803606893779890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuF4IxNVFxI5cpDTQoZNN72KJ_Ze035XwmuFFCrkdWp8crb-cHsmelq9ebxmJf67KNI5k42AmazQRmqSIvH8ZXXxE_x9MKpdGqPbYbZUNG9q1B53pVP1vLIoohTwr5J0nCWpUL/s200/extension-ladder.jpg" border="0" /></a>In spite of my reluctance to tackle the high bits, we bought a 24-foot extension ladder with a rope that raises the top part rung by rung. The two of us carried it up the hill, Mark on the front and me bringing up the rear. It's surprisingly flexible, this ladder, not at all sturdy like I'd pictured.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNjciFxQv0dUjA4oFvAgOkgn5dv37FFBOgEUrOJp1nF1Bd33d-3zT71c73A8XemAyAkqQm5DDuvuvMFytgxlsngISEa58kY4AYQn20jjOS3UTZb8I8I3qYmotxyBgJwn9cUao/s1600-h/daylaborers-painters.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256804635087929042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNjciFxQv0dUjA4oFvAgOkgn5dv37FFBOgEUrOJp1nF1Bd33d-3zT71c73A8XemAyAkqQm5DDuvuvMFytgxlsngISEa58kY4AYQn20jjOS3UTZb8I8I3qYmotxyBgJwn9cUao/s200/daylaborers-painters.jpg" border="0" /></a>"We could always hire some guys to do part of it." I add. This is disingenuous. I don't mean part of it; I mean the SCARY part of it. The vertiginous part of it. There are these guys in the parking lot of Kelly-Moore Paints who seem hell bent on clambering up ladders for a price. They look fearless and competent only by virtue of how they’re already paint-spattered. Sure, they must know how to paint. A few of them don't look quite sober, but they all look brave nonetheless. Sarah Palins of the day laborer set.<br /><br />That's it! Maybe Sarah Palin would paint the high bits; she seems willing to rush headlong into danger <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRkWebP2Q0Y&feature=related">without the clouding effects of knowledge</a>. Her eyes haven't been ruined from reading, and her balance is unobscured by the dizzying effects of focused thought.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVcKRoLR63GFpjHUstrU0hctUdFunUPDUS0XLeLvEojUZDwOcawff4zrOPZItuYuWgdnf8-_7q_14gVOIrNiA_dlBGECqZt5LFy_xmIah4BF63C4SPYa73Wdky0Uxyl3vw2Hq/s1600-h/onthebigladder.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256806085459563650" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVcKRoLR63GFpjHUstrU0hctUdFunUPDUS0XLeLvEojUZDwOcawff4zrOPZItuYuWgdnf8-_7q_14gVOIrNiA_dlBGECqZt5LFy_xmIah4BF63C4SPYa73Wdky0Uxyl3vw2Hq/s200/onthebigladder.jpg" border="0" /></a>She'd charge up that ladder.<br /><br />Mark will have none of it. "I'm painting it," he tells me. He's not in a good mood and I know better than to challenge him.<br /><br />It will be cold come November. I am hoping the tall ladder doesn't sway too radically in the wind. I'll worry about Mark out there, painting, slated to finish before July rolls around again.<br /><br />Think of how little I’ll have to say by then. </div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-11728763201288065952008-09-05T11:57:00.000-07:002008-11-24T12:33:58.850-08:00cerealtarian<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1G9bWpSlYcS7JQ94bbPJgJJu6-7BnHwIKNB2jPA0jVCPueTwuWjaGiZiScgzZWyFlZihVGuK9IoNcCVLhstGOY1U20_oDU0eRlGj17AQyvWZ7Z9YnNzhWPtDAE6I1LRhZBNMx/s1600-h/cerealtarian-work.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242928035663590722" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1G9bWpSlYcS7JQ94bbPJgJJu6-7BnHwIKNB2jPA0jVCPueTwuWjaGiZiScgzZWyFlZihVGuK9IoNcCVLhstGOY1U20_oDU0eRlGj17AQyvWZ7Z9YnNzhWPtDAE6I1LRhZBNMx/s200/cerealtarian-work.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div>At work the break area is stocked with small boxes and tiny tubs of breakfast cereal.<br /><br />All types of breakfast cereal: vitamin-enriched flakes; extruded puffs; faux granola. Cereal with dried berries. Cereal with little marshmallows. Cereal with nuts and raisins. Stacks and stacks of cereal containers. A cereal-lover's paradise.<br /><br />During summer, the pickings are slim: the interns forage and eat all of the good stuff. They're young and are voracious eaters. Perhaps some of them are still growing; they're that young. I go to the cereal cabinet, and all that's left is a stray package or two of the gross stuff. Lucky Charms or Golden Grahams.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSKI0vThizdCh4LzwFdC4_CyvB93DPVGzdK-v58GEupS09PCDIiQIqV2RjwbaL0GgXcBg4Gf4I5QXVYQII9S1gjdFctLCQ09te7JC4GjJ606ZjKb2tPjlQibd4ks6VwDuVMJp/s1600-h/as-bright-as-they-come.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242928436115800930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXSKI0vThizdCh4LzwFdC4_CyvB93DPVGzdK-v58GEupS09PCDIiQIqV2RjwbaL0GgXcBg4Gf4I5QXVYQII9S1gjdFctLCQ09te7JC4GjJ606ZjKb2tPjlQibd4ks6VwDuVMJp/s200/as-bright-as-they-come.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yuck.<br /><br />But even those will be hoovered up before the Cereal Guy restocks the shelves.<br /><br />As the interns return in great droves to their academic institutions, the place grows quiet. We miss their enthusiasm and energy. They're smart and they know it; any place would be lucky to have them. And so they migrate back to school to spread a little luck around.<br /><br />Secretly, we're all glad that the cereal cabinet won't go empty so quickly now. That there'll be something there when those of us who work late succumb to the dinner-time hunger pangs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkSx2RJs8pv2bdFllgr6Wa9g0pSwfTReFErTVyHaeMOTc8_BkncoVmgv-ZQlyPEn04Hr8NJaJDZOV2S154unmQI77qQSfezrstHyLXYjDxrhBOEhSFNrlyFmCU1RbCVJmooGF/s1600-h/special-k.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242928810921747394" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRkSx2RJs8pv2bdFllgr6Wa9g0pSwfTReFErTVyHaeMOTc8_BkncoVmgv-ZQlyPEn04Hr8NJaJDZOV2S154unmQI77qQSfezrstHyLXYjDxrhBOEhSFNrlyFmCU1RbCVJmooGF/s200/special-k.jpg" border="0" /></a>Today Renato and I were contemplating stacks and stacks of the small containers.<br /><br />"I like Special K," he told me, canvassing the frontmost stacks in the deep cabinet.<br /><br />"There's some Product 19," I said. "Is that like Special K?"<br /><br />"No. Not really. It's not like it at all. I wonder why they call it that?"<br /><br />"Maybe it's the 19th product that they developed at the cereal research lab," I said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bP2hMSMF62KXfWHbrAgZbHDRCu89xYiJOX6Ukrq0zgDz5pHSAoX3uP_8urnLL00CkMbHTLiDr7Ar92SsEQZyFoXPqZdeE4hjQsmcg1NDsUt5Mm5eBk5yI7lbxrbMcvjS8AI9/s1600-h/ingredients.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242929047400385650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-bP2hMSMF62KXfWHbrAgZbHDRCu89xYiJOX6Ukrq0zgDz5pHSAoX3uP_8urnLL00CkMbHTLiDr7Ar92SsEQZyFoXPqZdeE4hjQsmcg1NDsUt5Mm5eBk5yI7lbxrbMcvjS8AI9/s200/ingredients.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Maybe it has 19 nutritious ingredients." Renato turned the box sideways so he could read the list.<br /><br />"I doubt it. I don't know that they would want to draw your attention to the ingredients."<br /><br />"It has 12 vitamins and minerals," he said. He put the box back on the shelf and pulled down another one.<br /><br />"Cocoa Puffs," he said.<br /><br />"Ooooh! I like those!"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeIrCgiWqwU0B-RGbRzTIpEF82-AIc6OFS-n-PgTnxm0WS5w4GGNQy0ceG6KcymlXO-b63xbB6Eneg5DxyQ6KexTFbOR944iKN660PiQHhD2_KdsJ7wcHJywqSJyM1nlxBMPQ/s1600-h/koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242929522417545010" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPeIrCgiWqwU0B-RGbRzTIpEF82-AIc6OFS-n-PgTnxm0WS5w4GGNQy0ceG6KcymlXO-b63xbB6Eneg5DxyQ6KexTFbOR944iKN660PiQHhD2_KdsJ7wcHJywqSJyM1nlxBMPQ/s200/koo-koo-for-cocoa-puffs.bmp" border="0" /></a>"Here." Renato handed me the package.<br /><br />"I'm not really hungry. Maybe I'll just stash it in my office."<br /><br />"What's this?" He examined a small box of Kellogg's Granola.<br /><br />"It's really dense. If you eat that, you'll know you've had cereal." It's not like I'm an authority on all these types of cereal, but I've checked out the granola. It tastes like overcooked oatmeal cookies, and I've been willing to eat that in a pinch. I wouldn't touch the Frooty Loops or the Cinnamon Toast Crunchy Bits even if I were very very hungry. Ditto the Smacky Sugar Shapes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhon62-Niiww18Y0kyNtrksEJk3i2nNb57slFj27JNk0ivXXMMXj0hhGEnAgU3EG4NI8my2VTTEoZpZ8YnuiQ4hniusqQQe172yePVEu2YlFW4rdscrerB5UGbYHQJ7s54GTg_0/s1600-h/icky-cereal-types.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242930165689061970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhon62-Niiww18Y0kyNtrksEJk3i2nNb57slFj27JNk0ivXXMMXj0hhGEnAgU3EG4NI8my2VTTEoZpZ8YnuiQ4hniusqQQe172yePVEu2YlFW4rdscrerB5UGbYHQJ7s54GTg_0/s200/icky-cereal-types.jpg" border="0" /></a>They make my teeth hurt.<br /><br />I put the container in my office, along with one of the cartons of Cheerios. I like those too and had to climb up on a chair to find them among the stacks at the back of the cereal cabinet.<br /><br />I hope it doesn't look greedy to passers-by that I have a growing pile of boxes of my favorite cereals on the corner of my desk. I decide to conceal them behind <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/office-space.html">the useless phone</a>, the one that runs Windows and won't let me login properly. There! I hope I remember that they're there before they get all soggy and disgusting.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.mcleodresidence.com/page/jason-huntley"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242930903708213730" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBv1DqUNaGzgSAT7BznAMHEVTJsxhXSnb4NTRBLnUBARKwN2YsEd5f5AdCa5428sRIK5i-E91V9SFHqIATdrITAmJsmNsORndO0TwUa_3LfS29Nhe4BuN1cF45dk8kYFpRtr2l/s200/mj-in-cereal.jpg" border="0" /></a>The thing is, I'm a cerealtarian.<br /><br />I used to cook every once in a while, to make Thai curries or lentil soup. I'd even go to some trouble and chop stuff up, slivering jicama and carrot matchsticks for some <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Chopsticks-Cleaver-Wok-Homestyle-Chinese/dp/0811816664">homestyle Chinese dish</a>. Or I'd make a big salad with thinly sliced oranges and roast chicken on top.<br /><br />That was before I discovered just how adequate cereal was for dinner, particularly if you layer it into a parfait. A layer of Shredded Wheat, crushed into strands. A layer of Wheat Chex. A layer of Cheerios.<br /><br />Cheerios are tricky because they float. If you put too much milk in the bowl, the buoyant Cheerios float over the rim and roll away. <a href="http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080523223331AApLZ0z">Messy</a>.<br /><br />"What do you want to have for dinner?" I ask Mark.<br /><br />"Cereal," he answers as if it were a novel idea, as if we haven't had cereal for dinner in months. Or as if we'd had anything other than cereal in months.<br /><br />"Cereal?" I say. "Sound fine to me. Let's have cereal."<br /><br />We each grab a bowl from the cupboard.<br /><br />"Are you sure you don't mind?" I ask. Of course, I have no intention of cooking anything, but the question is part of the ritual.<br /><br />"No. In fact, I was just thinking how good some cereal would taste." Mark says.<br /><br />So we have become cerealtarians.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj32HF0m6oj6x1HH7TfjaIJSdYImeymHfPTOTQ_bb4ThAb7KMqSvfaEjuyyK0zA35iFlzcYYf3JiE5zrcK9BLhmOijmn3v_O87DucWhJNN58M2yNk_J5oGjV9zGPXnE2VsC-Kwd/s1600-h/weirdcereals.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242933116319275810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj32HF0m6oj6x1HH7TfjaIJSdYImeymHfPTOTQ_bb4ThAb7KMqSvfaEjuyyK0zA35iFlzcYYf3JiE5zrcK9BLhmOijmn3v_O87DucWhJNN58M2yNk_J5oGjV9zGPXnE2VsC-Kwd/s200/weirdcereals.bmp" border="0" /></a>It gets embarrassing when <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/08/shopping-after-midnight.html">I go to Safeway after midnight</a> and buy 11 assorted types of cereal in the large boxes. What's worse is that although we do have preferences, I tilt toward the varieties that have a Club Card discount. $3 off on the Almond Morning with Cranberries (from which I'll harvest all the cranberries and almond slivers before Mark can have at the cloying flakes); $2.51 savings on the off-brand Organic Oat Bran Flakes sweetened with recycled Skittles. $1.63 x 2 boxes = $2.26 aggregate discount on Safeway Wheat-n-Cardboard Rectangles.<br /><br />By the time I'm done, I've saved more than most people even spend on breakfast cereal. I'm pleased too, not just embarrassed.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.overthehillsandfaraway.co.uk/tubby.toast.crumbs/index.html"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242933689503260834" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77rxo4vrAt_SXPvWIgzLjHvogredYHC9_7y2QdQvRDYy-HXbB7wcZqg8yH4HOTUZRi3oTSbwizQ_hKypQT-08M_J0yk_vvQ6ayxdIiQSlodr6Wnw-JLV1IFQ8NX6l-2O1wR80/s200/teletubbies-cereal.jpg" border="0" /></a>And the differently-abled/developmentally-challenged guy who does the bagging late at night is pleased as well: it's fun to wedge the rectangular boxes into the recycle/reuse green grocery bags that I've carefully remembered to lug with me to the store. He's a nice-looking boy if you don’t look too close and notice that there's something goofy in his facial expression or listen too long and notice the tell-tale lilt of his voice.<br /><br />"You don't put the watermelon on top of the bread," he tells the checker.<br /><br />She sighs. "I know that," she tells him. You can tell that she usually has to work with him and that she's mostly a good sport about it. Sometimes though you can see that she's tired of humoring him, tired of working nights, and tired of pulling box after box of discounted cereal over the scanner. Cereal. More cereal. 50 or so cans of Fancy Feast. A gallon of milk. A watermelon. A loaf of bread. A large jar of peanut butter.<br /><br />Beep. Scan. Beep. Scan. No beep. Rescan. No beep. Rescan. Beep. Scan. Beep.<br /><br />"You don't put the watermelon on top of the bread," the bag-boy repeats, in a firm sing-song, as he puts the watermelon on top of the box of Cheerios. The Cheerios will be oaty-dust by the time I get them home.<br /><br />He turns to me and says, "I can eat as many Red Vines as I want. Y'know why?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_xEzlGk4GEar-NAP__js8TEv3HrPAxhZQJ3lYoPcx67PhA8Pl4pEHX73fdBvYwb9b6AGi9f9ls1HcxwUUGWOnBtuaceFosCJ71HJ0ptMMRVM2ysenCKN0nrvC1TdpU9StL-E/s1600-h/bag.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242935238207991362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_xEzlGk4GEar-NAP__js8TEv3HrPAxhZQJ3lYoPcx67PhA8Pl4pEHX73fdBvYwb9b6AGi9f9ls1HcxwUUGWOnBtuaceFosCJ71HJ0ptMMRVM2ysenCKN0nrvC1TdpU9StL-E/s200/bag.jpg" border="0" /></a>I really hadn't wanted to have a conversation with this guy. I try to avoid it, but he's always on bagging detail on the late shift. It's likely he can't be trusted to drive the forklift and restock the shelves. So he's bagging. A specialist. He tries to put the milk on top of the cans of cat food in one of my green shopping bags, but the bag flops closed.<br /><br />"I can eat as many Red Vines as I want. You wanna know why?" He is unperturbed by the recalcitrant grocery bag and not to be deterred by my initial non-response.<br /><br />"Aren't they bad for your teeth?" I finally say.<br /><br />"I CAN EAT AS MANY RED VINES AS I WANT BECAUSE. I. HAVE. DENTURES!" The bagger's voice rings out.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZ22zEYKnp9MpVJL_ubosOiTk_s0rT7iSqI9nDBdrXePa4pXubtFtG_gLBwozQPQirdb9kLMm99g7itXOP7pE3o0-trY01C7phGN0FQYJ3fxwb7lD_PvTB0o4WAKtLKslbdNk/s1600-h/choppers.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242936210362109282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZ22zEYKnp9MpVJL_ubosOiTk_s0rT7iSqI9nDBdrXePa4pXubtFtG_gLBwozQPQirdb9kLMm99g7itXOP7pE3o0-trY01C7phGN0FQYJ3fxwb7lD_PvTB0o4WAKtLKslbdNk/s200/choppers.jpg" border="0" /></a>The checker rolls her eyes. She's put up with about as much as she can; she's not a young woman and I can tell she's got some sort of sad story of her own that she's not going to be telling me. A grandchild she's been coerced into raising. A meth-head son that she's constantly bailing out of jail. And god knows, it's expensive to live in San Francisco if just for the meds.<br /><br />The man behind me in line who doesn't seem to have any groceries in hand decides to leave. Perhaps he was going to try to hold up the store, but there's a limit to what he can take. Differently-abled baggers with dentures are apparently over that limit. He squeezes between me and the neighboring checkstand and walks out into the swirling fog. According to one of the guys who's normally on restocking detail at this time of night, the Safeway has been held up twice this week already. But incompetently. He tells me not to even joke about it; there are sensitivities.<br /><br />The developmentally challenged bagger is probably better security for Safeway than the security guy who's loitering by the entrance, bored and tired of being on his feet. I wouldn't want to try to hold up the bag-boy: he's just the kind of energetic guy who'd take a flying leap at a robber and sink his store-bought choppers into the poor guy's upper arm—and take him down, gun and all.<br /><br />The woman next in line after him is out of luck; she'd been counting on us to spend more time chit-chatting and up-holding. She's been shopping one item at a time and dropping them off in one of those small baskets that she's set on the conveyor belt to secure her place in line while she scampers all over the store, picking up this and that. Now she's midway up the potato-chip aisle way on the other side of the store, and it's her basket's turn to check out and pay up.<br /><br />"Is this anyone's?" The checker picks up the basket. It has accumulated quite an assortment of things by now: a vacuum-packed bag of Millstone coffee, ground, breakfast blend. One of those bricks of Marie Callender frozen meat lasagna. A six pack of Bud Lime. A Colgate toothbrush. Radishes. Two 16 ounce cans of Rosarita Refried Beans. A block of preternaturally orange cheddar cheese. A 32 ounce bottle of Mr. & Mrs. T Bloody Mary Mix. </div><br /><div>A rainbow of products from all over the store.<br /><br />"Yours?" The checker asks the man who is next in line after the absent shopper.<br /><br />"Not mine," he says firmly.<br /><br />"Why don't you put these things back," she tells the bag-boy, temporarily pleased that so many things have come together and worked out well on her behalf for a change.<br /><br />I have signed my credit card slip and am ready to escape.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23qkZQg6ULNGSoLmCGlBNnXQBgQu2cdYZqOo4WL9G3Bw4obPIkknOlPM-R68OWbi-16s5AaJciiDtAFjtf3PX8s3h1cHdUK73GOzB8cie9Rkqq8xEQNxDJxkO44WEc1bdtecy/s1600-h/space+food+sticks2.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242938182566186882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23qkZQg6ULNGSoLmCGlBNnXQBgQu2cdYZqOo4WL9G3Bw4obPIkknOlPM-R68OWbi-16s5AaJciiDtAFjtf3PX8s3h1cHdUK73GOzB8cie9Rkqq8xEQNxDJxkO44WEc1bdtecy/s200/space+food+sticks2.gif" border="0" /></a>She glances at the slip. "Need any help out tonight, Mrs. Glenn?" Mrs. Glenn, the astronaut's wife. Oh! I forgot the Tang! And what about the <a href="http://www.spacefoodsticks.com/">Space Food Sticks</a>?<br /><br />I refrain from saying any of these clever things out loud. "Nope. Don't need any help tonight. Thanks!" I muscle the cart, which is bound and determined to go in tight circles of its own making, into something of a straight line and out the automatic door.<br /><br />Mark is asleep when I get home. Who can blame him? It's almost one AM.<br /><br />He gets up to help me put away the groceries.<br /><br />"Is there anything left down in the car?" he asks.<br /><br />"Nope. This is it."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFm74CCTYSXiFeDydII3jcL-BGtHmAgKIfDxURXBo8WVJqKsM3HRy8cRo4aLk2dRpOpQCysIHbO3ov-G07yj2HwVsRDxEjJ3OYFJe4rwxekhMP5LyPj4NbQJrj5_DwQzhOako0/s1600-h/cerealtarian-home.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242938461100598946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFm74CCTYSXiFeDydII3jcL-BGtHmAgKIfDxURXBo8WVJqKsM3HRy8cRo4aLk2dRpOpQCysIHbO3ov-G07yj2HwVsRDxEjJ3OYFJe4rwxekhMP5LyPj4NbQJrj5_DwQzhOako0/s200/cerealtarian-home.JPG" border="0" /></a>"You did good," he says, and lines up 11 new boxes of cereal on top of the refrigerator, next to the 4 that are still there from last time. It's a good thing that we have a wide refrigerator. A good thing. It's a lot of cereal. And a lot of cat food. It's a good thing too that Lumpy doesn't like cereal and we don't like cat food.<br /><br />I feel secure. There is nothing that makes a cerealtarian more secure than a line-up of fresh unopened boxes, ready to squelch stomach rumblings and vague longings. It's at least two weeks' worth of food, maybe three.<br /><br />But the trouble with being a cerealtarian is you can't really bring a box or two with you to dinner parties where the host tells you, "Bring something! A salad. A dessert. Wine. You know."<br /><br />No, I don't know. I have a feeling the host would be dissatisfied with my chosen contribution.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqioei51c6cakjLHAx5X4_DkYL6cgiRW6-zptroYVAHT8jfoU8JPaeqciIVYGY6fX5rwIXs7An6ALAMfmOpy0MRCzdEo_xP8qnAwlTB0XhwT5hASGXp4nhHZ4MBaITZbFfZCl/s1600-h/redberries.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242938897980190770" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqioei51c6cakjLHAx5X4_DkYL6cgiRW6-zptroYVAHT8jfoU8JPaeqciIVYGY6fX5rwIXs7An6ALAMfmOpy0MRCzdEo_xP8qnAwlTB0XhwT5hASGXp4nhHZ4MBaITZbFfZCl/s200/redberries.jpg" border="0" /></a>How about Special K with Red Berries? That's good and the red berries make it a little more <em>special</em>. Hey, it's Special K to start with, right? <em>Special</em>. Renato assures me that it's good. And if I bring an unopened box, I won't have eaten all the red berries beforehand.<br /><br />I don't do it on purpose. Eat the red berries, I mean. They settle on the top of the cereal, not the bottom.<br /><br />Once when we were visiting Nephew Dave and Loan Anh, I poured myself a regular bowl of Special K with Red Berries, and tucked right into it. It was good! Lots of red berries! Lots and lots!<br /><br />It turns out that I had eaten all the red berries in the box. No wonder the bowl of cereal was so good.<br /><br />"Hey!" Nephew Dave looked at his unadorned Special K. "Who ate all the red berries?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguII2qTVOm9piM5emYNSwCif6yicUgP45H2UgaR7xIKLRV8lYCT_Jvhq1LcPS1-korObkYurPmgyHGkSXKsSepwg4ejeXfWJt5xrjmAV7a02PYRnPxbBil2x0gS5jyyDhfIkNz/s1600-h/alltheredberries.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242939362013584578" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguII2qTVOm9piM5emYNSwCif6yicUgP45H2UgaR7xIKLRV8lYCT_Jvhq1LcPS1-korObkYurPmgyHGkSXKsSepwg4ejeXfWJt5xrjmAV7a02PYRnPxbBil2x0gS5jyyDhfIkNz/s200/alltheredberries.jpg" border="0" /></a>Nephew Dave was committed to the berryless cereal, because he is a member of the milk-first school of cereal consumption: he pours himself a bowl of milk, then adds cereal to the milk until he's got the right consistency.<br /><br />I didn't say anything. No point in it now.<br /><br />But if I brought Special K with Red Berries to a dinner party, I'd be sure to bring an unopened box so all the Red Berries would be intact. And whole milk—I'd bring whole milk, not 2% or skim or Cremora or (god forbid) Silk Soy Milk. Surely there must be other cerealtarians among the foodies with their heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozerella or the sophisticates with their French Bordelaise and pâté with <a href="http://www.drtoast.com/crumbs/67">toast points</a>. Or the decadents with their <a href="http://tienchiu.com/crafts/choc_feet/story/cfeet18.htm">Valrhona chocolate</a> and <a href="http://www.yelp.com/topic/san-francisco-what-is-that-moldy-looking-crap-on-brie-cheese">triple-cream Brie</a>.<br /><br />But really, it all comes back to ingredients. Ingredients. Ingredients. Ingredients. And Cocoa Puffs are:<br />Whole grain corn<br />sugar<br />corn syrup<br />modified corn starch<br />cocoa processed with alkali<br />canola and/or rice bran oil<br />color added<br />salt<br />fructose<br />tricalcium phosphate<br />corn starch<br />natural and artificial flavor<br />trisodium phosphate<br />wheat flour<br />vitamin E and BHT added to preserve freshness.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbuEeQTYUnrRsoji0TotCQZUC2KS2kOgwJH4CT45gVYukebo0eb1RDUfM89tT9cefcf-DOP_bTVHYoPQkSBMtEKrT6E3kRcCCGHYcRpMlkh0Moer3lVDfKuL1oOE4_WcGvFLd/s1600-h/Spherification.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242940621896328034" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTbuEeQTYUnrRsoji0TotCQZUC2KS2kOgwJH4CT45gVYukebo0eb1RDUfM89tT9cefcf-DOP_bTVHYoPQkSBMtEKrT6E3kRcCCGHYcRpMlkh0Moer3lVDfKuL1oOE4_WcGvFLd/s200/Spherification.jpg" border="0" /></a>And that's before we even get to the vitamins and minerals that General Mills uses to fortify the stuff: What's not to like? I mean, I see all of these restaurant reviews that absolutely fawn over chefs who dabble in <a href="http://www.wired.com/techbiz/people/magazine/15-08/ps_foodchemist">molecular gastronomy</a>, chefs who foam carrots and puree green apples with celery root. Surely some extensive food chemistry has taken place to form this cereal into spherical extrusions.<br /><br />Just look at those ingredients. We could call it <em>corn four ways</em> (which I am distressed to learn is <a href="http://www.yogajournal.com/lifestyle/food/recipes/recipe/9135">an actual dish</a> among a segment of food-eaters). There's whole grain corn, corn syrup, modified corn starch, and unmodified corn starch. Shoot. <a href="http://www.starchefs.com/chefs/rising_stars/2007/dallas/html/recipe_duck_t_wilcox.shtml">Duck Three Ways</a> (Hudson Valley Foie Gras, Crispy Duck Breast and Confit Crêpe with Huckleberry Maple Syrup) would make the grade.<br /><br />Or was that <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/11/duck-and-shoot.html">Duck and Cover</a>?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfX3DGSH0NCyK8gVxioGy9Ew7fWP3fpOnN4j3Kpn2VhfA6M0rBCqq1lN7y1O7PYKvFIHVRGmxv1zFLXg1Vyva_EWXVAOoRMZMOjjwJSi67O9sZ3R5Dk__NN5v6-pWclv2n6qA/s1600-h/deviled-eggs.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242941034033812098" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfX3DGSH0NCyK8gVxioGy9Ew7fWP3fpOnN4j3Kpn2VhfA6M0rBCqq1lN7y1O7PYKvFIHVRGmxv1zFLXg1Vyva_EWXVAOoRMZMOjjwJSi67O9sZ3R5Dk__NN5v6-pWclv2n6qA/s200/deviled-eggs.jpg" border="0" /></a>And what about the tricalcium phosphate AND trisodium phosphate? Not only do they <a href="http://www.phosphatesfacts.org/uses.asp">aid in the flow through extruder</a>; they also ensure that there's enough calcium and phosphorus in the product. Calcium's healthy, isn't it? Aren't we all supposed to be trying our best to get these core nutrients without doing anything flaky like eating match heads or serving <a href="http://cookingwithamy.blogspot.com/2007/04/tru-restaurant-review.html">a Deviled Eggs and Tums amuse bouche</a>?<br /><br />Yet I can't picture going to a dinner party and bringing my box of Shredded Wheat (even if it's real Nabisco Shredded Wheat, and not Mom's Best Frumpy Ersatz Wheat Pillows or something like that).<br /><br />Sometimes our non-cerealtarian friends go out with us without really understanding the depth of our commitment. We shuffle into <a href="http://www.delfinasf.com/">Delfina</a> or <a href="http://www.limon-sf.com/">Limon</a> and do our best to find something to order off the menu. We poke at the house-cured anchovies and fennel seed flatbread. We feign enthusiasm. We take our spoons and dip into the buttermilk panna cotta and creme fraiche gelato.<br /><br />"It's pretty rich," Mark says.<br /><br />"The blackberries are really good," I say, thinking all the while of the dried Red Berries that are in so many kinds of cereal these days.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhUxO68aNCgOtADGucxin65JBUkNjz39X4vbWTKn91K7OLhdEzgF7NDhx6YnbyOacEmI8YfYGQi1Cw1DMsyTWpisLZ1j4MxvOnyI0dEprj9jQcJTscC9bpQGryf3xg3VaEKP7/s1600-h/shredded-wheat.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242941442625072066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqhUxO68aNCgOtADGucxin65JBUkNjz39X4vbWTKn91K7OLhdEzgF7NDhx6YnbyOacEmI8YfYGQi1Cw1DMsyTWpisLZ1j4MxvOnyI0dEprj9jQcJTscC9bpQGryf3xg3VaEKP7/s200/shredded-wheat.bmp" border="0" /></a>After our dinner companions take off and we hike up the hill, our bellies full and wallets empty, Mark says, "I feel nauseous. I wish I had cereal for dinner."<br /><br />"Me too," I say. "Me too."<br /><br />And later, after the food has worn off to a great extent, we each pour ourselves a small bowl of cereal, topped with <a href="http://www.clo-the-cow.com/">Clover-Stornetta</a> 2% Milk (with Clo the Cow on the side of the carton).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vxGMyq7j4sF6MShhkP1wOEhCSbmD0bwf29JYYCvkWM5X0tZHmmPk1AbD9djsU-skr6B8m-Rlfdw_6_ZKKgr0pVu_htX0Y85jJ3IgHDxBo3eR3JHFjvqayjAMbe1qJCRNBoKP/s1600-h/clover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242942065137980258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8vxGMyq7j4sF6MShhkP1wOEhCSbmD0bwf29JYYCvkWM5X0tZHmmPk1AbD9djsU-skr6B8m-Rlfdw_6_ZKKgr0pVu_htX0Y85jJ3IgHDxBo3eR3JHFjvqayjAMbe1qJCRNBoKP/s200/clover.jpg" border="0" /></a>"That's really good, isn't it?" I say, crunching avidly on a big biscuit.<br /><br />"Yeah," Mark says. "Much better than dinner."<br /><br />Face it: we're Cerealtarians. What can you do?</div>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-10716228616743119022008-08-08T17:56:00.000-07:002008-08-08T22:32:06.475-07:00Blogfading<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ckO3gnab-eUk6x-EuYrB3sazeHExuVyexht2mvI2nLKIqaAkc7u-jgpNeDmf-qVK8glEbzJm99qquk-WR-PDoW5rXM025g1THv-EBx7DeedNhIGlHNScPca2NbFAMYdWD5nJ/s1600-h/more-words.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232323036465041682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ckO3gnab-eUk6x-EuYrB3sazeHExuVyexht2mvI2nLKIqaAkc7u-jgpNeDmf-qVK8glEbzJm99qquk-WR-PDoW5rXM025g1THv-EBx7DeedNhIGlHNScPca2NbFAMYdWD5nJ/s320/more-words.JPG" border="0" /></a>I once asked Cliff Lynch why he didn’t blog and he told me that it was too much of a commitment—that once you start, there’s so much pressure to keep going.<br /><br />He’s right, of course. Cliff Lynch is always right. But I never regarded the commitment as being particularly dangerous: there’s almost always something to say, isn’t there?<br /><br />I never picture myself being at a loss for words.<br /><br />Not long ago, Lumpy and I spent a bachelor week together. Mark was off on a motorcycle ride to visit <a href="http://www.geocities.com/spiral_sage/">Reid and Kristina</a> in <a href="http://www.geocities.com/spiral_sage/lama.html">Taos</a>, so it was just the two of us. My Oscar Madison to his Felix Unger.<br /><br />“This’d be a great time to write something,” I told Lumpy. “I haven’t blogged in over a month.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxGzL3H9BDsymGQI-ZxI2aKeRIdwhxCPtZRz6xthZ5xf_6OXWJACXZWTr4wm1TZRGsjc4Mq2P0KNjzrDznMU73pLYHvPfjqvpA_SsU-QsMqBlWfKD5FNexDX0-FBOlxSG8XrR/s1600-h/old-country-buffet.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232323680573197506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikxGzL3H9BDsymGQI-ZxI2aKeRIdwhxCPtZRz6xthZ5xf_6OXWJACXZWTr4wm1TZRGsjc4Mq2P0KNjzrDznMU73pLYHvPfjqvpA_SsU-QsMqBlWfKD5FNexDX0-FBOlxSG8XrR/s200/old-country-buffet.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Nah,” he said, “it’d be a great time to open all of those cans of Fancy Feast in the pantry and pretend we’re at Old Country Buffet. Or maybe we could finish shredding the sofa arm—I could use your help for a change. Oh. Wait. I know: let’s pour a whole bag of catnip on the floor and roll in it until we get the hiccups and barf.”<br /><br />The cat was ecstatic with possibilities, in tune with what to do when you’re left at home without adult supervision.<br /><br />Didn’t I ever watch <em>Ferris Bueller</em>?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzLfbWdIxG9Y1B_3t6vE1TIG9Ee4taHUV3rFrL-3cdrRAXIYtylc9JsU6JxPYMnI2BNL1aTeQ5dDFPZU767LNxgnk9PgstzjMUM66gX9VOY1MQnpz9-zOhwsor8NZ5mwzYr2X/s1600-h/netflix-envelopes.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232353401964644562" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzLfbWdIxG9Y1B_3t6vE1TIG9Ee4taHUV3rFrL-3cdrRAXIYtylc9JsU6JxPYMnI2BNL1aTeQ5dDFPZU767LNxgnk9PgstzjMUM66gX9VOY1MQnpz9-zOhwsor8NZ5mwzYr2X/s200/netflix-envelopes.JPG" border="0" /></a>Apparently not. In fact, I don’t watch anything. I’ve had the same three Netflix movies for more than a year and a half now, and I’ve shown no signs that I’m ever going to watch them. I could’ve bought them by now.<br /><br />Heck, I could’ve <em>made</em> the three movies by now. (I’m informed that this is the conceit of another recent film, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0799934/"><em>Be Kind Rewind</em></a>.)<br /><br />See, the problem is that when you set up a Netflix queue, you think to yourself, “Which movies got good reviews in the <em>New Yorker</em>? I should rent those.”<br /><br />But when it comes time to watch them, you think: “Boring. Boring. Boring. All I’ve got is these three boring movies.” And you switch on <em><a href="http://www.colbertnation.com/">The Colbert Report</a></em>. Or flip to an obscure cable channel and play “<a href="http://www.chadchud.com/pub/index.php?title=Drinking_Games#Movies.2C_television.2C_music.2C_etc">Hi, Bob</a>,” the drinking game where you take a slug every time a character in the <em>Bob Newhart Show</em> says “Hi, Bob.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsb-h6aNFJu8BMZo4PPV1l4Tv_a4coh2utIl2Fx0YRN-zcT4ROTcVdaJEzut4Cs5wOsS8WkDVnS63vuPsDUxNFY2e67l0xMZ38hasn0cpZZU9NomhQbrLyKcHMkjG85rN3jVXs/s1600-h/bobnewhart.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232354883288412738" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsb-h6aNFJu8BMZo4PPV1l4Tv_a4coh2utIl2Fx0YRN-zcT4ROTcVdaJEzut4Cs5wOsS8WkDVnS63vuPsDUxNFY2e67l0xMZ38hasn0cpZZU9NomhQbrLyKcHMkjG85rN3jVXs/s200/bobnewhart.jpg" border="0" /></a>That’s much more appealing than watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0362270/"><em>The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou</em></a> (DVD arrived 02/22/07; stored on top of the turntable thereafter) or <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0379725/">Capote</a></em> (DVD arrived 04/10/07; stored on top of <em>The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou</em>) or even <em><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0479537/">Seraphim Falls</a></em>, which features a cameo appearance by Reid Hayashi, an appearance in which he was bitch-slapped by Pierce Brosnan (DVD arrived 05/19/08; promptly stored on top of <em>Capote</em>).<br /><br />I’m lying. I’m lying about Lumpy and Ferris Bueller.<br /><br />Initially Lumpy was not ecstatic about our bachelor life together. Not at all. Instead he was alarmed.<br /><br />“Shit,” he thought. “She won’t be able to provide for us. We’ll starve here without Mark. Does she even know how to open the cat door? I don’t think so. She’s kind of a retard, really. Have you ever watched her hunt? We will starve. WE WILL STARVE!”<br /><br />There’s not much you can do when you get a vote of no-confidence from your cat. Not much at all.<br /><br />Yet he stuck to me like Velcro.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewTwx2EYqKfpITpdaKsaybJT2jWJRvPXc1LgjlvR5231r5YUJJmJ9SgyyH5dN4MyTCm2MG5yR2q2L0nS6GhR93lSs55skEcjXGfvvLDFItWEP87FT4V-_e6ddGrJV5OFM20wS/s1600-h/kittyangel.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232357914024783090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewTwx2EYqKfpITpdaKsaybJT2jWJRvPXc1LgjlvR5231r5YUJJmJ9SgyyH5dN4MyTCm2MG5yR2q2L0nS6GhR93lSs55skEcjXGfvvLDFItWEP87FT4V-_e6ddGrJV5OFM20wS/s200/kittyangel.jpg" border="0" /></a>I finally left the house to fetch some Dim Sum (shrimp dumplings for him; pot stickers for me) at our favorite cheap Chinese restaurant on Castro Street—an excursion that takes all of 20 minutes, door-to-door—while my little angel-cat snoozed on the sofa. But by the time I returned, I realized that Lumpy must’ve been out getting lunch too: a large mouse was cowering behind the potted rubber tree.<br /><br />Was the victim really a large mouse? Let’s be clear: this was a rat. Lumpy crouched, hind end twitching, fixated on the ratty mouse when I walked in the dining room. The rat didn’t look damaged yet, but he did seem to be traumatized by whatever had transpired so far.<br /><br />We stood there in the dining room in a frozen tableau. Me. The cat. The rodent.<br /><br />I broke the silence. “Lumpy! I told you! NO MORE MOUSIES! No more catch-and-release indoors!”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7trSaHxfhF8Zud7ffZ0SLhMPMQrWpZ_WkuPjYRUuzTVjWHzfDU5rXr_wfnR6j-E3qFhkjPsnBaQs4BmRhAI3g3AhT-sWiDgeno6TAiHAcPhJFsSTH1xU39ZpDPibC_8TWn7Sg/s1600-h/lumpy.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232359552487423218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7trSaHxfhF8Zud7ffZ0SLhMPMQrWpZ_WkuPjYRUuzTVjWHzfDU5rXr_wfnR6j-E3qFhkjPsnBaQs4BmRhAI3g3AhT-sWiDgeno6TAiHAcPhJFsSTH1xU39ZpDPibC_8TWn7Sg/s200/lumpy.JPG" border="0" /></a>Distracted momentarily, he glared over his shoulder at me. I could tell that he was thinking something along the lines of: <em>Didn’t I tell you she was a retard? There she goes, making noise during the crucial part of the hunt.</em><br /><br />During this interlude, the rodent summoned his courage, made a dash for the sofa, and disappeared underneath.<br /><br />Lumpy spent the rest of the afternoon on edge, alert, ready, with his nose poked under the couch. He paused briefly to inhale most of a can of Fancy Feast Chunky Turkey, all except for one tablespoon. He customarily leaves a tablespoonful in his food bowl, perhaps for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elijah">Elijah</a>, perhaps anticipating 3am hunger pangs. Perhaps he just does it <em>because it gives me the ass: why won’t he ever finish off the damn can. Why</em>?<br /><br />Or perhaps the tablespoon of rapidly-decaying cat food was bait to lure the rat out from under the sofa.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02ADyFSBjjsS6Y_tJQW3klHEh2hWSxlsbssSmt3AhRYArcGkddacyb2OwJgo6Jlixv9gcKCLxw6I_3WkMPCPplC6h2GWVlmu2U8tyw_DbgXIw0Z1utIDjVy9t1IoNcNvLi-cw/s1600-h/shredded-sofa.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232360486984515730" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02ADyFSBjjsS6Y_tJQW3klHEh2hWSxlsbssSmt3AhRYArcGkddacyb2OwJgo6Jlixv9gcKCLxw6I_3WkMPCPplC6h2GWVlmu2U8tyw_DbgXIw0Z1utIDjVy9t1IoNcNvLi-cw/s200/shredded-sofa.JPG" border="0" /></a>The rat was apparently smart enough to stay under the sofa. Lumpy eventually backed off, first to the middle of the living room floor, then later to his spot beside me on an overturned couch cushion. He did not relax his vigilance though; he kept a close watch on his invisible prisoner. I was mesmerized too in my misery. I hate watching him—or worse, listening to him—kill smaller animals. I knew from past experience that I probably wouldn’t be able to catch the rat on my own and that it was likely I’d prolong its squeaking misery if I fought Lumpy for custody.<br /><br />There was still a slight—SLIGHT—chance I could shoo the rodent outside before Lumpy chewed his head off. A lottery-odds chance I think you would say.<br /><br />So there we were, Lumpy and I, sitting on the other couch, torturing this poor creature, the guards over our own Rodent Guantanamo. Sometimes I thought I heard vague rustlings. But mostly it was quiet.<br /><br />Around 10:30pm, Lumpy looked over at me and said, “You’re the one who fucked this up. If I’d have had my way, we’d have had a nice fresh dinner by now.” Then he muttered under his breath, “you ’tard. Mark never should have left us here alone. We’re going to starve, I tell you, STARVE.” Then he returned his attention to his prey.<br /><br />Finally at about midnight, the rat decided he would make a break for it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8a0P_r_BnAi39C6Cvtj0j4BLjHxxq17dKLj72lkOgEDrcN5TPDU0VHi5vR7oRioEdr1Gfe55bjZ0NCIRuzpwQUwLo8ZR30w6dtQU7izYkSzMbT260SuDvgHcpPBoPJvwsSW7/s1600-h/dr-horrible.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232362165680392354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8a0P_r_BnAi39C6Cvtj0j4BLjHxxq17dKLj72lkOgEDrcN5TPDU0VHi5vR7oRioEdr1Gfe55bjZ0NCIRuzpwQUwLo8ZR30w6dtQU7izYkSzMbT260SuDvgHcpPBoPJvwsSW7/s200/dr-horrible.JPG" border="0" /></a>I couldn’t watch. I slunk downstairs and downloaded <em>Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog</em> while Lumpy went about his own horrible business. In the killing fields of our dining room.<br /><br />I hate this.<br /><br />I’m going to wind up being a vegetarian again. And it’ll be Lumpy’s fault.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.drhorrible.com/">I watched all three episodes of Dr. Horrible back-to-back</a>. Who’d have thought young <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0096569/">Doogie Howser, M.D</a>. would end up like this? Toward the end of the segment where Captain Hammer is singing “Everyone’s a Hero (in their own not very heroic way),” Lumpy strode in and gave a short, assertive “Bed time. Now.” meow.<br /><br />“C’mon. Wait a minute.” I told him. “I gotta watch Dr. Horrible use his death ray on Captain Hammer.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeFJiDVQ4c-rPo8MrF-EdY7SxDgI20HBADFScgLrmvQiXjOLjN2StAiIWp-mUFdcxF-TU09hIyFrdmxfnukUN94l79RXA6JxdTAhRiSH87Bz8sCRwPYMlBRCby_uYOYJDKoob/s1600-h/GTCMShow.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232368096824392946" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeFJiDVQ4c-rPo8MrF-EdY7SxDgI20HBADFScgLrmvQiXjOLjN2StAiIWp-mUFdcxF-TU09hIyFrdmxfnukUN94l79RXA6JxdTAhRiSH87Bz8sCRwPYMlBRCby_uYOYJDKoob/s200/GTCMShow.JPG" border="0" /></a>I’m aware of the minor contradiction here: I can watch Captain Hammer be zapped but I can’t watch my cat have it out with the rat. But I can’t help it. I need to find out how it ends. This is what happens when writers go on strike. They double-down on the meds and write <a href="http://www.drhorrible.com/">YouTube musicals</a>, <a href="http://www.watchtheguild.com/">MMORPG soap operas</a>, and <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/15953/gorgeous-tiny-chicken-machine-show-lick-poop#s-p3-so-i0">genre-defying variety shows</a>.<br /><br />Lumpy will tolerate this not at all: “Did you not hear me? I’m only going to say it once more. Get upstairs!”<br /><br />And he means it. He’s attacked my feet before when I’ve stalled. Bedtime means bedtime.<br /><br />“Just one more minute, okay Lump?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKHvVRNQTXhSHC-OAjKHZIDviW5Ae6oj9WiksZ1EK4sp1v_JRdH6VcIz7_YnIyxS2GYJQgWCpqGk_7AfR1uOnZEuoAtAsLQwlm6woXgahLnBwD04DEvRRbqGOqV9TMJ5yQZuH/s1600-h/GTCMShow2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232368462844649906" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaKHvVRNQTXhSHC-OAjKHZIDviW5Ae6oj9WiksZ1EK4sp1v_JRdH6VcIz7_YnIyxS2GYJQgWCpqGk_7AfR1uOnZEuoAtAsLQwlm6woXgahLnBwD04DEvRRbqGOqV9TMJ5yQZuH/s200/GTCMShow2.JPG" border="0" /></a>I had no desire to go back upstairs and see what he’d done with the rat. I need anesthesia before I look; or perhaps I can clean it up after I take out my contact lenses. That way I won’t be able to really focus on the carnage. I get queasy even thinking about it.<br /><br />When I went upstairs, I cast a sidelong glance into the dining room, saw that the damage had been done, and decided I wouldn’t deal with it until morning. Too gross for right before bed; it’d make me have nightmares. That rat wasn’t going anywhere.<br /><br />I was a vegetarian for three or four years when I was in my early twenties. My vegetarianism had no source I can point to. Maybe it’s just harder to poison yourself when you’re living on rice, seaweed, and Red Vines. Nothing really spoils.<br /><br />I finally stopped out of boredom. I hated explaining why I was a vegetarian.<br /><br />There’s no way of being a vegetarian without seeming just a little holier-than-thou. But now I’m a wimp, and there are plenty of incidents that make me contemplate going back to it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6T_bNvmmqBztahfirPRwJ2dgUmoqrzox9x1eIjrCuufjUHCSHVisbyg_Qycuuzt2ApsW2E3Dgo7Gd8puaFLHv2bBb71w1-1ZOqItOewIQy2pG0blN7p9xTExLhuzR0dOXhtZe/s1600-h/lobster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232365132447528354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6T_bNvmmqBztahfirPRwJ2dgUmoqrzox9x1eIjrCuufjUHCSHVisbyg_Qycuuzt2ApsW2E3Dgo7Gd8puaFLHv2bBb71w1-1ZOqItOewIQy2pG0blN7p9xTExLhuzR0dOXhtZe/s200/lobster.jpg" border="0" /></a>Just a few weeks ago I was out on Cape Cod, at Woods Hole, in fact, confronted with a large (cooked) <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-492557/Claws-concern-Scientists-suggest-prawns-lobsters-feel-pain-just-like-humans.html">lobster</a>.<br /><br />It was supposed to be a treat.<br /><br />My colleagues were tucking into their own crustaceans, lobster bibs askew in the evening ocean breeze, cracking, slurping, crunching, dunking, blissed-out by the traditional New England dinner. No lobster-part was going to waste. They were ripping off the little insect-like legs and digging at the soft thoraxes.<br /><br />“Are you supposed to eat the green stuff?” one of my colleagues asked.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgga2JjQ1Rxjments7B9a_w5fHc4jb03F5Si27TezXMa2l-X1JNl0-iDoFYqIRNYvrkzetCb2FPF9bdITE4e_p__bGXf7C2GXAWBlSZIDAVY5SC0K5tdbhXOsaQSd4lS0J7sk/s1600-h/lobster-eater2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232371704240304690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgga2JjQ1Rxjments7B9a_w5fHc4jb03F5Si27TezXMa2l-X1JNl0-iDoFYqIRNYvrkzetCb2FPF9bdITE4e_p__bGXf7C2GXAWBlSZIDAVY5SC0K5tdbhXOsaQSd4lS0J7sk/s200/lobster-eater2.jpg" border="0" /></a>“I did.” another answered. “It was great!”<br /><br />I had contemplated politely turning down the lobster when it was offered to me. But how would that look? I’d seem unappreciative. Like a prig. Like a dope. No-one else in the group was keeping kosher; no-one else had begged off as a vegan. And I’d already eaten meat several times in front of these people.<br /><br />And I used to like eating lobster. What’s wrong with me these days?<br /><br />I felt like shouting <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/davos-of-barbeque.html">NO PRAWNS. NO PRAWNS!</a> as a distraction. But I just poked meekly at beast, unable and unwilling to break through the carapace.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyluxfyCnXAxPfiHwBEnNOVFSs3Kd9hXFG3nTjBmqDsQTsmEk_6ifvI2Rb21LxozraELh4L8Yy87LWk5nbDdEikUxhk8q4-DSNjbwFjx0jUrvmk9ERcHYNxPJpC5Gtjo0NqFd/s1600-h/implements.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232373671604306146" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRyluxfyCnXAxPfiHwBEnNOVFSs3Kd9hXFG3nTjBmqDsQTsmEk_6ifvI2Rb21LxozraELh4L8Yy87LWk5nbDdEikUxhk8q4-DSNjbwFjx0jUrvmk9ERcHYNxPJpC5Gtjo0NqFd/s200/implements.jpg" border="0" /></a>You can’t spread a lobster around your plate and pretend you’ve eaten some of it. The damned thing glared at me, intact, alone on my plate, because once I’d claimed my lobster, I started feeling ill enough that I didn’t want an ear of corn or any side dishes. It was only that evening ocean breeze that was keeping me from getting sick.<br /><br />“It’s you or me, buddy.” I silently communed with my lobster. “It’s you or me.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxWLpqPhNcVVLaPDSPwCnUAhLfYH4eWjk5kElTCtmQQ_unYVrK-pQgdzRda7K8ORQ3IF-T5jns3EXaLWdhMZ13o0kgbjVO6W6SMEP7yJYPq8GD3al0voz4E34x45HC9XcLip8/s1600-h/lobster-mascot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232374015958663970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxWLpqPhNcVVLaPDSPwCnUAhLfYH4eWjk5kElTCtmQQ_unYVrK-pQgdzRda7K8ORQ3IF-T5jns3EXaLWdhMZ13o0kgbjVO6W6SMEP7yJYPq8GD3al0voz4E34x45HC9XcLip8/s200/lobster-mascot.jpg" border="0" /></a>Of course they’d supplied us with all the implements that we would’ve needed to consume a several-pound lobster, the nutcrackers, picks, and forks: you’re really supposed to tear into the thing with some vigor, dismember it, dig at all the soft parts. A bathtub-sized dish of drawn butter sat beside my plate, waiting for me to address my lobster.<br /><br />Gentlemen, address your lobsters.<br /><br />I took a big gulp of wine. You can’t slip a lobster to the dog either. There is nothing you can do about a goddamned lobster. Nothing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKbquauux9ELNpQz3M2vbawTubT9pFAPDsdm5h2a8QcuYqQ1MtOgBJO41ax9jxt3o0YKuGSH8j95cIdCUUqVHJbCwhbr89qJAXYrFl2aqN87BCEoQ_HG-dR0R0TjY2wKBT2jS/s1600-h/LobsterVan.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232374376075932306" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNKbquauux9ELNpQz3M2vbawTubT9pFAPDsdm5h2a8QcuYqQ1MtOgBJO41ax9jxt3o0YKuGSH8j95cIdCUUqVHJbCwhbr89qJAXYrFl2aqN87BCEoQ_HG-dR0R0TjY2wKBT2jS/s200/LobsterVan.jpg" border="0" /></a>In the end, I made it through the meal without incident. But it was another close brush with vegetarianism.<br /><br />And now the rat. The dead rat. At least I don’t have to pretend to Lumpy that I’m eating and enjoying it. He’s not even interested in the thing now that it’s dead. It’s about the thrill of the chase.<br /><br />“Oh, I would’ve eaten it if you knew how to prepare them properly,” Lumpy told me. “Cooking them is an art—they can end up tough and stringy if you screw up. And you’ve got to season them right too. You know how many chefs can cook a fresh mouse in this country? I mean, one worth eating. Have you ever had mouse cheek ravioli? Delicious!”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSOVfuxK8fPaLrEAHVO7aJodKiAubb04mMJ2JivwOi8n8z51iE2RETvGusSLFly5xkslojOPNavf4CtQ-joe9koDvpG9LI2WI0r7cL7vxq-E6BZsckrlli6Ye2DCmbyq-9hiY/s1600-h/glove.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232375511327670098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSOVfuxK8fPaLrEAHVO7aJodKiAubb04mMJ2JivwOi8n8z51iE2RETvGusSLFly5xkslojOPNavf4CtQ-joe9koDvpG9LI2WI0r7cL7vxq-E6BZsckrlli6Ye2DCmbyq-9hiY/s200/glove.jpg" border="0" /></a>I still didn’t feel like facing the stiff carcass the next morning, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere on its own. I pulled on latex medical examination gloves. Not enough. Over those I put on my leather gardening gloves. Still not enough, but I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to pick anything up if I put on another pair over those.<br /><br />So I halfway closed my eyes and bent over to pick up the rat by the tail, trying to ignore how gross it was to be picking up a dead rat in my own dining room in the severe light of morning. The head stuck to the floor just a little bit when I tugged at the tail. Was this thing going fall apart where it was most deeply perforated? Ick. Ick. Ick. I put the small body in a plastic grocery bag and tried to tie it shut; this is actually hard to do wearing two pairs of gloves. I shuddered.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzS3ql55hQdoVHeX7pv-jhyyirI83JPIh5fkWxnY09oWVGRAcAnWqePaUYzgOpYR-T-IwmPsICpTL8a-sPtXMfnBBVh_XEJ1V_AQZsTOX6WMpUuGDQaRYs4r5vLYmj_xC7rU3/s1600-h/glove-outer.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232375920583294802" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdzS3ql55hQdoVHeX7pv-jhyyirI83JPIh5fkWxnY09oWVGRAcAnWqePaUYzgOpYR-T-IwmPsICpTL8a-sPtXMfnBBVh_XEJ1V_AQZsTOX6WMpUuGDQaRYs4r5vLYmj_xC7rU3/s200/glove-outer.bmp" border="0" /></a>Did I mention that I have a weak stomach?<br /><br />If you put a dead rat in your own garbage bin on Saturday, it’s pretty much guaranteed that it’ll stink by trash pickup on Thursday morning. So I walked the plastic bag down to the public trash can on the corner, the can in front of the comic book store. I’m sure that the trash can already has so much disgusting refuse in it—medical waste, used condoms, dog shit, two-week old burritos—that one dead rat more or less isn’t going to make much of a difference.<br /><br />I was still wearing the two pairs of gloves, but people wear all kinds of things on Castro Street, so I doubt anybody paid much attention to me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfu8RE2iBvZH_vTPOxgWxEB_waephAplT1sTg4vo5yM13V4pnxFcei67wqBuhJCeRCp2PzOJslH88ktItBn7qj15vVdGeuF6dRBO5MmqbXODntatLLtQ9DXORuStsDN6F10Ne-/s1600-h/trash-can-on-the-corner.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232376303389773026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfu8RE2iBvZH_vTPOxgWxEB_waephAplT1sTg4vo5yM13V4pnxFcei67wqBuhJCeRCp2PzOJslH88ktItBn7qj15vVdGeuF6dRBO5MmqbXODntatLLtQ9DXORuStsDN6F10Ne-/s200/trash-can-on-the-corner.JPG" border="0" /></a>In fact, Lumpy watched the whole process with only casual interest.<br /><br />“Hrmph,” he said, thumbing through his Zagat’s, browsing for a dinner venue, “I didn’t think you had the chops to cook up one of those. This one’s obviously no good now anyway. And I bet it’s too late to get reservations at a decent restaurant. No French Laundry for us. We’ll be eating Fancy Feast again tonight, thanks to you.”<br /><br />I glared at him. “No more mousies, Lump. No more! You don’t have to do that again, okay?”<br /><br />We were a whole day into our fabulous wild bachelor week. But we still didn’t seem to be having much fun. I wasn’t writing. I wasn’t even painting.<br /><br />Oh! I didn’t mention that, did I? That I’d planned to finish painting the back of the house while Mark was away.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWN9NereSg5zcwAgj18izFBq75nFhRJobSt6HrjyXbuLRwwU1kqDqBambutJsVeBk7Zz7Gy-2Nbo8unFTnQGO-Fi8yCiAry2OJWiCLOdYeZXc_0XTcrM38CeBjKxVJwkiznpx/s1600-h/whitepaintchips.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232376960458652722" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWN9NereSg5zcwAgj18izFBq75nFhRJobSt6HrjyXbuLRwwU1kqDqBambutJsVeBk7Zz7Gy-2Nbo8unFTnQGO-Fi8yCiAry2OJWiCLOdYeZXc_0XTcrM38CeBjKxVJwkiznpx/s200/whitepaintchips.JPG" border="0" /></a>Perhaps I forgot to mention that we were painting the house. Inside and out. Ourselves. In many different shades of white and off-white—ecru, eggshell, Swiss cream—plus a few medium grays for the outdoor bits. We started some weeks ago, more or less co-incident with when I stopped blogging.<br /><br />I remember reading a magazine piece about porn stars in the San Fernando Valley. The writer went on and on about how their suburban houses, purchased with their fresh direct-to-video earnings, were always white-on-white affairs. The walls were eggshell; the shag carpeting was alpine snow; the drapes were ecru; the couches were beige; the small dog was white. Even the accent pillows were cream-colored.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgFOXGZril-3i-tNWMd_ibW6EjVA3i2VlPioOaB9aGpJK0hCaR1WS71Yrr9E_eeSSmAd_8s805KV0AqaPMrRGHCjrsDS8KgXTfIhy2sJ52oYCA9bjzMwt37ulnmJ0RJT9RFr9/s1600-h/whitesofa.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232378868261702386" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgFOXGZril-3i-tNWMd_ibW6EjVA3i2VlPioOaB9aGpJK0hCaR1WS71Yrr9E_eeSSmAd_8s805KV0AqaPMrRGHCjrsDS8KgXTfIhy2sJ52oYCA9bjzMwt37ulnmJ0RJT9RFr9/s200/whitesofa.jpg" border="0" /></a>The writer opined that all this whiteness stemmed from some sort of spiritual void, a lack of imagination and interior life.<br /><br />I wondered whether I should take that personally.<br /><br />Oh, I wish I were like my neighbor Evert. He painted his house an odd mud-color, the color you get when you mix lots of other interesting colors together. A color you don’t see very often. His own color. Then he painted red accents on the trim. And changed his mind and redid them a vibrant racing yellow. And painted over that twice when the yellow didn’t cover.<br /><br />I’m lying again: Evert didn’t paint his house: he picked up his usual day laborer on Cesar Chavez and had him do the painting. Juan painted slowly and none too steadily—he apparently had a killer hangover—but he was fearless and patient. He was willing, for a price, to clamber up the 24 foot ladder and to paint everything once, twice, three times, more.<br /><br />He painted until Evert said he could go.<br /><br />Evert is assertive that way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzg5iHtPn2k1gCE3fXNDccbd0RikOdUcEzynMGM55vWdEwdBvVcaBWmz9ao5idpv7eszWllW3n0JBCrSyYNqqPO1VKVB73ccTL2PNQNYi8jZQdFvWZP3om-w5GJxk1Dwu5Fmy/s1600-h/badstucco2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232380962307050530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzg5iHtPn2k1gCE3fXNDccbd0RikOdUcEzynMGM55vWdEwdBvVcaBWmz9ao5idpv7eszWllW3n0JBCrSyYNqqPO1VKVB73ccTL2PNQNYi8jZQdFvWZP3om-w5GJxk1Dwu5Fmy/s200/badstucco2.JPG" border="0" /></a>If you ask me why we’re painting the house ourselves, I’d tell you that the stucco in the light well was the last straw. It was done and redone. And it still looks crappy according to Mark. Unlike Evert, we could not keep the stucco guy on the roof until the stucco was just right. We meekly stepped aside when he switched off the classic rock station on his portable radio, and said it was fine.<br /><br />But it wasn’t fine; it was crappy.<br /><br />And Mark confirms this verdict with every visitor we have.<br /><br />“Look there at the roof line. Look. Isn’t that a crappy stucco job? Can you believe that was done by a professional?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpYeWcCPVlqa9Htueu5cXj_lStgeqP0J9qmLjAfqhqnUZPq4R4llEPu06ugCv8DjmCVXaSLK4Tts68kOzTUV67B-LGpmqroUEhia2MEXjkUfCF27268kIVlLfEA_xiEwIVRaF/s1600-h/badstucco.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232381291329697282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfpYeWcCPVlqa9Htueu5cXj_lStgeqP0J9qmLjAfqhqnUZPq4R4llEPu06ugCv8DjmCVXaSLK4Tts68kOzTUV67B-LGpmqroUEhia2MEXjkUfCF27268kIVlLfEA_xiEwIVRaF/s200/badstucco.JPG" border="0" /></a>If the visitor feigns ignorance, Mark explains it to them. He gives them pointers about what stucco should look like.<br /><br />“Now look!” He tells our newly wised-up visitor. “See? It looks so cobby!”<br /><br />The visitor peers skeptically through our kitchen window at the roof line.<br /><br />“It looks like shit.” Mark tells them just to reaffirm their heightened judgment. “Really bad. I could do better myself.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yk8i2ia7PCpFqmBZUrpfCz2G8LmQqOoFHRWJcGVqH5fB-41XWT68_GFupRB_SLmYf8aj1tY0ERUr4bS6HGFQKo9tBaxBo7C7fbFW4WIp_AISVvMBaXM28cf17DcuuLGoTAcy/s1600-h/badwindow.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232382078571136034" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5yk8i2ia7PCpFqmBZUrpfCz2G8LmQqOoFHRWJcGVqH5fB-41XWT68_GFupRB_SLmYf8aj1tY0ERUr4bS6HGFQKo9tBaxBo7C7fbFW4WIp_AISVvMBaXM28cf17DcuuLGoTAcy/s200/badwindow.JPG" border="0" /></a>And this is why we decided that we’d paint the house—inside and out—by ourselves. We’d gone through the trauma of the windows; we’d gone through the trauma of the roof. If you’ll recall (and we do), the French doors in the back were a full two inches shy of the wall. And—while the new roof looks to be snug and tarry—there’s still the issue of the stucco. The stucco we examine and re-examine every day.<br /><br />If we painted the house ourselves, Mark’d be sure the job was done correctly. Mark even has experience: he worked as a house painter for a couple of summers when he was in college.<br />He didn’t have an intern job; he didn’t spend his summers baffled by a series of ill-specified programming assignments supervised by mid-divorce bosses like some of us. No. Instead Mark did something useful. He learned a skill. He learned how to paint.<br /><br />Foreman Mark and his trusty paint-spattered assistant Ecru Cathy.<br /><br />Think of the money we’ll save! Think of the control we’ll have! Think of how nice the house will look! Think of a big job done just right!<br /><br />There’s only one thing wrong with this formulation.<br /><br />Me.<br /><br />Not only am I lousy at catching mice; I’m also very poor at home repairs and improvements. And I did not paint during the summer when I was in college. Not for pay, anyway. I did help paint a number of rooms in Dabney House while I was at Caltech. I used gloss enamel. I was inventive with the color schemes back then too. Sunshine Yellow for the radiator? That’d be cheerful. Jungle Green (one of Gesine’s favorites)? Bring it on.<br /><br />The problem with using gloss enamel indoors in lieu of flat paint is that you can’t really paint over a mistake. Gloss enamel is a commitment, just like blogging. I suspect Larry West still isn’t speaking to me because of my ill-conceived attempt at a Southwestern scene on his wall. It was butt-ugly. Why did the sketch look so good on a notecard, and so bad on a wall?<br /><br />Yeah. You just can’t paint over gloss enamel. Not easily. Oh well. I’m sure someone installed shag carpeting on the walls after Larry moved on. The good thing about being in college is that there’s always someone whose taste is even more hideous than one’s own.<br /><br />No wonder I haven’t painted since. No wonder I picked out Antique White, Swiss Creme, and Frost. No wonder Mark’s the foreman and I’m the assistant. No wonder I’m about to be fired.<br /><br />“Are you still working on that?” Mark is incredulous. “You’re still doing that?”<br /><br />“I’m slow.” I’m doing the prep work. There are gooey white streamers and piles of DAP Latex Caulk adhering to places that should be neither gooey nor white. I’m concentrating. The top’s off the tub of spackle, which is hardening far faster than I can apply it. Divots from pictures and shelves inexpertly hung have been replaced by three dimensional outcroppings of white DAP and beige spackle.<br /><br />“I’m sorry.” I say. Mark, apoplectic, pries the caulk gun from my gooey fingers.<br /><br />“Let me do this,” he says. “You get ready to roller the walls.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEG1qOy0K29rt0u9SNBY4S2ugNzukClrsejlnhq2tXqQYxXJF1mLtuasb9UEvbW3dgGLhRQp-MzykzOsrAR-_N5I_stjkvi8tunJhHxhRIiYSZKdkbFHSYINYVLSVI-0FHSShW/s1600-h/ReidandKristinasCobOuthouse.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232384004628225618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEG1qOy0K29rt0u9SNBY4S2ugNzukClrsejlnhq2tXqQYxXJF1mLtuasb9UEvbW3dgGLhRQp-MzykzOsrAR-_N5I_stjkvi8tunJhHxhRIiYSZKdkbFHSYINYVLSVI-0FHSShW/s200/ReidandKristinasCobOuthouse.jpg" border="0" /></a>And that’s why we weren’t finished before Mark left for New Mexico to see <a href="http://www.geocities.com/mesalife/">Reid</a> and <a href="http://www.geocities.com/mesalife/life.html">Kristina</a>.<br /><br />I planned to surprise Mark by painting the back exterior wall while he was gone. The whole thing, including the garage door.<br /><br />How hard could it be? You just wipe off 11 years of accumulated cobwebs, spider cocoons and dust drifts, scrape a few blistered places, and slap on a coat of Kelly Moore paint, Keystone Gray. You hardly even need a ladder to paint the back of our house. And house paint has gotten so good that the whole job is a snap.<br /><br />Which is why I don’t have a very good excuse for neither painting nor blogging while Mark was on the road: the paint is thick and lustrous, and I’m never out of things to say. I could probably blog while I painted.<br /><br />It must’ve been the rat. I don’t know what else it could’ve been.<br /><br />The week passed in a sleep-deprived blur.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPXLbd9fsSXAhIbM1VK0Jc-mcaW5gqql06pcBuiaxnoA_6mwqOyPUxn_x0K0wUuFBaO_9zQ5XvSA5DK9f7y71oYhYbypy1pKHrVkf94td67X9cpytvzTyuvIjnGtHEkugMXGu/s1600-h/lumpy-skeptic.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5232386287939313250" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPXLbd9fsSXAhIbM1VK0Jc-mcaW5gqql06pcBuiaxnoA_6mwqOyPUxn_x0K0wUuFBaO_9zQ5XvSA5DK9f7y71oYhYbypy1pKHrVkf94td67X9cpytvzTyuvIjnGtHEkugMXGu/s200/lumpy-skeptic.JPG" border="0" /></a>You see, when you’re on Lumpy’s staff, you might find yourself short on sleep. What happens is that around 4am, he gets restless. If you had any foresight, you probably put the extra heap of cat food in his bowl before you went to sleep. But that’s only good until about 5am. By 5:30, after several interludes of feline conversation, he’s got you convinced that the only thing you can do is to open his cat door so he can prowl outside just as day is breaking.<br /><br />It’s the optimal time to prowl, Lumpy tells me. Cops know that dawn is when the donuts are the freshest. And cats know that’s when it’s best to make your rounds. After I’ve stumbled downstairs in the near-dark and slid open his cat door, I lay back down in bed, unable to get back to sleep.<br /><br />I can hear the first noises of the world awakening. The small dog up the hill in back of us yaps as Lumpy saunters through his yard. Evert starts up his Jeep and leaves for the gym. The San Francisco Chronicle delivery guy slaps papers on my neighbors’ back doorsteps. The 24 Muni bus labors up the Castro hill, sparking as it gets to the top.<br /><br />And as I finally drift back to sleep, a small furry body that smells of morning, rosemary, and cat food organizes himself so that he’s curled up against my face. And goes to sleep himself.<br /><br />I can sleep for an hour and a half more that way, inhaling fresh kitty dander.<br /><br />I’m fit for neither writing nor painting when I arise. I am only fit for feeding the cat. And that’s just fine with him. I don’t have to tell you that it went on pretty much just like that until Mark came back from his motorcycle odyssey.<br /><br />If I were Stephen Colbert, I could sum it up with Today’s Word:<br /><br /><a href="http://opendotdotdot.blogspot.com/2006/02/word-of-week-podfading.html">Blogfading</a>.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-6532763799256245292008-05-21T17:41:00.000-07:002008-05-22T13:18:13.169-07:00wherein I meet Ben Katchor and Jacob Kornbluth<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQ0obzFHwRCXRD0tS97RtkSHaz5ljgaKwlweBEIOJExgqr-KdM6JY5O9nO0ZgHNNRYq_shUL4TkAW1Mcy7ej2RZk3HISI0hYkQ1GEmLqGOLp7CWkXxe-1o7JNhUjEPN4VLt28/s1600-h/stub.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203010267825417282" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWQ0obzFHwRCXRD0tS97RtkSHaz5ljgaKwlweBEIOJExgqr-KdM6JY5O9nO0ZgHNNRYq_shUL4TkAW1Mcy7ej2RZk3HISI0hYkQ1GEmLqGOLp7CWkXxe-1o7JNhUjEPN4VLt28/s200/stub.JPG" border="0" /></a>By some quirk of the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency, Bus Line 24, I arrived a full 20 minutes early to see Josh Kornbluth interview Ben Katchor at the Jewish Community Center.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.katchor.com/">Ben Katchor live and off the page</a>! <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/03/josh-kornbluth-about-town.html">Josh Kornbluth live and <em>on purpose</em></a>! <a href="http://www.jccsf.org/content_main.aspx?catid=604#katchor">All this, and dessert too</a>. It's no quirk that I arrived early.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAcYuxy3XyKOnbKgY8OrvNrY6UT9i5RfW3rq-7a089MlpVCcVuM97lHQ6IEDZ-E_MxS7Lf2z-iZjjm1WkyP4DViT38e7yfT1DUAbh_WlMW6Lm9UvVspn9Tt6su0R3mjCsKCj6/s1600-h/dancinginthedarkspringsteen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203012368064425042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAcYuxy3XyKOnbKgY8OrvNrY6UT9i5RfW3rq-7a089MlpVCcVuM97lHQ6IEDZ-E_MxS7Lf2z-iZjjm1WkyP4DViT38e7yfT1DUAbh_WlMW6Lm9UvVspn9Tt6su0R3mjCsKCj6/s200/dancinginthedarkspringsteen.jpg" border="0" /></a>Since I was alone, I was able to secure a plum seat <em>in the middle of the 4th row</em>. I’m not sure why it’s important to sit close to the stage; it’s not like you’ll get a hand up to dance with Bruce Springsteen or Oprah will toss you the keys to a BRAND NEW CAR. Nope. Not going to happen. Still, there’s something exciting about being in the 4th row.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTlVjC8JajRGQBBuZdF2it-PIPy7cJVKFG0RrqoMSRjKoRME4KR9M8jJReJ-cQ9BirKJrCzlbBk-uqNT9Ijgt-OPOdsayK35ZxWTb8AJaBV2ad-5b7IHIRRLyCzRSO40FSiEK/s1600-h/minigolfpencil.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203013184108211298" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTlVjC8JajRGQBBuZdF2it-PIPy7cJVKFG0RrqoMSRjKoRME4KR9M8jJReJ-cQ9BirKJrCzlbBk-uqNT9Ijgt-OPOdsayK35ZxWTb8AJaBV2ad-5b7IHIRRLyCzRSO40FSiEK/s200/minigolfpencil.jpg" border="0" /></a>The auditorium was almost empty when I took my seat; being so early made me feel over-eager and squirrelly. I busied myself by filling out the survey the usher had handed me when I wandered in. <em>How did you find out about this show</em>? Ah. That’s easy. They didn’t keep it much of a secret. That’s how I found out about it. I filled in the bubble next to ‘Postcard’ with the miniature golf pencil the usher gave me. I was buzzing in anticipation of the show; it was all I could do to color inside the lines.<br /><br />Ben Katchor live. How cool is that?<br /><br />C110 seemed like a really good seat, a seat with a clear view of the two big chairs set up for the interviewer and the interviewee. I concentrated on the survey. <em>How many events have you attended during the last 12 months</em>? After some reflection, I lied. It’s embarrassing to admit how seldom I leave the house. Unless you count my trips to the market. But isn’t going to the market an event of sorts? For me it is. I exed out my original answer of <em>less than 6</em> and colored in the <em>greater than 24</em> bubble.<br /><br />Why does my survey look so messy?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdIuoccmwata6_yfySzoUUIXxg05XSbr3Vz6aPRIzmStmjMmECwe5wXwvfuDjUiLfFOmeiBQXTYMazVMCwwTdcCxPYOTbh0nXcgFmM6psMvK10lDPQxGuPVn80pc3DGSQ993H/s1600-h/billGaines.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203017564974853234" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdIuoccmwata6_yfySzoUUIXxg05XSbr3Vz6aPRIzmStmjMmECwe5wXwvfuDjUiLfFOmeiBQXTYMazVMCwwTdcCxPYOTbh0nXcgFmM6psMvK10lDPQxGuPVn80pc3DGSQ993H/s200/billGaines.jpg" border="0" /></a>The audience began to file in. So where was that really tall guy going to sit? Keep going. Keep going. Keep going: I willed him to keep going. He sat down directly in front of me. I knew it! Not a chance that I’d be sitting behind one of the countless short wide Jewish ladies who smelled of Nivea and secured used Kleenexes up the sleeves of their cardigans. Nope. The Bill Gaines look-alike—a compact fire plug of a man—took a seat three to the left. The neurotically thin Yoga ladies who were season ticket holders? They weren’t sitting in front of me.<br /><br />No, I was sitting behind the tallest man in the room, and next to a young blond spiky-haired guy who awkwardly held a skateboard to his chest. You could tell he was thinking, “What are all these old Jewish people doing here? This is about comix.” He sat nervously, as if the whole audience was going to turn around and yell at him not to skate on their sidewalk and to pick up the trash.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXM6Bs9kAXcYYx_6HdVl6tBAZUDybYpfvpXYveVnb5Ozxqdh5cNlP8taA_y3j62V7UKBHOPdwCsOAiuxWoWK55MrwKrMUONxhDaYhydtdPDS30vz7HhJyOs74onEZGPXmjVoQn/s1600-h/reflectingPool.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203019587904449666" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXM6Bs9kAXcYYx_6HdVl6tBAZUDybYpfvpXYveVnb5Ozxqdh5cNlP8taA_y3j62V7UKBHOPdwCsOAiuxWoWK55MrwKrMUONxhDaYhydtdPDS30vz7HhJyOs74onEZGPXmjVoQn/s200/reflectingPool.gif" border="0" /></a>It was exactly the audience that he—and I—should have expected.<br /><br />Then the two men, Ben Katchor and Josh Kornbluth, walked out. The audience, which was surprisingly quiet for hard-of-hearing older Jewish people, became even quieter. The man in front of me sat up even straighter. He was probably 7 or 8 feet tall and had unspeakably good posture. I shifted in my seat, trying to look around him.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRx3GlfU7jrTDXGiK3tX_Z_R7gYRL1rE4RbO7-RGm-mVvaHwGEKaafaeOogJfVuiWIxV0oTUuomoDwNpCV2Pe58J8m0TLQpXv75IOrTzdY0zxXnOfmhM4y9O84wvFDDP5hF7_q/s1600-h/katchorphoto.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203020189199871122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRx3GlfU7jrTDXGiK3tX_Z_R7gYRL1rE4RbO7-RGm-mVvaHwGEKaafaeOogJfVuiWIxV0oTUuomoDwNpCV2Pe58J8m0TLQpXv75IOrTzdY0zxXnOfmhM4y9O84wvFDDP5hF7_q/s200/katchorphoto.gif" border="0" /></a>I’ve seen Ben Katchor before; <a href="http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9903E5DC1338F932A25754C0A9669C8B63">it was when he was touring in the wake of his MacArthur Foundation genius award</a> (which, incidentally, is taxable). That time he was reminiscing about the golden age of museum cafeterias. It’s true: museum cafeterias have become too good. I often go to the <a href="http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/visit/cafemuse">Berkeley Art Museum’s Café Muse</a> just to eat the sustainably grown Raw Vietnamese Mushroom Salad with Cilantro, Scallions, & Almond Vinaigrette. I don’t even look at the museum’s exhibits. I eat lunch and leave. Someday I hope to be satisfied by just reading the menu.<br /><br />Ben Katchor was right.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxLVnVrqTjsH7KYcxrviaG5rHYlwKQbwRgnzoFOuoMso6m57gRbJM8EhoH4WGHGtU1JQt890ThKOsjI2d5bnHZOsmdjDWBHkYmIWZ20K9sE4xBHq56FaOgOcatCawAKQyySDl/s1600-h/Bernstein4.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203020335228759202" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitxLVnVrqTjsH7KYcxrviaG5rHYlwKQbwRgnzoFOuoMso6m57gRbJM8EhoH4WGHGtU1JQt890ThKOsjI2d5bnHZOsmdjDWBHkYmIWZ20K9sE4xBHq56FaOgOcatCawAKQyySDl/s200/Bernstein4.gif" border="0" /></a>I squirmed in my seat again, trying to get a good look at the setup on the stage. The skateboarder made his best effort to shift left and get further away from me.<br /><br />I’d forgotten how much Ben Katchor looks like <a href="http://www.markbernstein.org/">Mark Bernstein</a>. He looks a lot like Mark Bernstein. Surprisingly so.<br /><br />Josh Kornbluth looked even less like Ben Franklin than I’d remembered. Perhaps it was the red socks that were bunched up at his ankles; I never picture Ben Franklin wearing red socks. (I still think Josh Kornbluth looks like Jay Sherman, who might well wear red socks with failing elastic).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaSjQ9ROCiA5D4VsR61m2hg-f-FY6Fg75PnJ0nlTm6uFItMflglt_B_BW3jONQCk2FmegNkYL6rBdXSoNOV7APOOuZAUzYqQq6-3eOwuSwhrKWggIJDspqcpkEz6Nkp2rT2xf/s1600-h/JoshKornbluth.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203021207107120306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaSjQ9ROCiA5D4VsR61m2hg-f-FY6Fg75PnJ0nlTm6uFItMflglt_B_BW3jONQCk2FmegNkYL6rBdXSoNOV7APOOuZAUzYqQq6-3eOwuSwhrKWggIJDspqcpkEz6Nkp2rT2xf/s200/JoshKornbluth.jpg" border="0" /></a>Using a Sharpie, I wrote on my Muni pass: <em>perhaps JK is a BK character</em>. That would work. Josh Kornbluth looks drawn, as if he’s jumped off of the page of one of the Weekly Strips. The one about the chiropodist, perhaps.<br /><br />His experience as a talk show host has served him well: Josh Kornbluth is a fine interviewer. He asks good questions and mostly gets out of the way and lets Ben Katchor talk.<br /><br />I could listen to Ben Katchor talk as long as he felt like talking. That’s how good he is.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhncyP3NnnGn4xTWoNv1tv8YqOUVj6TDQpAjQllDwUCWhRlX2JU1QtxMXA3GsWqVoJCBsZ_7vpN3RIqG8hckcimfSCzHYTYWjn7g3yYxa_SIxfn64AxrWOW34F7luZ7eTWKWn_/s1600-h/benkatchor-apartmentbuilding.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203021774042803394" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhncyP3NnnGn4xTWoNv1tv8YqOUVj6TDQpAjQllDwUCWhRlX2JU1QtxMXA3GsWqVoJCBsZ_7vpN3RIqG8hckcimfSCzHYTYWjn7g3yYxa_SIxfn64AxrWOW34F7luZ7eTWKWn_/s200/benkatchor-apartmentbuilding.gif" border="0" /></a>The first piece he reads is about modern apartments, about a man who moves every year so he can live in ever more up-to-date surroundings. The same mythical Eastern European movers transport his furniture year after year. One of the movers has a hernia, but nonetheless is able to horse the man’s grandfather’s delicate antique armoire out of the back of the van into the next of the series of more improbably-modern apartments.<br /><br />Until…<br /><br />The man finally goes digital and no longer has belongings to move. In the final frame of the story, the irrelevant armoire is hefted into a dumpster. Done and done. Gone digital.<br /><br />My feet are dangling. If the springs in a theater seat are sufficiently strong, the seat begins to fold up on me, so that I’m folded in half, as if caught mid-crunch. My mini-backpack forms an uncomfortable lump between my top half and my bottom half.<br /><br />It is then—after a particularly restive series of shifts and folds, peering around the 8-feet-tall guy and fighting against the theater seat spring—that I begin <em>hearing voices</em>. Well, not really hearing voices like a schizophrenic person but rather, hearing voices like someone has their radio on. Yes, there is a muted voice of a radio commentator. How rude!<br /><br />Who on earth is listening to the radio? Is it feedback from someone’s hearing aid?.<br /><br />At some extreme point in my contortions, my ear is in close proximity to my mini-backpack. Aha! That’s the noise: it’s my own MP3 player. I must’ve pressed the ‘on’ button by accident. Those tiny tinny voices are from the <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2190470/">Slate Political Gabfest</a>. With great discretion, I put my hand inside my backpack and turn off the player. Ben Katchor must not discover that I’ve disrupted his reading with my $39 earPod. Shoot.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIO6o37CEChs1tBiQrQEzWqXVUEZXAfSTMKmE3xhcvhRPCtRXJEr-rB_2YRnIHF9XEBQ2AV3xGVbvfTvj5-YXY57bVPEy-XOZkBwWZZZqzwmgKxQIS3wP2gKLfPIT2jzc9Mj_Q/s1600-h/condiments-oldschool.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203023994540895442" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIO6o37CEChs1tBiQrQEzWqXVUEZXAfSTMKmE3xhcvhRPCtRXJEr-rB_2YRnIHF9XEBQ2AV3xGVbvfTvj5-YXY57bVPEy-XOZkBwWZZZqzwmgKxQIS3wP2gKLfPIT2jzc9Mj_Q/s200/condiments-oldschool.jpg" border="0" /></a>The second piece is even more arresting than the first. It is about condiment packets and how they are replacing the more human-scale shared service containers that preceded them. The sociable metal creamers have given way to personal handfuls of Mini-Moos; the mustard jar has been superseded by mustard packets with an unimaginably small amount of condiment within.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2I3ucXxyTx_sMgwKhKHUyFs_MwevSyGmSFtssyEnsesB7Q37fubBvhSyIr5sx_HH0qfETrfjZ0mABE9S_9ErSELr0dr3ncZXKYxyo-n0N_gXwAD46RJFalcsEZQj06CY1ET7/s1600-h/minimoos.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203024269418802402" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2I3ucXxyTx_sMgwKhKHUyFs_MwevSyGmSFtssyEnsesB7Q37fubBvhSyIr5sx_HH0qfETrfjZ0mABE9S_9ErSELr0dr3ncZXKYxyo-n0N_gXwAD46RJFalcsEZQj06CY1ET7/s200/minimoos.jpg" border="0" /></a>Not only are the packets an unrealistic size (how many for the average hot dog? 10?); they’re also uniformly difficult to open. One wrong move and a Mini-Moo will give you a creamy facial—a Mini-Moo money shot, if you’re in the mood for an obscene tongue twister. The ever-inventive Mr. Katchor suggests that young men will rent out their packet-opening services—they’ll accompany you into a restaurant, and will open all of the necessary condiments for you.<br /><br />With such help on call, you can go wild. Five tubs of syrup cascade down your short stack! A lavish squiggle of catsup ornaments your fries!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv7P3P0OzrzYW6GDHPKPRbsLcAPTIHaAtLTuISqz0E4YR83b0Dc5bH2NSg7MfN927L0jErjGmD9QW_E_SomPjQHkE2eBwD4cDFt07ssqvav-TqCty4JFAg1DYh_6HAX0LiL-Z/s1600-h/catsup+packets.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203025630923435282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv7P3P0OzrzYW6GDHPKPRbsLcAPTIHaAtLTuISqz0E4YR83b0Dc5bH2NSg7MfN927L0jErjGmD9QW_E_SomPjQHkE2eBwD4cDFt07ssqvav-TqCty4JFAg1DYh_6HAX0LiL-Z/s200/catsup+packets.JPG" border="0" /></a>Such a good idea. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/lunch.html">Condiments are certainly a topic I can warm to</a>; I think about them a lot. In fact, there’s not much in our refrigerator except a wealth of condiments: Uncle Chen’s chili garlic sauce; Aztexan Habanero Supreme hot sauce; Hoisin sauce; Tiparos fish sauce; Heinz Catsup in the ultra-large bottle with the customized label; Safeway Spicy Brown Mustard; and other bottles and jars too numerous to list (although I’m very tempted to alphabetize them).<br /><br />The condiment shelves are packed. Packed! A comic about condiments is very nearly perfect.<br /><br />But really, I can’t object to the packets on any but aesthetic grounds: I was recently saved from impending starvation by a stray peanut butter packet that I’d stashed in my suitcase. I was in a hotel room, late at night, in a strange city, and I came upon this miracle cache of peanut butter. I scrabbled around in my briefcase until I found airplane pretzels. Pretzels and peanut butter: Is that not a complete meal? It is. Most food groups are adequately represented. It was kind of like the original Hanukah, except with peanut butter and pretzels instead of oil.<br /><br />But I digress. Being in the Jewish Community Center with all these little old Jewish people (and the 9 foot tall man sitting in front of me) is clearly having an effect.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJHqbP6KQCJd9-TWs-DEaNuRMSxW_wltdVH0EwO1rHDrHm9nVGA61kFGe8qvhC9V1Fx8c_uR6DPgxucOgZaQJqq0nNmRGIa0iZFI7Q9kHpJ65tswSXutQWuhSQnQy-bbpNf32/s1600-h/crumb-trap.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203025970225851682" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJHqbP6KQCJd9-TWs-DEaNuRMSxW_wltdVH0EwO1rHDrHm9nVGA61kFGe8qvhC9V1Fx8c_uR6DPgxucOgZaQJqq0nNmRGIa0iZFI7Q9kHpJ65tswSXutQWuhSQnQy-bbpNf32/s200/crumb-trap.jpg" border="0" /></a>The Crumb Trap is the title of Ben Katchor’s third story. It is about the New York Department that goes from apartment to apartment (an entire building in an hour!), emptying toaster crumb traps. After a sufficient portion of the city’s small appliances had been emptied—saving residents from potential toaster-fires and cockroach invasions—the crumbs are sorted and used for different functions. Some are fine abrasives; others are Thanksgiving filler; still other crumbs are fed to the city’s songbirds.<br /><br />Really his ideas are quite practical. I greatly admire them.<br /><br />I wish I had ideas like that. I could’ve listened to lots more stories.<br /><br />But the ‘in-conversation’ format has one unfortunate characteristic. The part where the author speaks is always too short, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/11/book-tourist.html">and the part where the audience asks questions is always too long</a>. I’m not sure why they let the audience ask questions at all. Josh Kornbluth already asked questions, and he did fine. The audience will not do fine; they are bound and determined to ask stupid questions.<br /><br />Some of the questions are like Jeopardy questions: they’re the answer in the form of a question and they’ve only been asked because the asker wants to demonstrate that he’s actually met the celebrity before. Or that the question-asker is a minor celebrity in his- or her own mind. Yuck.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_7WRzi1gw1a5zKdvc84DLGiWwskWaIF2m0xIusMG6p4C_QgQ9QylMAJmQEeiordU4f4zHBupDKk5Oh1RCusaVkNOCUJTfNRt_dqVaBjP-U9LUIoc3l7eN4T3j5f2YMqrQCcu/s1600-h/fruitofthemonth.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203027782702050610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_7WRzi1gw1a5zKdvc84DLGiWwskWaIF2m0xIusMG6p4C_QgQ9QylMAJmQEeiordU4f4zHBupDKk5Oh1RCusaVkNOCUJTfNRt_dqVaBjP-U9LUIoc3l7eN4T3j5f2YMqrQCcu/s200/fruitofthemonth.gif" border="0" /></a>Did I hear someone ask, “Where do you get your ideas?” Someone must’ve. It’s as if you could subscribe to ideas like you would the <a href="http://www.harryanddavid.com/gifts/store/item_____fruit-of-the-month-club-gift_123">Harry & David Fruit-of-the-Month Club</a>. In January, you get 12 Royal Riviera Pears and a half-dozen good ideas about, say, <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/small-appliances.html">small appliances</a>.<br /><br />All too soon, it is over, and we must shuffle from the auditorium as a bovine group. Shuffle. Shuffle.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOUEhsnsBQm3DFIMe9VQkMl02pOMIdU5W5qwPwOMqwUVsCJTSZWbEhHUQCGIvtfLfbWG2Z34Q8NNd7cPs1oxrFpmUbkD3PZg54TKPBaPazCiRDV92AZo1mdmaZoVksaopI8MW/s1600-h/CheesePlateKatchor.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203028504256556354" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjOUEhsnsBQm3DFIMe9VQkMl02pOMIdU5W5qwPwOMqwUVsCJTSZWbEhHUQCGIvtfLfbWG2Z34Q8NNd7cPs1oxrFpmUbkD3PZg54TKPBaPazCiRDV92AZo1mdmaZoVksaopI8MW/s200/CheesePlateKatchor.jpg" border="0" /></a>On the second floor, there is a reception and the author will be signing books. It is a Jewish Community Center. <a href="http://www.canyonofcheese.com/?p=29">I know that a proper reception cannot be conducted on an empty stomach</a>. And I am right. There are crudités and macaroons. Brie and celery sticks (nature’s dental floss!). Petits Fours and cheese balls. People are milling around, eating compulsively and talking volubly.<br /><br />And Stacey’s has set up a table. Forgot to bring a book for the author to sign? You can buy one from the nice lady.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKK-ohhet-sraLvKduY7Q4gVgdnM1hyPlECNbu5v1PEmPpBYTMNSP_L51StLi3kNlaHjIYgcwgoeyerFPnjnljKrpzhPvufrdElSqLZDg3_cgll15xehv7aUD9lE1yWj35bO0/s1600-h/Beauty-Supply-paperback.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203029101257010514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHKK-ohhet-sraLvKduY7Q4gVgdnM1hyPlECNbu5v1PEmPpBYTMNSP_L51StLi3kNlaHjIYgcwgoeyerFPnjnljKrpzhPvufrdElSqLZDg3_cgll15xehv7aUD9lE1yWj35bO0/s200/Beauty-Supply-paperback.jpg" border="0" /></a>I find myself buying a book:<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Julius-Knipl-Real-Estate-Photographer/dp/0375401059"> Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer: The Beauty Supply District</a>. And edging my way through throngs of older Jewish men and women eating reception food (“oooh. Did you try the macaroons? I wonder where they bought the macaroons? So moist!”) until I got to Room 209. There were only a few faithful fans in line when I got there, real comix-lovers. Odd looking men and women with bulging backpacks and stacks of books. Not just one or two books that they’d purchased at the Stacey’s table, but big hulking stacks of books. As if they’d brought half their home libraries for Ben Katchor to sign. Anthologies that already have other signatures in them. Everything they could think of.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NeuW9g71VZPG-fM_JsIC1-cDgPlTnTjF2q9uWQ8f1WobtzUqlf8QhXNnvvhUE4feDW1UIYCk9y6PB4VAqGTS82AkxRAhEpU9PdpxDbQAQLZJ_YXvSOwHJke9ADRmL8amxYeY/s1600-h/aquarium.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203029870056156514" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-NeuW9g71VZPG-fM_JsIC1-cDgPlTnTjF2q9uWQ8f1WobtzUqlf8QhXNnvvhUE4feDW1UIYCk9y6PB4VAqGTS82AkxRAhEpU9PdpxDbQAQLZJ_YXvSOwHJke9ADRmL8amxYeY/s200/aquarium.jpg" border="0" /></a>Book signings are horribly awkward. It’s like making small talk at a party if you’re not out to get laid, but just trying to make benign conversation with strangers. Just words to fill the dead air and demonstrate you’re a teeny bit smarter than the neon tetras in the aquarium you’re standing next to and a teeny bit more appealing than the decrepit old family dog that has wandered into the room. At best, you leave without the need for an apology.<br /><br />When I reach the front of the line, I start out poorly, haltingly. I allude to something he’d admitted about his books, about how they were almost too much to be taken in all at once. It seems like a stupid opening line when you’re asking someone you admire to sign a just-purchased copy of their book. He frowns.<br /><br />Quick! Must say something else. Must redeem the conversation. Because I do read his comics on the web, I ask him about <a href="http://www.katchor.com/">his web site</a>. He is momentarily pleased and says he put it together himself—and that it’s nothing. That he used to be a typesetter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-wgirHOTnZxqGVLBH1xwcCYu_NfVymkd4wcRYcqB35BmiHTG04V2KURii_AKhZvf-Ov0ahIu8rIzPBhkyC9bJoX2wpcnAhPb-p6pNuOgvnk2jeGZNwVMgB78lTojkBsePLIy/s1600-h/benkatchorsignedhisbook.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203297206000528802" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp-wgirHOTnZxqGVLBH1xwcCYu_NfVymkd4wcRYcqB35BmiHTG04V2KURii_AKhZvf-Ov0ahIu8rIzPBhkyC9bJoX2wpcnAhPb-p6pNuOgvnk2jeGZNwVMgB78lTojkBsePLIy/s200/benkatchorsignedhisbook.jpg" border="0" /></a>Ben Katchor is gracious; he draws me a small cartoon guy in spite of the non-conversation we are having. I console myself: this is a transient blip in his day, and even though he’s really smart, there’s no way he’ll remember his brief encounter with me.<br /><br />Up close, he still looks like <a href="http://www.markbernstein.org/">Mark Bernstein</a>. In some hard-to-quantify way.<br /><br />Does he know Mark Bernstein? He might know Mark Bernstein. Yeah. He could know Mark Bernstein. Mark Bernstein gets around.<br /><br />I stop myself before I ask him. Phew. That was close. It is something my mother and I do, this looking for momentary cosmic alignments—shared friends, shared schools, shared towns—but many people are less crazy about that kind of coincidence.<br /><br />And just like that, my turn is over. My chance to make a positive impression has evaporated. Ben Katchor has drawn a little cartoon guy for me to puzzle over; I have thanked him; and now I shuffle out of the room, back toward the food tables. The signing line has grown long while the first few of us have had our turns. I am still flustered.<br /><br />Maybe it is because I am flustered that a guy with a hand held video camera, a nice one, approaches me. Now I will say something stupid and it will be immortalized. Bits that’ll come back to bite me. A sudden panic grips me; I am beyond flustered. Yet I’m drawn to the camera.<br /><br />We all want to be celebrities. We can’t help ourselves.<br /><br />“Hi,” he says. “I’m <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0466428/">Jacob Kornbluth</a>, Josh Kornbluth's brother. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions? I’m making a little documentary about Ben Katchor for Josh’s TV show.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojQmOD38P5dx83N-7OratjwuKSJlnNgn1FDOUdRHPwICyMY_yT0TbM3Sf9M1rF1WOankCVmo5UFCm9dg4jZ8Lb86_nKg3lyhVamND6r-znrUlvd5hRMp091QNGSLXQq7KxqOl/s1600-h/jacobkornbluth.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203031935935425906" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojQmOD38P5dx83N-7OratjwuKSJlnNgn1FDOUdRHPwICyMY_yT0TbM3Sf9M1rF1WOankCVmo5UFCm9dg4jZ8Lb86_nKg3lyhVamND6r-znrUlvd5hRMp091QNGSLXQq7KxqOl/s200/jacobkornbluth.jpg" border="0" /></a>If I were smart, I’d realize that this is the guy who co-directed and co-wrote <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0273253/">Haiku Tunnel</a>. This is a professional and he’s not making a home movie. But I’m not smart. And not only have I already missed a critical cue; my mind is rapidly going blank. The microphone in my face is making it worse.<br /><br />Jacob Kornbluth doesn’t look at all like Josh Kornbluth. For one thing, he’s got a disarming smile; Josh Kornbluth seems to have gotten all of the frowny angst and Jacob Kornbluth has that easy-going charm. He’s cute. For some reason, the way he introduces himself makes me think he doesn’t really do this for a living, that he’s just come along because he hasn’t got anything better to do on a Monday night in May. That he’s doing this as a favor for his brother.<br /><br />Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.<br /><br />Walk away! Walk away! Run! Dive under the macaroon table! Hide among the crudités! Camouflage yourself as a wheel of Brie! Act inert!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Sisters-Collection-Penguin-Graphic/dp/0140153772"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203292661925129602" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjXcvSPNJ5kUeBVWNn2mYeLrSrpGvPURwOovFCSpDkyOFdPOqL-8UmYVtazf-bzQheho2p3pBMzDvluaH9L8ZiNzPe4HQMTONPoNf5zEZth0pjGAR37rTro_5pISXlpkkAjWN/s200/twistedsisters.jpg" border="0" /></a>Jacob Kornbluth starts asking me questions about comics, and I am immediately sucked into a mammoth mental vacuum. Any problems I have remembering names when I’m on the spot are exacerbated and I give him absurd answers, answers that he won’t even have to take out of context to make me look foolish. For some reason, the only artist I can remember is R. Crumb; I can’t even remember Aline’s name, even though they draw comics together in <em>The New Yorker</em>, comics I read again and again. I can’t remember that Mary Fleener went to PV High and surfed at the same beaches I knew. And what about Julie Douchet? And Daniel Clowes? Why can’t I remember a single name of the artists I like? Why can't I come up with any details about their ouvre?<br /><br />I can’t even come up with Art Spiegelman’s name. I once started a whole project because of a piece Art Spielgelman did about the New York Public Library’s picture collection.<br /><br /><a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/12/but-is-it-art.html">The wall outside my college dorm room had an S. Clay Wilson panel that Adam Melch meticulously copied from a Zap Comix</a>. Surely I could’ve come up with ONE two sentence anecdote about comics.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEunAsFZ9v2D6aFbQy_kUcn8PYlVbPaU-0g-QxGAE6B-8UD3pFHBlcUeFbWRrSAIV-Ht66-h3Wadclt9FEMNLiRBlQVInZrgdSmyUprYJLdq4XkBia2O258UzP7cbTB0x-BB6/s1600-h/chiropodist.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203295153006161298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEunAsFZ9v2D6aFbQy_kUcn8PYlVbPaU-0g-QxGAE6B-8UD3pFHBlcUeFbWRrSAIV-Ht66-h3Wadclt9FEMNLiRBlQVInZrgdSmyUprYJLdq4XkBia2O258UzP7cbTB0x-BB6/s200/chiropodist.JPG" border="0" /></a>Jacob Kornbluth is asking me easy questions but I can’t answer them. Good god! Do I really have no favorites in the comics world? Do I really have no favorite Ben Katchor comic? I listen to words coming out of my mouth that even <em>I</em> don’t believe.<br /><br />At the last minute, I remember the Ben Katchor story I like about the chiropodist, although I say “podiatrist”, which makes it less funny and makes me seem like less of a fan. It’s not my favorite either, but at least it’s something.<br /><br />I flinch even now, embarrassed to recollect my performance in front of the camera.<br /><br />I am so NOT ready for my closeup.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x2Gddg5mmb4j-G31-OIXzY9URiPWlOTBYppMXLbMz0fjIITgHkDW2K2nXG0VU7K2PvNTmcj_cOCRCDVp0xPrpzp6b1o-mV-DLbaQVCkrS9VCdmDAoZ5zqb7ftVr0tmCDpY7c/s1600-h/dreisbein-chiropodist.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203297678446931378" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4x2Gddg5mmb4j-G31-OIXzY9URiPWlOTBYppMXLbMz0fjIITgHkDW2K2nXG0VU7K2PvNTmcj_cOCRCDVp0xPrpzp6b1o-mV-DLbaQVCkrS9VCdmDAoZ5zqb7ftVr0tmCDpY7c/s200/dreisbein-chiropodist.JPG" border="0" /></a>Now I wish I’d even said, “I can’t remember a darned thing. My blood sugar must be low.”<br /><br />Instead I grab one of the moist macaroons and shove it in my mouth. I have clearly seen too many Twix commercials, but it works. Jacob begins chatting with the lady standing next to me and I flee.<br /><br />In retrospect, I think all he was looking for a fan. Someone who would say that they were a fan. I don’t even think he was looking for a ‘good’ fan, one of the fans who memorizes whole stories and can quote ad nauseam. He was just looking for someone who’d say something admiring, something interesting and not too stupid.<br /><br />I did none of the above, even though I admire Ben Katchor’s work a great deal.<br /><br />I’m hoping I’ll end up on the cutting room floor.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGPTxvge6MFs-dywbAnrGeZKHZpH6oroNFa-3q8JZaMpWVaqFM2y5OWKllF8_o81u31baE5YhY0HaMiNztPKwwl-LevdlWMKsFq1EV-FrnsAOi_YYk1URZ2syGfQ9xGdIHS0d/s1600-h/mannequins.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5203297987684576706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGPTxvge6MFs-dywbAnrGeZKHZpH6oroNFa-3q8JZaMpWVaqFM2y5OWKllF8_o81u31baE5YhY0HaMiNztPKwwl-LevdlWMKsFq1EV-FrnsAOi_YYk1URZ2syGfQ9xGdIHS0d/s200/mannequins.jpg" border="0" /></a>I walk out of the San Francisco Jewish Community Center into the May night. The reading has newly sensitized me to the odd window displays and neon signs on California Street. Pregnant mannequins look less like pregnant mannequins and more like a small army of Nicole Richies shoplifting basketballs. Ben Katchor has changed what I see, just as any artist worth his or her salt should.<br /><br />I get on the Number 24 Muni bus and head back across town.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-24370500099738424802008-05-10T13:31:00.000-07:002008-05-21T17:41:09.744-07:00flying slugs and sloppy stucco<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9bm_nf11_elMxp5jMJ8IYvUxkw99ZSyNmIblFhrBgIXIShjBlCgPRqEFWyXQzfcMbGgFEK61FfUGKWeOfhw6KRlfwyhDEMJZeWaDpzTVmqSZKAi1B7s0m-BsgGuwl3bCUG0/s1600-h/lightwell.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198866042702202594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoE9bm_nf11_elMxp5jMJ8IYvUxkw99ZSyNmIblFhrBgIXIShjBlCgPRqEFWyXQzfcMbGgFEK61FfUGKWeOfhw6KRlfwyhDEMJZeWaDpzTVmqSZKAi1B7s0m-BsgGuwl3bCUG0/s200/lightwell.JPG" border="0" /></a>I shouldn’t still be thinking about our new roof.<br /><br />The roofers finished replacing our old roof more than three weeks ago, not long after we wound up our fraught dealings with <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2008/03/windows-upgrade.html">Wooden Window</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBbYlzAneJqmL7NbeVgCXgxrVieXInSFEhhQZLOKcWYF-fQXEDabSPqyRX37Q2an1TqB2-gkkyDHN1HjLj9nrOxVg3GmJGXSL7Ntk7YpVteXW31fG1J2-aevq8_KiubV4tisLW/s1600-h/cathys-room-detail.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198869203798132498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBbYlzAneJqmL7NbeVgCXgxrVieXInSFEhhQZLOKcWYF-fQXEDabSPqyRX37Q2an1TqB2-gkkyDHN1HjLj9nrOxVg3GmJGXSL7Ntk7YpVteXW31fG1J2-aevq8_KiubV4tisLW/s200/cathys-room-detail.JPG" border="0" /></a>You'd have thought we'd have had enough homeowner trauma for the time being, that we'd be content to stare out of our new windows at the San Francisco skyline, that we could continue to ignore the paint slowly peeling off the wall in big sheets where the roof leaks during the rainy season.<br /><br />It's not apt to rain again until November; why bother replacing the roof? Didn't we learn anything from our experience with the windows?<br /><br />But no. We're slow learners. We ran right out and found a roofing company that would replace the roof <em>right away</em>. This wouldn't be nearly so disruptive as the window work; all we had to do was move a dozen or so potted plants off the lightwell (which is technically part of the roof) and that'd be it.<br /><br />"Will they be coming in to use the bathroom," I asked the roofer after we'd received the final bid and were signing the contract.<br /><br />"Oh, no," he said. "They're like camels."<br /><br />I decided to pursue the question no further.<br /><br />For a week, we lived in a drum, with camel-like roofers clattering over our heads and the acrid smell of tar in the air. Friday afternoon rolled around and they were done; they offered to help me move the potted plants back into the lightwell, but I demurred. They were anxious to leave and I was anxious to have the house back.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsz5KRfFmB84dYse_bb9VftyPuuQaPn9_63dweBDEwCmuZlyAsXhnwAZ4_E-PvHtkqv3UU_LropvVzd-bIvXJMft-PWCNYUDCCtkEpOTHe03TRGuENrpaFfgYNJcpgLoqBQJar/s1600-h/lightwell1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198869628999894818" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsz5KRfFmB84dYse_bb9VftyPuuQaPn9_63dweBDEwCmuZlyAsXhnwAZ4_E-PvHtkqv3UU_LropvVzd-bIvXJMft-PWCNYUDCCtkEpOTHe03TRGuENrpaFfgYNJcpgLoqBQJar/s200/lightwell1.JPG" border="0" /></a>I was pleased with the new roof for an interval of about 4 hours. For four hours, I lived with the blissful thought that we were done with the roof. Done. Checked off the list.<br /><br />√ Windows.<br /><br />√ Roof.<br /><br />Four hours was the length of time between the departure of roofers Carlos and Orlando and the arrival of Mark. It was an exceptionally brief bout of euphoria.<br /><br />It was dark when Mark got home. He peered out the kitchen window into the lightwell.<br /><br />“Did they tell you they were done?” Mark asked me.<br /><br />“Yeah. They left around 4:30.”<br /><br />“Oh, really. And they definitely said they were done?”<br /><br />I knew trouble was brewing. I told him that—yes—they were definitely done, and that in fact they stayed longer than they thought they would have to, and were bummed to be joining Friday afternoon <a href="http://www.sfbaytraffic.info/map.htm">Bay Bridge traffic</a>.<br /><br />“They were bummed,” Mark echoed. “They. Who’s they? Who worked on the stucco?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidooEAjb9USmTb_GMBIQZ4p7F6rGvvo_qZSuCjWePWwEbuZsSXT6197W_bKGVC44b4zAu77TbHIjSBnAX0lU1kCZ6muCyzhmAypQNH-pgGWUZnJoysV_59BO6m3aqNUR4XVfYR/s1600-h/roofjob.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198870028431853362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidooEAjb9USmTb_GMBIQZ4p7F6rGvvo_qZSuCjWePWwEbuZsSXT6197W_bKGVC44b4zAu77TbHIjSBnAX0lU1kCZ6muCyzhmAypQNH-pgGWUZnJoysV_59BO6m3aqNUR4XVfYR/s200/roofjob.JPG" border="0" /></a>I told him that I didn’t know, because in truth I avoided looking out the window at the workmen, even when I was in the kitchen a few feet away from where they were spading globs of wet stucco onto the metal netting. It’s too weird watching someone through a window at that distance; it’s like you’re looking into a goldfish bowl. And the goldfish are REALLY BIG. And they’re eating sunflower seeds. And talking and laughing.<br /><br />But I knew where the “who’s they” line of questioning was going, and it wasn’t good.<br /><br />“I can’t believe you were standing in the kitchen and you don’t know who did the stucco.” Mark said.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6ZFwyETCGox8qA_nvbm4AlPLAEPetcAIHqpg314b7PG8ymGkjybPss-xow-eX2lljir8O3U0YdCf21ZBjFeqM4Hc3WP3FYpWXeX5udP8Tr5abJadmCuiWFnoWACav53VYjrI/s1600-h/ladyelainehag.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198870299014793026" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6ZFwyETCGox8qA_nvbm4AlPLAEPetcAIHqpg314b7PG8ymGkjybPss-xow-eX2lljir8O3U0YdCf21ZBjFeqM4Hc3WP3FYpWXeX5udP8Tr5abJadmCuiWFnoWACav53VYjrI/s200/ladyelainehag.jpg" border="0" /></a>I don’t want to say that he said this accusingly. But he did. He said it accusingly. And I felt appropriately chastised: guilty as charged. Even though I wasn’t sure who worked on the stucco, I was reasonably sure that the roofing guys did the stucco themselves, that the special super-duper stucco specialist had not been called in to complete the job. We had been promised the super-duper stucco guy, and like <a href="http://mashtheory.blogspot.com/2006/06/horrors-of-lady-elaine.html">Lady Elaine Fairchild</a>, the stucco-man had turned out to be part of the <a href="http://pbskids.org/rogers/make_believe/">Land of Make Believe</a>.<br /><br />Yes, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I knew in my heart of hearts that Carlos and Orlando did the stucco. And that “Carlos and Orlando” was not the right answer to Mark’s stucco question.<br /><br />“And you don’t see anything wrong with it?”<br /><br />“The stucco, you mean?”<br /><br />“Yes! The stucco. What do you think I’m talking about?”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZd80prFFlbsXctbl-4mez6CEBsIDOGp7bnP9QWiuK077BQ6wH1ncHfnFYtPEB1lre2gUjit56W_P_oWh3addaPn9p-Oa2eCs8BGzcQ-nIYxzxrBrGcujJafhFxMZ6IgJJCuhb/s1600-h/stucco1.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198870621137340242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZd80prFFlbsXctbl-4mez6CEBsIDOGp7bnP9QWiuK077BQ6wH1ncHfnFYtPEB1lre2gUjit56W_P_oWh3addaPn9p-Oa2eCs8BGzcQ-nIYxzxrBrGcujJafhFxMZ6IgJJCuhb/s200/stucco1.gif" border="0" /></a><a href="http://diydata.com/techniques/stucco/stucco.php">Stucco, as it turns out, is not so simple to do</a>. <a href="http://www.doityourself.com/stry/applyingstucco">Lots of people think they know how to stucco a house</a>, to smooth it and create a texture so it blends with the rest of the wall. <a href="http://www.askthebuilder.com/696_Applying_Stucco.shtml">So that it sticks to places where it’s supposed to</a> and doesn’t sag at the bottom or stick out at the edges.<br /><br />I think it’s safe to say that stucco is an art.<br /><br />It’s about as difficult to do an aesthetic stucco job as it is to get 6-pack abs.<br /><br />Our stucco, unfortunately, looked flabby, out-of-shape. And its complexion didn’t look so hot either. The edges were ragged and messy. It looked bad, and although I didn’t say anything, I also knew that the only way to fix it was to knock it all out and do it again. All over again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmn8JbD5_baIChL9s-hCSCYz2TxnzL-EcdhHAuHMy7wEu9mG-9X31eY5Huc3Jp2y5wB7QaP12tOHCtj8f75szi4Xq-Fb56cdBCiSV-4E92FXLGdJHdlCWL5-W40TCXe8TQfYv/s1600-h/stucco2.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198870951849822050" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVmn8JbD5_baIChL9s-hCSCYz2TxnzL-EcdhHAuHMy7wEu9mG-9X31eY5Huc3Jp2y5wB7QaP12tOHCtj8f75szi4Xq-Fb56cdBCiSV-4E92FXLGdJHdlCWL5-W40TCXe8TQfYv/s200/stucco2.gif" border="0" /></a>Stucco is an art AND a science. And as nice and careful and competent as Carlos and Orlando were, they were not stucco guys.<br /><br />Indeed, when I told my colleague <a href="http://www.cs.odu.edu/~mln/">Michael</a> this story, he said, “you should listen to <a href="http://www.cs.unc.edu/~bdallen/personal.html">Danette</a> go on about stucco. She is certain that it is stucco destroying America (™), not gay marriage or flag burning...”<br /><br />So Mark is not the only one; he has company. I have enormous respect for Danette. She works for NASA; I think she might even be an astronaut. And if she says that bad stucco is destroying America, I will take her at her word.<br /><br />That was three weeks ago.<br /><br /><a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/houseplants.html">I think I’ve mentioned my other houseplants before</a>. I’m sure I have. What’d I put the count at, 37? Something like that. There may even be more; I try not to maintain an accurate count.<br /><br />Since the lightwell is the view out the kitchen window—and since I stare out the kitchen window while I’m doing the dishes—before we had the roof done, the lightwell was home to even more houseplants. I thought it’d be nice to stare out at the hardier of my houseplants when I looked out the window.<br /><br />Those hardy houseplants were not counted as part of the 37.<br /><br />Carlos and Orlando moved some of them, the giant pots of mint and horsetails and the giant fern, out to the back of the house.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ6u95FDGVZS2VTv4XVtIDCrQ8z323YGQFsdBnbcHZuRWJqo7vmztTKwc_HnuZMSv2OMO5qBobAN3_I8VHvR1kY_p_UIdXaly4vN1MBiGx07qy19GbZsGGkeEYWzOHz9WxQF2/s1600-h/lightwellplants.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198871939692300146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ6u95FDGVZS2VTv4XVtIDCrQ8z323YGQFsdBnbcHZuRWJqo7vmztTKwc_HnuZMSv2OMO5qBobAN3_I8VHvR1kY_p_UIdXaly4vN1MBiGx07qy19GbZsGGkeEYWzOHz9WxQF2/s200/lightwellplants.JPG" border="0" /></a>I hesitate to tell you what I did with the others, the 5 pots of succulents, the 2 cymbidiums, the large, top-heavy cactus, the date palm, the sago palm, a Lyman fern, a small pot of horsetails, and a smallish pot of great spiral rushes (aka “curly grass”). They all looked pretty healthy and happy (except the ragged spots where something had evidently tried to eat them).<br /><br />So… I brought them into the house. Thirteen more houseplants. Mark covered the guest room floor downstairs with a big sheet of plastic that the window guys had left behind.<br /><br />Although I didn’t really have any place to put them, thirteen more houseplants didn’t exactly seem problematic. Ah, what’s a dozen or so more houseplants anyway?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9goiZkWywXnIThvS8Bth0LvmQhDr-Tuo2EoWng-G8drrHg5IyrqhlBGpfzNhBce1a5v7oVG3LDpX8j6MuVIGfTTVCfLar9NMzPaLB-g7aKyzESER9MYtQ8PerW8pI28f5pZh/s1600-h/slug.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198872661246805890" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9goiZkWywXnIThvS8Bth0LvmQhDr-Tuo2EoWng-G8drrHg5IyrqhlBGpfzNhBce1a5v7oVG3LDpX8j6MuVIGfTTVCfLar9NMzPaLB-g7aKyzESER9MYtQ8PerW8pI28f5pZh/s200/slug.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’m not sure how those slugs got up onto the roof.<br /><br />How would a slug get onto the roof?<br /><br />How <em>could</em> a slug get onto the roof? <a href="http://www.belch.com/the-horrible-world-of-flying-slugs/">Are these special flying slugs</a>?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbKj0cY5D-NpSJdgvPqLvY5nfjm9I3GEHocF2yhn1HTVMMQeOtR6C0wSr7UGtlZRsQHzBejPEx5l6VYlv6N1GPUtaP35kVK8o2t7ufzeLSiHytymf5KVm5TRPS9PzzwMDXHh4/s1600-h/slug2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198873030613993362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbKj0cY5D-NpSJdgvPqLvY5nfjm9I3GEHocF2yhn1HTVMMQeOtR6C0wSr7UGtlZRsQHzBejPEx5l6VYlv6N1GPUtaP35kVK8o2t7ufzeLSiHytymf5KVm5TRPS9PzzwMDXHh4/s200/slug2.jpg" border="0" /></a>There are flying squirrels. There are flying fish. There are flying cockroaches, even. Mammals, fish, hard-shelled invertebrates (inverts, as someone I know used to call them. Inverts). You see where I’m going with this. These are special, super-duper flying slugs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw55kTWN84sTCLYrnYgyhSXncBmsFjQ4wkGQfM1iVwL3CmGxe1ABfUEIZDSEjd9iOmiZ1ydsOSTUW85i_BGBm-IdT3hyphenhyphensBtzPVrbLMI58_asEt_p7GcNBIPkc6WQLD5YE5xNsf/s1600-h/sagopalm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198874022751438770" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw55kTWN84sTCLYrnYgyhSXncBmsFjQ4wkGQfM1iVwL3CmGxe1ABfUEIZDSEjd9iOmiZ1ydsOSTUW85i_BGBm-IdT3hyphenhyphensBtzPVrbLMI58_asEt_p7GcNBIPkc6WQLD5YE5xNsf/s200/sagopalm.jpg" border="0" /></a>I didn’t know there were slugs living in the pots until I watered them. Around a week after I brought the plants inside, they commenced to look dry. Mighty dry. If we were going to wait until the stucco was redone—and I could tell we were—there was absolutely no sense in moving the plants back out onto the lightwell. And they weren’t going to stay alive unless I watered them before I put them back out there.<br /><br />So I poured a cupful of water on each of the succulents and on the palms and ferns and on the cymbidiums and on the pot of curly grass. “Drink up, guys,” I said. I convinced myself that they looked pleased and well-nourished. Beads of water sparkled where the succulents’ leaves converged into little cups. Water drained into the plastic catch-pans underneath the plants. “Lookin’ good,” I told the roomful of plants and gave them the thumbs-up as I left.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyGcLUGCda4M8GYA2MMd-H80xA0nl2xNDHYFi5HrGAePwDpqYVsd3RQG5VH1j1EHFF9tsFGq2dGimfg1UUVo0Sa3oJGystH17bunrqoWYbdrRo1OX87JHCD3ZC4DuDpYhteJq/s1600-h/eatencymbidiumflower.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198874267564574658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyGcLUGCda4M8GYA2MMd-H80xA0nl2xNDHYFi5HrGAePwDpqYVsd3RQG5VH1j1EHFF9tsFGq2dGimfg1UUVo0Sa3oJGystH17bunrqoWYbdrRo1OX87JHCD3ZC4DuDpYhteJq/s200/eatencymbidiumflower.JPG" border="0" /></a>The next time I went downstairs, I realized to my horror that there was a good reason why the cactus had scars and the cymbidium flowers looked so tattered. A REALLY GOOD REASON.<br /><br />“Ewwwww!” I said, perhaps louder than was necessary. “Ewwwww!” But was involuntary.<br /><br />I realize that slugs don’t bite, don’t sting, and they’re a great deal smaller than I am. They’re not that menacing. I was in no particular danger. But—ewwwww—they’re gross. Snails at least have the great good sense to wear some kind of outer garments.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlKJUkdWwNtVV7v-1ELTvwzQzKBmGtscjZ0Emq5xAiAwrUdhzKbRBBoHYsN4pm4PyvqLIZPFO-E6mGjuj82n-hQOD-gUCPJ02MJDI6JcdyMlnuPlzTg4oazswU-mp0MG3KZJ0/s1600-h/ghilliesuit2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198874950464374738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlKJUkdWwNtVV7v-1ELTvwzQzKBmGtscjZ0Emq5xAiAwrUdhzKbRBBoHYsN4pm4PyvqLIZPFO-E6mGjuj82n-hQOD-gUCPJ02MJDI6JcdyMlnuPlzTg4oazswU-mp0MG3KZJ0/s200/ghilliesuit2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Should I have bought the slugs some kind of <a href="http://www.theghilliesuits.com/">Ghillie suits</a>? You know, just for aesthetic reasons. Kind of like the stucco—they might look better. For those of you unfamiliar with this type of outdoor wear, a Ghillie suit is an outer garment that <a href="http://www.rotorbrain.com/">Jon Foote</a> alerted me to not long ago—it’s kind of like wearing bad shag carpeting or rolling in pond scum. It’s something that hunters wear to amuse their prey to death. No kidding. The forest animals literally <em>laugh themselves to death</em>.<br /><br />If I put little Ghillie suits on the slugs, they’d at least be cuddly. They’d still be a nuisance, but they’d be more like squirrels, and less like slimy inverts.<br /><br />Little furry flying slugs.<br /><br />It’s an idea.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNlHyqRV1RapFztiKBYNNuq0z3wWTUanHJqfCNrHiWell80vJgyP8bt9-shtL3W_6o-QUN2fIL3Zl1RRnfg4jjZQ2QF8fDo5Pfw2spNs5gP3l7SeGL_wZ9-vKR1cKpS4Ee9i3/s1600-h/scrubbingbubble.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198875349896333282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLNlHyqRV1RapFztiKBYNNuq0z3wWTUanHJqfCNrHiWell80vJgyP8bt9-shtL3W_6o-QUN2fIL3Zl1RRnfg4jjZQ2QF8fDo5Pfw2spNs5gP3l7SeGL_wZ9-vKR1cKpS4Ee9i3/s200/scrubbingbubble.jpg" border="0" /></a>I couldn’t bear to just squish them. I’ve never been very good at squashing insects. Even when our apartment in Pasadena was overrun by giant cockroaches, I couldn’t squish ‘em. The best I could manage was to dissolve one using Dow Bathroom Cleaner with Scrubbing Bubbles. If you spray that napalm-like cleaning product on a cockroach, it turns the bug into a brown puddle, which can then be swept down the drain with a blast of water.<br /><br />I know it might be <a href="http://uucfl.org/buddhist/b4.htm">inadvertently interpreted as Buddhist</a>, but <a href="http://mariacristina.wordpress.com/2007/06/18/five-buddhist-precepts/">I just can’t spray chemicals on bugs any more</a>.<br /><br />So what should I do with the infestation of slugs?<br /><br />Believe it or not, <a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/svj/slugcity.html">we’ve had an indoor slug infestation before</a>. When we lived in Mountain View, in an apartment we lovingly referred to as “the cave”, slugs—big ones—would come in under the dishwasher during the night. You’d turn on the kitchen light, and instead of cockroaches scattering, a giant slick and slimy (fat and sassy) slug would continue its steady march across the kitchen, undeterred by the startling flood of fluorescent light (“Does this light make my complexion look bad?” I thought I heard one ask).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUaPdKeRQTvrUKp4nMCnL1yqXKbmQm0s_pBx2GLOZS0KJlRwWygp99Kube-YlCojtQbsGByvof_JWfv5f4AxlXF6S1tR4fJ5C7xkALzEz1eE5saEHeeJru3sZ27TUmwncJzLL/s1600-h/slug3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198873438635886498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUaPdKeRQTvrUKp4nMCnL1yqXKbmQm0s_pBx2GLOZS0KJlRwWygp99Kube-YlCojtQbsGByvof_JWfv5f4AxlXF6S1tR4fJ5C7xkALzEz1eE5saEHeeJru3sZ27TUmwncJzLL/s200/slug3.jpg" border="0" /></a>In the morning, we’d find fresh slug trails sparkling across the brown shag carpeting and up the back of the couch. Thank god we hid the TV remote.<br /><br />That time, I dealt with the slugs with a determined course of benign neglect. That’s right: I just ignored them. Occasionally, I’d find a desiccated slug nestled in the carpeting, a victim of a bad sense of direction. But usually, they made it back out to wherever they were actually going without further notice.<br /><br />This time, benign neglect made less sense.<br /><br />And besides, our housecleaner just gave me a new cymbidium; its flowers were pristine and beautiful. I owed it to him to try to protect the cymbidium flowers from the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0285531/">mucusoid invaders</a>.<br /><br />There were <em>a lot</em> of slugs. Not just two or three. <em>A lot</em>. Every time I saw some and donned a rubber glove to bring them outside, when I came back, there’d be a few more waiting for me.<br /><br />Technically, I don’t think they were actually waiting for me. They were just sliming across the giant sheet of plastic, doing important slug things. Things I really wouldn’t understand. They were on the march. Going somewhere with a great sense of purpose, slug-antennae outstretched. Were they going to the movies? Trying to find a wireless connection? Looking for 4 bars of connectivity on their slug cell phones? Doing slug aerobics?<br /><br />Who knows why slugs do the things they do.<br /><br />All I knew is that I didn’t want them to do those things indoors. I wanted them to fly back to the roof.<br /><br />Be gone, slugs! Fly away, fly away home! Get on the Google bus and join your slug counterparts in our old apartment in Mountain View! Just forgodssakes don’t stay here.<br /><br />Ick.<br /><br />13+37=50. Thirteen lightwell plants plus 37 indoor plants. That’d be 50 plants. 50!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uM5cPTC-7-thqXTa_NJsuywv93dKB1YpYjEFCtQ2T55jIqZLdKH8JgKgzv3ZPrW7XH_yK9vP5vv47-XRxvHu_ds4RpUE7mRJ3gIcE9OBKxhFJDn-ibAOQiTzcAW6Bk4izemC/s1600-h/outdoorplantsindoors.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198875869587376114" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1uM5cPTC-7-thqXTa_NJsuywv93dKB1YpYjEFCtQ2T55jIqZLdKH8JgKgzv3ZPrW7XH_yK9vP5vv47-XRxvHu_ds4RpUE7mRJ3gIcE9OBKxhFJDn-ibAOQiTzcAW6Bk4izemC/s200/outdoorplantsindoors.JPG" border="0" /></a>Fifty plants are enough that I thought nothing of adopting Margaret’s plants last week so I could take care of them on this side of the bay while she was out-of-town. Houseplants are kind of like kittens. If you have enough of them, they’ll entertain each other; you can let your Netflix subscription lapse and they won’t even mind.<br /><br />So I went to Berkeley last Sunday night and picked up about a dozen more houseplants. A miniature ficus tree. A Christmas cactus. A cluster of epiphytes, several in bloom. More cymbidiums. A philodendron-ish plant. And several rather large and healthy-looking cacti.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg963o4P9cNhO6Uee6enZXIkCK0n0it9nqJ-MfOlDas2Yyrqb2o7VscwJqbynYarqkv555_jwQzem-3fDy2qaj6kK59nhcUrL-U_5QYflJ8dc448E2rRfbewfB0eTERHM6uk6sm/s1600-h/newcactus.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198876294789138434" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg963o4P9cNhO6Uee6enZXIkCK0n0it9nqJ-MfOlDas2Yyrqb2o7VscwJqbynYarqkv555_jwQzem-3fDy2qaj6kK59nhcUrL-U_5QYflJ8dc448E2rRfbewfB0eTERHM6uk6sm/s200/newcactus.JPG" border="0" /></a>Note to self: Why do you wear gloves to pick up slugs and not to pick up cacti? Why?<br /><br />Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.<br /><br />I drove across the Bay Bridge late Sunday night, the back of my car full of plants, <a href="http://dermatology.cdlib.org/DOJvol7num2/unknown/cholla/cholla2.html">and the back of my hand full of tiny, painful cactus spines</a>. Cacti with big fierce spines are almost safer than those innocent furry-looking cacti that leave you with <a href="http://www.cactusmuseum.com/pain.asp">a carpet of pain</a> when you brush up against them. At least my mouth wasn’t full of <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/08/eight-random-facts-meme.html#bonusfunfact">the taboo frisson of raw pork</a>, as it was during another recent drive across the bridge.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMvUEW1olXgwThkJHIFvt9X6Q6RPaWCNObbTbuFSekINLvaW-4McRPZpGUP3Gp7uHjfCVuBndEiD2Gr7Ln_lIFUEEjTxvOqByRoyIgZg75YWNsnGYIfS7WWFSXYHzZEbjAo23/s1600-h/stucco3.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198876719990900754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMvUEW1olXgwThkJHIFvt9X6Q6RPaWCNObbTbuFSekINLvaW-4McRPZpGUP3Gp7uHjfCVuBndEiD2Gr7Ln_lIFUEEjTxvOqByRoyIgZg75YWNsnGYIfS7WWFSXYHzZEbjAo23/s200/stucco3.gif" border="0" /></a>While I don’t have 70 houseplants yet, I’m close. What I’m thinking is I should teach them—or the slugs, or perhaps even the cat—how to stucco. I know it’s hard, but it seems like a skill that’s worthwhile cultivating. Local expertise.<br /><br />Because frankly, I feel guilty about fussing to the roofer about the stucco, even though I know that we’re perfectly within our rights to do so.<br /><br />The other day, our roofer—a soft-spoken guy named David—came out to talk about the job.<br /><br />“So tell me exactly what you think is wrong with the stucco,” he says to me. “I can’t see it.”<br /><br />Can he really not see it? I start feeling silly.<br /><br />“You know, it’s where it blends with the stucco on the house. See. It sticks up.”<br /><br />“Sticks up?” David says. “What do you mean?”<br /><br />Is this a trick, or is he really not seeing that the new stucco is as lumpy as oatmeal where it meets the old stucco? After all, I didn’t notice the problem myself for those four pleasant hours between the workmen’s departure and Mark’s scrutiny, although I was trying not to look.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0oO0rS6rzBQXUnUrMUt3xj5qu1A5WE9jtyJYpQAKMB3alIC0B_CE2ZV10YF5Bzuz-OCccEMLpLwnko1t4Cm7qlCa9GEvN-Hf1V2t00aCSmSibXODPS33EhiYiljDeFVfv9wZ/s1600-h/wilkins-ice-shelf.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198877480200112162" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX0oO0rS6rzBQXUnUrMUt3xj5qu1A5WE9jtyJYpQAKMB3alIC0B_CE2ZV10YF5Bzuz-OCccEMLpLwnko1t4Cm7qlCa9GEvN-Hf1V2t00aCSmSibXODPS33EhiYiljDeFVfv9wZ/s200/wilkins-ice-shelf.jpg" border="0" /></a>“Um. You know. It doesn’t blend. We’re afraid that when we paint it, it will look even worse.” I am bluffing, but I do now see how the edge is wrong. We had other stucco work done recently, and I know what it should look like. Besides, over the last few weeks, the stucco has cracked in several places, and has begun to look like the Wilkins ice shelf under the effects of global warming. And I have had a chance to get a good close look at the job; it is at least inelegant if not wholly unacceptable.<br /><br />I’ve come around to Mark’s dissatisfaction, although not his anger.<br /><br />Still I feel sheepish. I tell David, “Let’s go out there and look, okay?” I don’t know why I’ve suggested this—if it’s something you can only see up close, it certainly doesn’t argue for a re-do. I can see what there is to see from where we are standing, at the kitchen window.<br /><br />Yet we crawl out the kitchen window onto the lightwell, both of us. I run my hands over the edge of the offending stucco. “See?” I ask David.<br /><br />“I’m afraid I don’t,” he tells me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5OiO3U9urQfZjkxn501nQz_ChjBd7hjgGILNQj8CgeKLNMkDfvNNXLwBJIBrtS3Rs59TbPzSztvIf78TiF5ogEi6uqoJ34-fflpLmfzuTAZM1M-cLatKLjZ8cTKoPmAXTGzx/s1600-h/keepingtheweatherout.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198878480927492146" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5OiO3U9urQfZjkxn501nQz_ChjBd7hjgGILNQj8CgeKLNMkDfvNNXLwBJIBrtS3Rs59TbPzSztvIf78TiF5ogEi6uqoJ34-fflpLmfzuTAZM1M-cLatKLjZ8cTKoPmAXTGzx/s200/keepingtheweatherout.JPG" border="0" /></a>I try to rationalize this. Perhaps roofers are so used to working outside of aesthetic concerns that they don’t notice anomalies in the stucco work: after all, who goes poking around up on their roof to see if it all looks nice? What you’re supposed to care about is function: does the roof keep the wet stuff (rain and flying slugs) out and dry stuff (the furniture and Toto) in? And I saw the lightwell before they re-stuccoed. It looked like a giant tar bathtub, which is just how you’d want it to look.<br /><br />Does he really not see it? I think he doesn’t.<br /><br />But he humors me: “I’ll have my stucco guy come out and take a look. He’ll be able to tell us for sure.”<br /><br />The magic stucco guy! I’m completely mollified, although Mark is still too angry to participate.<br /><br />“He doesn’t see it?” Mark rages. “He doesn’t see it? How can he not see it?” And he goes on to tell me that he thinks David might be putting me on, that he must see it. That he’s just trying to manipulate me into accepting the substandard job.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoDGevBeOolHWuSwmqVa5SnyM5Kluh2j-t-GRKX3VhBlOZNP-t2jQxEpXaCCk37QiSjdyk5ghgklZPKBj8M31tAmOhKYjqDMs5_4_ZW1CLFXASI7H2KSklmFriT-RR3kEkSLz/s1600-h/ghilliesuit1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198878803050039362" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoDGevBeOolHWuSwmqVa5SnyM5Kluh2j-t-GRKX3VhBlOZNP-t2jQxEpXaCCk37QiSjdyk5ghgklZPKBj8M31tAmOhKYjqDMs5_4_ZW1CLFXASI7H2KSklmFriT-RR3kEkSLz/s200/ghilliesuit1.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’m convinced he doesn’t see it, Pollyanna that I am. And I’m convinced that slugs fly and that somewhere in America, people go hunting dressed up like giant moss bogs.<br /><br />The stucco guy is tactful, but I can see that he’s with Danette and Mark on this one. He says to David, “No offense to your guys, but I think we’re going to have to do this over.”<br /><br />David grimaces, but maintains professional cool. I almost wish Mark were out there with us; I’m sure he would applaud. But he is still hiding in the guest room, amid the jungle of houseplants, native and temporary, with the few slugs who have been successful in taking cover. Even after a several-week cooling off period, he is afraid his anger will erupt in an unseemly outburst.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XE_RROyrt5sZ4XVlP3tVRDL-_bSA-bjeWDtuzPAZHEFpDiFpe7DTayp7FuSQNh3ORXetSV2b24imz8D56RR4DG3x1OmEHE0U6O03GcFtxq8uPjDTJCZlQ0X3ecWgJfRRtaxc/s1600-h/morechewedcymbidiums.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198879391460558930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XE_RROyrt5sZ4XVlP3tVRDL-_bSA-bjeWDtuzPAZHEFpDiFpe7DTayp7FuSQNh3ORXetSV2b24imz8D56RR4DG3x1OmEHE0U6O03GcFtxq8uPjDTJCZlQ0X3ecWgJfRRtaxc/s200/morechewedcymbidiums.JPG" border="0" /></a>I sigh in relief. Even though it means another day of noise, Mark will be happy and I will be through with these awkward explanations.<br /><br />And sometime, in the far distant future, the lightwell will be re-stuccoed and repainted and I will be able to put a dozen stray houseplants out there, leftover slugs and all.<br /><br />Thank god roofs last for 20 years.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-51510695005373099412008-04-18T18:05:00.000-07:002008-04-18T19:54:05.352-07:00arts and crafts<a href="http://www.craftzine.com/extras/92.html"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190759943821335218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBcEbjCPEYk4umzbHfcgoH0wgNxdWJorujZbPACOY_yCBRn9BDbWE51nAQy7M7iETYJ-p-qE11QRtprX6Mjxr0IEHu_-qclVplcv9E2kVAMfAiOttnDjiag1Eha6nD6HggoJH0/s200/knitted_cupcakes.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’ve never been the crafts-y type.<br /><br />In fact, now that <a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/">Martha Stewart</a> has paid her debt to society, there’s no need for any of the rest of us to dip our own beeswax candles, milk our own <a href="http://www.ansi.okstate.edu/breeds/cattle/beltedgalloway/index.htm">Belted Galloway</a> cows, or <a href="http://www.amysedarisrocks.com/recipes.htm">ice our own cupcakes</a>. No need. Martha’s back in town, filling in America’s crafts gap. Only the institutionalized and socially marginal have reason to weave baskets or make their own potpourri.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUadKohBs07WUh02wGpxwUYnvjhxU824fLcsz3ly3krRXkw8gQ952SCKqjzAk8gFWbaFYM5BLt6EuCLvMN1DS36M195C4BEYXb45B2GIP3F_M_XN-x4-AB24RDtJLYeLZ7xPM/s1600-h/butter-pen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190764225903729362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUadKohBs07WUh02wGpxwUYnvjhxU824fLcsz3ly3krRXkw8gQ952SCKqjzAk8gFWbaFYM5BLt6EuCLvMN1DS36M195C4BEYXb45B2GIP3F_M_XN-x4-AB24RDtJLYeLZ7xPM/s200/butter-pen.jpg" border="0" /></a>The hipper side of the crafts world, <em><a href="http://www.makezine.com/">MAKE magazine</a></em>, has never managed to seduce me either. Do I really need to build a <a href="http://www.instructables.com/id/Awning/">kayak rack</a>? Do I want to make my own <a href="http://blog.craftzine.com/archive/2008/02/bizarre_chocolate_from_pingmag.html">chocolate sushi</a>? Am I up to the challenge of constructing a <a href="http://www.instructables.com/id/S3CM3GEFEXKM0GQ/">butter-pen</a>? Can I imagine knitting a cozy for the TV remote controller?<br /><br />The answer is always no. For me, tying my own shoes qualifies as a craft. My kayaks can be shoved under the bed with my mukluks, unracked. And a butter-pen is much too much of a commitment: I prefer to use a butter-pencil to keep my cholesterol level competitively high.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzqxWJKthXO-bty3p45ArOevoewKDKapBJzgWPsz6fc0gtsZAONhpVoOjn-IDSKrQAHUvHO_JXTyRW8XVL_-nB_dTwEavcm1g2Ei9V4wKmV_lwC5hFrc_xrI5TuInuF-DKiyv/s1600-h/squareknot.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190765634653002466" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzqxWJKthXO-bty3p45ArOevoewKDKapBJzgWPsz6fc0gtsZAONhpVoOjn-IDSKrQAHUvHO_JXTyRW8XVL_-nB_dTwEavcm1g2Ei9V4wKmV_lwC5hFrc_xrI5TuInuF-DKiyv/s200/squareknot.jpg" border="0" /></a>Okay. I might've lied about crafts a couple of paragraphs ago. I admit that I did flirt with macramé—but only briefly—when I was in high school.<br /><br />My string of choice was rough green jute, which stained my hands and shed bits of green fiber onto the carpeting in front of the TV, where I most often worked. Square knots. Double half-hitches. Tying knots for hours on end felt therapeutic and it offered an absorbing substitute for a normal social life. Besides, going to school with green hands made me feel artistic.<br /><br />I avoided the smaller, less ambitious macramé projects—the belts and handbags—and went straight for the enormous rustic wall-hangings, decorated with bits of driftwood, beads, and stones with holes in them that I gathered on the beach.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXPYh-JLtKMwezOnPPiKAagZ4V6TeMdg5gg5uhRrDWSpEsmP9Q8-3PGW9FsELBS3Wq898l6qFQGAjlPjTNq2I1bcC-E3P7Bh3iMuS-lwLSrscSgxj-t_Y-3Dohyphenhyphenh2FzOjcx_B/s1600-h/macrame.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190765870876203762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXPYh-JLtKMwezOnPPiKAagZ4V6TeMdg5gg5uhRrDWSpEsmP9Q8-3PGW9FsELBS3Wq898l6qFQGAjlPjTNq2I1bcC-E3P7Bh3iMuS-lwLSrscSgxj-t_Y-3Dohyphenhyphenh2FzOjcx_B/s200/macrame.jpg" border="0" /></a>My output was prodigious and ugly. So I offered the wall hangings to relatives, who hung them in closets and bathrooms. Garages provided lots of prime wall space too.<br /><br />For about a year I alternately macramé-d long thin wall hangings and short squat wall hangings. It would’ve been a challenge to find any dimensions I didn’t create a macramé objet d’art to fill.<br /><br />Although my high school macramé projects were frumpy, they were relatively successful. Certainly there were worse projects. Much worse. Take the Elizabethan Crumster, for example, a crafts project that was a thoroughgoing disaster. The fact that I remember it at all, that it stands out from the general horrors of sixth grade, should tell you something.<br /><br />In the Crumster, I see an element of prescience.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VH9cWVdChxNcGguhlD2Aker6ATuK0eJ3U_4BFcAxd8wbcCZ7KsRSAJG-R1rIlZp9erP-g7irErWXEC0voj1YPFhCnvSdmIhj9JdxeEqkM6eVDQi5oY0tXXf4YAsT-hTxOIyv/s1600-h/Crumster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190766283193064194" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VH9cWVdChxNcGguhlD2Aker6ATuK0eJ3U_4BFcAxd8wbcCZ7KsRSAJG-R1rIlZp9erP-g7irErWXEC0voj1YPFhCnvSdmIhj9JdxeEqkM6eVDQi5oY0tXXf4YAsT-hTxOIyv/s200/Crumster.jpg" border="0" /></a>An Elizabethan Crumster is a ship, a merchant ship. Bigger than a breadbox and smaller than a galleon. You know: Not a sexy yacht or a fearsome gunboat, <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=bj51NCPOvf4C&pg=PA31&lpg=PA31&dq=elizabethan+crumster&source=web&ots=qm2EZeH1L6&sig=E05i-75Msvj93TpRNV5hrvlaJDs&hl=en">a sturdy little Crumster</a>.<br /><br />I’ve never been particularly interested in boats. Nor was I <a href="http://www.elizabethan-era.org.uk/famous-women-pirates.htm">interested in history</a> in the sixth grade, when I fabricated my Crumster out of nothing more than a stack of shirt cardboards and spaghetti. Yes, spaghetti. You can imagine what it looked like.<br /><br />I can’t remember how I chose such an unlikely crafts project for school, although I can guess why I chose the materials that I did.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJiMM58r-TOnJ6bAp0167OMmUPokQlXlDB2bnxOilmyAbcGNDijPCwQAova5ttTMBaWQvtHHT7K15oO5cjDrr8UOg7YeM0gr7JRWUJhX7WUXFFXxg45rxYNlMKoCIPT2LfeYf/s1600-h/sugarcubepyramid.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190767799316519698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJiMM58r-TOnJ6bAp0167OMmUPokQlXlDB2bnxOilmyAbcGNDijPCwQAova5ttTMBaWQvtHHT7K15oO5cjDrr8UOg7YeM0gr7JRWUJhX7WUXFFXxg45rxYNlMKoCIPT2LfeYf/s200/sugarcubepyramid.jpg" border="0" /></a>The problem was, the other kids <a href="http://www.kidzworld.com/article/5449-ideas-for-egypt-projects">built pyramids</a>. They somehow convinced their feckless parents to drive to Vons and buy them multiple boxes of expensive C&H sugar cubes. Glue ‘em together and—ta-da!—a pyramid. Two pyramids. Pyramids on a sand-sprinkled plywood board. Pyramids to go. Pyramids a-go-go. The Great Pyramids at Giza. The Mayan Pyramids of Chichen-Itza.<br /><br />I was so jealous. These kids had nothing to be embarrassed about and it was even easy for them. Probably fun too.<br /><br />No way that I was going to convince any adult member of my household to pony up for boxes of those expensive sugar cubes. No way! And what of the ants? Surely that many sugar cubes would become an open invitation to the ants.<br /><br />Yo, ants! House party!<br /><br />My father worked in the aerospace industry, LA’s second economy. He wore a white shirt and tie to work every day. Once a week, a cleaner would come around in his panel van and pick up 5 identical dirty white shirts and drop off 5 clean white shirts. Each clean shirt was folded flat around a cardboard rectangle. Shirt cardboards. Free building material. Impossible to work with, but free.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHhbkcjhEVLrMmiXD8vL21tk1Wg66GCxabiAWoEXtjEFUMj1FcTrlePaUInE0UXzEd-tqN44oVWnhUMr4OmWL0iMkSjhNlgTCCu0W9Ilap1nlBKYyuphKnhe9q8q_A7ClsoXUR/s1600-h/Kathy-galleon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190768864468409122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHhbkcjhEVLrMmiXD8vL21tk1Wg66GCxabiAWoEXtjEFUMj1FcTrlePaUInE0UXzEd-tqN44oVWnhUMr4OmWL0iMkSjhNlgTCCu0W9Ilap1nlBKYyuphKnhe9q8q_A7ClsoXUR/s200/Kathy-galleon.jpg" border="0" /></a>On the first go-round, the Crumster I constructed from shirt cardboard looked <em>horrid</em>, unrecognizable as a boat. If it weren’t so lopsided, it might’ve passed for an Elizabethan chamber pot. Even a brisk application of brown Magic Marker did not help it pass as a ship. Now it was a brown Elizabethan chamber pot rather than a gray cardboard-colored Elizabethan chamber pot.<br /><br />Drat! I rummaged around, looking for something I could use as rigging, something I could just take without getting into too much trouble. Rigging would surely transform the shapeless cardboard <em>thing</em> into a serviceable galleon-like object.<br /><br />How can you make rigging without rope? String wasn’t stiff enough to pass muster as rigging. As I sat at the kitchen table, miserable, pondering whether a cardboard chamber pot would float me to C level, I munched on a stalk of raw spaghetti. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTtOZmrkmWwuj2QaMTOaagfruccs7DW4gA4sHR_0_LhrIdc7UNM57P2JmCSFifXf2zoPoEVTFUuowlOFIhpoVmq2ndAX_FbMFHucwvr7MjGNiZkPXEX5xZQe8oXxCyLAy_tYC/s1600-h/spaghettimonster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190770174433434418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVTtOZmrkmWwuj2QaMTOaagfruccs7DW4gA4sHR_0_LhrIdc7UNM57P2JmCSFifXf2zoPoEVTFUuowlOFIhpoVmq2ndAX_FbMFHucwvr7MjGNiZkPXEX5xZQe8oXxCyLAy_tYC/s200/spaghettimonster.jpg" border="0" /></a>Aha! There was my answer: raw spaghetti. Excellent solution! It never crossed my mind how dorky the raw spaghetti would look. I just saw a simple way to finish the stupid homework assignment, a way to make a chamber pot into an ocean-going vessel.<br /><br />I glued together port and starboard lattices of raw spaghetti—and two more to match fore and aft—and finished my Crumster; I then stuffed it into a brown grocery bag so that I could transport it to school without answering any questions about what it was. My hope was that I could hide it in plain sight among the numerous pyramids and papier-mâché globes and escape detection. Was a C too much to ask?<br /><br />How did I think I would get away with such a peculiar-looking artifact?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC7z1dzTzSHM2q3R7wDkZvD3F991kMQmqB_iPmXrvD0DSX5VgKHRpO0DbyTAxtXboHv6KMKJ2lMKudhVD9FFzyqYCyJTcCYI4TSTP25R1rtRbWU25Ahp-QRltIFPXXhuCksCp/s1600-h/pyramids.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190770539505654594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLC7z1dzTzSHM2q3R7wDkZvD3F991kMQmqB_iPmXrvD0DSX5VgKHRpO0DbyTAxtXboHv6KMKJ2lMKudhVD9FFzyqYCyJTcCYI4TSTP25R1rtRbWU25Ahp-QRltIFPXXhuCksCp/s200/pyramids.jpg" border="0" /></a>How on earth did one of my classmates construct a Rand-McNally-quality globe out of papier-mâché? Another classmate’s pyramid looked like he’d marshaled teams of teeny-tiny Egyptian slaves to hoist sugar bricks one on top of the other. Was that really a miniature camel? Did I detect the intervening hand of a competent adult?<br /><br />No fair! No fair!<br /><br />There are only three things you can do when you’re the most eccentric and least socially adept sixth grader in the class: (1) throw your shirt-cardboard-and-raw-spaghetti Elizabethan Crumster in the dumpster behind the cafeteria on your way to class and claim that you forgot to do your homework; (2) turn in your shirt-cardboard-and-raw-spaghetti Elizabethan Crumster, but squash it in advance and claim that it used to look <em>a lot better</em>, <em>A LOT BETTER</em>, before some mean seventh grade girl stole it from you on the bus and wrecked it; or (3) brazen it out and act like you deliberately built a crappy-assed shirt-cardboard-and-raw-spaghetti Elizabethan Crumster <em>to </em><a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/03/benign-neglect.html"><em>make fun of Mrs. Thiess</em></a><em> and her crappy-assed crafts projects</em>.<br /><br />Naturally I chose option (3). After all, I’d spent several hours on the thing and I wanted credit for my labor and creative use of materials. And the word “Crumster” was good. Perfect, even. It seemed to lend itself to classroom buffoonery. In retrospect, option (2) would’ve been a whole lot smarter grade-wise, and option (1) would’ve left me with a shred of self-respect, but (3) presented an attractive element of risk.<br /><br />D’oh. Another black mark in my permanent record. Even today, I see the results. “Oh, you expected stock options this year? Well maybe you shouldn’t have used an Elizabethan Crumster to make fun of your 6th grade teacher. Ever consider that?”<br /><br />Some things take more than 50 years of therapy to work out. It’s pretty clear that I have good reason to steer clear of crafts though.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuz6VN8WJoe3Hl8f6Oa92RhlqQVsIyaJUXYJxU9bMiP2Zv78w2hDKqpQvy7RlcND3h4SAs57M3bygv115POUSAX6HIHEZApbhrmDo-tKgGSspyn5QggMY5s_J6N9SZL_jTbg8/s1600-h/Glue-Gun.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190770956117482322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuz6VN8WJoe3Hl8f6Oa92RhlqQVsIyaJUXYJxU9bMiP2Zv78w2hDKqpQvy7RlcND3h4SAs57M3bygv115POUSAX6HIHEZApbhrmDo-tKgGSspyn5QggMY5s_J6N9SZL_jTbg8/s200/Glue-Gun.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, knowing what I know, why was I unable to resist a glue gun at <a href="http://www.cliffsvariety.com/">Cliff’s Variety</a>? It’s not like I’m <a href="http://kristinacontes.typepad.com/">a closet scrapbooker</a> or something. Why didn’t I ditch the glue gun and all of the glue sticks before I got to the checkstand? I could’ve just bought the Schultz’s Plant Food and <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/07/center-of-mass.html">the shower grout</a> that I came for and been on my way. Merrily.<br /><br />Why’d I do it?<br /><br />I’ve had the glue gun for months now—months!—and I’ve been dying to try it.<br /><br />“What can I glue? What can I glue?” I ask myself.<br /><br />“What can I glue?” I ask Mark.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZ_lQcL3Fk1eYwRSheLiRZNDuOcbIuMRhfPkTei5GyA5xylDNLNBQ3SVt34lL9elXoOtBF6O-gwedmZRXBsBi5uZTHIAXUwIdg5azD5R7gPS_ka6tS3OLySMx7io_sTX6wNn2/s1600-h/glueandpopsiclesticks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190774787228310370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTZ_lQcL3Fk1eYwRSheLiRZNDuOcbIuMRhfPkTei5GyA5xylDNLNBQ3SVt34lL9elXoOtBF6O-gwedmZRXBsBi5uZTHIAXUwIdg5azD5R7gPS_ka6tS3OLySMx7io_sTX6wNn2/s200/glueandpopsiclesticks.jpg" border="0" /></a>Mark has no easy answer, but he just picks up the glue gun (ah, such a pleasing heft) and starts gluing stuff together. Stuff. Anything. Whatever’s at hand on the dining room table. He glues a popsicle stick to another popsicle stick and glues those to some toothpicks and a post-it. Cat hair gets mixed in.<br /><br />Things stick out at odd angles. The gluey object grows.<br /><br />Done! Mark has satisfied man’s primal urge to glue. He is left with a wholly disposable assemblage of dining room table detritus. Done and done! He places the sculpture on the dining room table where it sits for several months.<br /><br />I am left holding a hot glue gun with nothing left to glue, and in fact, nothing that actually needs gluing.<br /><br />Damn! What can I glue?<br /><br />What finally catches my attention are the magazines, the magazines I’ve been fretting about ever since I moved everything to the center of the rooms in preparation for the new windows. That was when I came to the stunning realization that our possessions consist of:<br />65% books and magazines<br />15% houseplants<br />10% knick-knacks<br />4% take-out menus, refrigerator magnets, and Alicia Tam notepads<br />3% post-its, pens, and other office supplies<br />2% old autoteller receipts and<br />1% EVERYTHING ELSE.<br /><br />It’s a distressing state of affairs.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZay9UxoGDi_3jvLQrFYRUeUR5LGY9BL3llb2UU4Q1cWQhjIU5iPgXyi9NrCsytItZVmTNrJmrH5y6jaLWkFyEaB3f0ACK3sPQBSfNGYDNjYn2YqyfRnzSP5hbiWefket-ntFK/s1600-h/magazines.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190778081468226418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZay9UxoGDi_3jvLQrFYRUeUR5LGY9BL3llb2UU4Q1cWQhjIU5iPgXyi9NrCsytItZVmTNrJmrH5y6jaLWkFyEaB3f0ACK3sPQBSfNGYDNjYn2YqyfRnzSP5hbiWefket-ntFK/s200/magazines.jpg" border="0" /></a>We have a lot of old magazines. <em>New Yorkers</em>, mostly. It seems so wasteful to just toss ‘em. Besides, there’s always an article or two that I haven’t read yet. And if I keep them for more than a year or two, I completely forget the content of the articles that I did read, and can safely read the whole magazine anew.<br /><br />I’d originally planned to donate all these magazines to someplace they’d be appreciated. But then I happened upon an article (in a magazine, of course) that said, people who know better—the street vendors who set up shop on the sidewalks of Lower Manhattan—hate, hate old <em>New Yorkers</em>, that you can’t even give them away, that the street vendors accept them only out of pity for the clueless donors. I flinch with guilt and self-recognition.<br /><br />The thing about these magazines is that I love the pictures—the graphics and photos and lavish illustrations. Love ‘em! Even magazines that were black-and-white a decade ago are now just full of interesting pictures. Cool pictures. Pictures you might like to clip out and…<br /><br />Tell me, am I too old to collage?<br /><br />Scratch that question. On second thought, I decide to consult no-one about the wisdom of this project. I think I know the answer. And it’s not the one I want to hear.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFegLljLaEWBUGmaBamVFrygu2SmCk13cigR8xQLfglZjRk3RhyphenhyphennvSHkJEqk0wp1QxIKMzlSOri38S1bhm4ks0sb3B6hNVh2-Kz7SWuMu34bhVG9h_knJ0y1WOCkZKcmotYlu4/s1600-h/heartshapedbox.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190778845972405122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFegLljLaEWBUGmaBamVFrygu2SmCk13cigR8xQLfglZjRk3RhyphenhyphennvSHkJEqk0wp1QxIKMzlSOri38S1bhm4ks0sb3B6hNVh2-Kz7SWuMu34bhVG9h_knJ0y1WOCkZKcmotYlu4/s200/heartshapedbox.JPG" border="0" /></a>All I know is that I’ve got glossy magazine pictures, a glue gun, and a lifetime’s worth of small cardboard boxes that I’ve kept “just in case.” In case of what? In case I decide to return a fetid 10 year old pair of Pumas? In case I want to remember a Valentine’s Day gift of gooey chocolate-covered cherries? In case I suddenly start an eBay business? Why oh why do I have all of these boxes?<br /><br />Yes. I am having a vision, a brainstorm so dangerous that I dare not tell anyone. The answer to all of my problems is right in front of me. Well, not all of my problems. My problems are manifest and cannot all be addressed by adhesives. But most of my problems.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-XtJi5Tdi2jg3udGsnZ9rm6c_1wPfXUPgExn-aqSWMh4BRgeqX1FN8HKS_IFFrC_btAxVInNGpEax_SO4_jKFdlgLMQU1AlzUMELhvZIenqxO1KsikkDN4XwFmqeNB8qhD4y/s1600-h/BettiePage.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190779485922532242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3-XtJi5Tdi2jg3udGsnZ9rm6c_1wPfXUPgExn-aqSWMh4BRgeqX1FN8HKS_IFFrC_btAxVInNGpEax_SO4_jKFdlgLMQU1AlzUMELhvZIenqxO1KsikkDN4XwFmqeNB8qhD4y/s200/BettiePage.jpg" border="0" /></a>If hot glue were to solve all of my problems, I’d be applying hot glue to <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/03/josh-kornbluth-about-town.html">Evert’s friends</a> who have been engaging in excessively noisy sex at 5am every morning and WAKING ME UP. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/09/new-resistant-strain-of-insomnia.html">I’m an insomniac</a>; I need whatever sleep I can round up. The walls are thick, but these people are really LOUD. It’s not thumping sex or moaning sex or wailing sex; <a href="http://shop.evertart.us/main.sc">it’s complicated sex</a> with lots of shouted instructions and noises that are ambiguously situated between pleasure and pain.<br /><br />Hot glue is not the answer to that problem. I bet applying hot glue would just make the noise louder.<br /><br />They’d probably LIKE hot glue. It might elicit further shrieks and shouted commands.<br /><br />So what was that safe word?<br /><br />If hot glue is not the solution to all of my problems, at first blush it does seem to be the answer to many of them.<br /><br />Unfortunately, the first thing that I learn, right away, is that glue guns aren’t so swell for gluing paper. The glue I’ve applied is messy and bumpy. Glue guns are apparently for other crafts. Perhaps crafts involving shirt cardboards and raw spaghetti.<br /><br />Crap. The first few glue gun efforts reveal that I am building yet another Elizabethan Crumster. I can tell. Shit. I am not 10 years old. Why did I start a crafts project? Why? Don’t I have any common sense?<br /><br />Mrs. Thiess is smirking from her grave. SMIRKING.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKI_ptT8FJBeGMfPmdQ_cn9hqizC_v9TrFVZuSLAuwjdN0-NSFANQDFf6YBnH2QgafSTRPGZO6wydWb3eS03QMICqhz3vB0o34wRx0AY7hQz-wzNm53Bar81DyR4irunZYFtZ/s1600-h/scrapbookglue.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190780980571151266" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKI_ptT8FJBeGMfPmdQ_cn9hqizC_v9TrFVZuSLAuwjdN0-NSFANQDFf6YBnH2QgafSTRPGZO6wydWb3eS03QMICqhz3vB0o34wRx0AY7hQz-wzNm53Bar81DyR4irunZYFtZ/s200/scrapbookglue.jpg" border="0" /></a>I might’ve learned something over the years though. I hustle myself down the hill to Walgreens and—contrary to my usual impulse toward cheap-i-tude—I eschew the Wal-hesive, Wal-goo, and Wal-stick-um and head straight for the archival quality 3M scrapbooking glue.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_Eo6KzXpt2edPuBZmSKAaynpaiBx-uii3hYPt24phw0kNblUY5cxan5ZbLnk_xoN-rQJxaz_RGXRdrGSQsrc103ttn2lviBthgJ4HgEnQ_OJnNafTP4aOA9Lt2kc0cxaCjzs/s1600-h/scrapbookerstuff.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190781306988665778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_Eo6KzXpt2edPuBZmSKAaynpaiBx-uii3hYPt24phw0kNblUY5cxan5ZbLnk_xoN-rQJxaz_RGXRdrGSQsrc103ttn2lviBthgJ4HgEnQ_OJnNafTP4aOA9Lt2kc0cxaCjzs/s200/scrapbookerstuff.jpg" border="0" /></a>Scrapbooking. <a href="http://www.scrapbook.com/">Did you know that Scrapbooking was a multi-BILLION dollar industry</a>? Either did I. Multi-BILLION. Who’d have thought? Scrapbooking. Jesus.<br /><br />But this is the best glue I’ve ever used (not counting the kind you huff from paper bags). This glue is great. This glue is all-powerful and forgiving. You can’t go wrong.<br /><br />You can even leave the cap off of this glue and the applicator will keep on working.<br /><br />I can’t say enough nice things about this glue. It’s life-changing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QmhawMymbPexMTK4G3T4a2f8VNPrO9pQ-PeuR9xfmrTDSxNQtvX03bnpM_VqyLtqy9KEBD_Q_L_3qEEXsxzw_Z-9TbTy5_3vApnqdJJCE0lg12-aGrpbX8ZBiA2BDBzbAX7O/s1600-h/heart-shaped+box.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190781723600493506" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5QmhawMymbPexMTK4G3T4a2f8VNPrO9pQ-PeuR9xfmrTDSxNQtvX03bnpM_VqyLtqy9KEBD_Q_L_3qEEXsxzw_Z-9TbTy5_3vApnqdJJCE0lg12-aGrpbX8ZBiA2BDBzbAX7O/s200/heart-shaped+box.JPG" border="0" /></a>I spend hours pondering my clippings as if they were an elaborate jigsaw puzzle. I stare at them, trim them, rearrange them, glue them, Mod-Podge them.<br /><br />And—just as you’d expect—they proliferate. First there’s 1 box. Then 2 boxes. Then 4.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5Y2Pxp-pXpxYdQWUy2wSHrCqUHE-mOy4wQFcmjcC5KdUyBIFwGZKg9BCwEpshgRnpsWwdVUYhVk8lIc9eb9VzLpe5ySFO0plPfA5iAxrC6gkqMeARnIPRr3ZKJKPum6npV3U/s1600-h/boxes.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190783437292444626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE5Y2Pxp-pXpxYdQWUy2wSHrCqUHE-mOy4wQFcmjcC5KdUyBIFwGZKg9BCwEpshgRnpsWwdVUYhVk8lIc9eb9VzLpe5ySFO0plPfA5iAxrC6gkqMeARnIPRr3ZKJKPum6npV3U/s200/boxes.JPG" border="0" /></a>Perhaps it’s a good thing that Valentine’s Day comes only once a year. There are but so many heart-shaped boxes that I’ve stashed away. And I haven’t even started on the shoeboxes yet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgmnOqZ8dMCQoyF0kX-LNcm059vpYp16508z-43C7yOu4-sfT22rYDGCJ5L7HfBHD8xZsauZ6k0Wbt8aOoJx3-2d3hnBuE9L-zDrcVa5mqxnfgcrpxHS_5CxL8EcTU6CKlaXG/s1600-h/more-boxes.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190783677810613218" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgmnOqZ8dMCQoyF0kX-LNcm059vpYp16508z-43C7yOu4-sfT22rYDGCJ5L7HfBHD8xZsauZ6k0Wbt8aOoJx3-2d3hnBuE9L-zDrcVa5mqxnfgcrpxHS_5CxL8EcTU6CKlaXG/s200/more-boxes.JPG" border="0" /></a>You do have a lot of empty wall space, don’t you? I know what you’re going to get for Xmas.<br /><br /><br />If you’ve been really nice to me, I won’t give you two.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-9959685080053728152008-03-23T11:37:00.000-07:002008-03-23T14:05:53.827-07:00a windows upgrade<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvGPMDvNF9VsHq7JlHcmDLGe9RLvgOsc7GOIxczOG1zun6oQFNsO2KR0cSfQd8kFI_MZrFGW9A6CDDf7kZAq8qCNSKZSkg1A4tt17t_r52VEdfWBW-wACnHTqCYkSjcFFyqSH/s1600-h/living-room-window1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181025961017598210" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDvGPMDvNF9VsHq7JlHcmDLGe9RLvgOsc7GOIxczOG1zun6oQFNsO2KR0cSfQd8kFI_MZrFGW9A6CDDf7kZAq8qCNSKZSkg1A4tt17t_r52VEdfWBW-wACnHTqCYkSjcFFyqSH/s200/living-room-window1.JPG" border="0" /></a>I have the soul of a renter.<br /><br />When the windows get too dirty, I have to fight an overwhelming urge to pack up and move on. Or maybe not even to pack up, just to move on and leave behind all of the detritus we’ve accumulated over the last 9 years: 21 American Express and Capitol One refrigerator magnets (and one featuring the lovely <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/10/mail-call.html">Alicia Tam, Realtor</a>). 41 houseplants. A decrepit brown corduroy-covered futon couch. An entire library of Chinese take-out menus. 100 pounds of pennies. A cupboard full of jelly jars that we use as drinking glasses.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbjD1WHh-kOTfKMnNyMOlaKu21-DjdLQaGbjOr0mWaxWf-1fmjPygJXrySc9b9KE_h0pwlDOC8nEqbJDDcbK5FKvcW5eiJvv_s3JGGd1wnR_UfqLaetfpnoIPQuK1GSPI4ckE/s1600-h/ourstuff.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181031922432205090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzbjD1WHh-kOTfKMnNyMOlaKu21-DjdLQaGbjOr0mWaxWf-1fmjPygJXrySc9b9KE_h0pwlDOC8nEqbJDDcbK5FKvcW5eiJvv_s3JGGd1wnR_UfqLaetfpnoIPQuK1GSPI4ckE/s200/ourstuff.JPG" border="0" /></a>Have we lived here for 9 years? Holy Moses! How did <em>that</em> happen? That’d explain all this shit<br /><br />When we moved in, a friend said, "Don’t do anything to the house for at least 2 years. Just live in it as if you were renting the place. Then you’ll know what you want to remodel."<br /><br />He needn’t have warned us this way. We’ve had no problem doing nothing. No problem at all. Everything’s fine.<br /><br />I’m still using a stack of Xerox boxes as a bureau; there’s still the shadow of Josephine’s now-absent crucifix above the mantel, even though Josephine’s been dead for over a decade. Everything’s <em>exactly</em> where it was when we moved in<br /><br />9 years. That’s a long time. I could’ve relived the worst part of elementary school and junior high in that much time and removed the blemishes from my Permanent Record.<br /><br />And I could’ve just kept going for another 10 years. Really I could’ve. There’s nothing wrong with the house. Oh sure, maybe the paint is peeling where rain leaked in from the light well. Maybe there’s some moss growing on the roof. And maybe the stack of appliances and clothes to bring to the Salvation Army is becoming truly formidable (this is partly because the Salvation Army in San Francisco accepts only Sub Zero or Kitchen Aid appliances and couture clothing in excellent condition, but that’s a story best left for another blog post).<br /><br />But apart from a few signs of wear and tear, there’s nothing at all wrong with our house. Nothing I couldn’t ignore for another decade or so.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU206-XUtdGfFfV8gKR40nONtTPsyBeZcPTZdzHHFczLWwlRmTQmsylnXMzkPRFY1cDCUoIsBmfXoQEoc8T-VBA0JspQm8EiXZ5YaNlp_4-Ecu-ysCsaf97WMLFiZ34clujhAo/s1600-h/rear-window.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181029920977445138" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU206-XUtdGfFfV8gKR40nONtTPsyBeZcPTZdzHHFczLWwlRmTQmsylnXMzkPRFY1cDCUoIsBmfXoQEoc8T-VBA0JspQm8EiXZ5YaNlp_4-Ecu-ysCsaf97WMLFiZ34clujhAo/s200/rear-window.JPG" border="0" /></a>Somehow a startling decision was made when I wasn’t paying attention. Maybe I was watching <em><a href="http://www.colbertnation.com/">The Colbert Report</a></em>. Maybe I was doing a late-in-the-week <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Monday-Through-Friday-Crossword-Puzzles/dp/0312300581/ref=pd_sim_b_title_7"><em>New York Times</em> crossword puzzle</a>. Whatever it was, I must’ve been distracted from matters at hand: apparently we decided that we’d replace the aluminum windows with real wooden windows, the kind the Sears salesman convinced Josephine to ditch in the heady burst of modernization and streamlining so characteristic of the early 1970s.<br /><br />Once there was some momentum, it was easy to get behind this course of action; several of the old windows didn’t close any more and others didn’t open. I feared locking myself out on the light well (I normally crawl through the kitchen window to get there) or on front balcony while I was waving to tourists, pretending to be the Pope.<br /><br />Face it. The house would look <em>much better</em> with nice wooden windows. Much better.<br /><br />Or, as I’ve learned. Windows: You should upgrade.<br /><br />You’re still running Windows 1970? You should be running Windows 2008! Don’t you know how buggy Windows 1970 is?<br /><br />It’s true. Often on summer nights, whole swarms of tiny bugs breach the living room windows to fry themselves on the lamp (purchased at Lamps ‘R’ Us, circa 1988).<br /><br />Once you decide to do something like that, put in new original-looking windows, the next part is easy. It seems that every other house in San Francisco has been through an extensive remodel during the fat years of subprime second mortgages. Every other house has been gutted and redone. So it’s not hard to get a recommendation for a contractor to address something as simple and ubiquitous as windows.<br /><br />Windows? Just click here to install.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzi8HGMMRLyN5FZUa30Ozpcx6kOY1uCmMGT8JEWQ6UJhaPya-jGQ75HoSkCkjFI6-DbBxh0Ea9njWa0bhadJLnzhe1JYZiBP-cCSMW-BbhH2Sybs_w53NvMKKnkAsws17UUJAm/s1600-h/magnets.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181032403468542258" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzi8HGMMRLyN5FZUa30Ozpcx6kOY1uCmMGT8JEWQ6UJhaPya-jGQ75HoSkCkjFI6-DbBxh0Ea9njWa0bhadJLnzhe1JYZiBP-cCSMW-BbhH2Sybs_w53NvMKKnkAsws17UUJAm/s200/magnets.JPG" border="0" /></a>At first, it seemed like a relatively straightforward proposition. The window guys came out and measured. We chatted briefly. This side needs to open; that window needs to be laminated. The window guys eyed the American Express refrigerator magnets, houseplants, decrepit brown futon, stack of Chinese take-out menus, and collection of jelly jars skeptically. We wrote a big check.<br /><br />Then they left and all was quiet. I felt good: we’d fixed up the windows.<br /><br />Of course, we still had the old aluminum windows, but we’d demonstrated our intentions to upgrade. To make the place look a little less like it was inhabited by a nest of particularly messy urban scavengers, squirrels in graduate school or crows on holiday.<br /><br />Everything was fine.<br /><br />Every once in a while, I thought about the new windows, especially when I struggled to open or close one of the old windows or when the light hit the nose prints on the living room window just so.<br /><br />“It’s really a good view” I’d explain to a visitor. “If the windows weren’t so dirty, you could see stuff like City Hall, SFMOMA, the skyline, Candlestick Park. It’s AMAZING.”<br /><br />“Awesome,” the visitor would agree skeptically, examining the city lights dimly visible through the patina of nose grease. “It’s an awesome view.”<br /><br />Finally there was no need to feel guilty about not washing these windows. They’d be gone soon.<br /><br />That was the best part of our Windows Upgrade: the part after we’d paid the first big lump sum and before the workmen showed up to begin installing the first window, that period when anything was possible and you knew it would just get better. It was a great excuse for sloth and indecision.<br /><br />“Go through that pile of stuff on my desk? No. I’ll just wait ‘til the new windows are in.”<br /><br />“Get rid of those ugly metal venetian blinds? No point until they’re done with the windows.”<br /><br />“Wash the dishes. Nah. They’ll just mess things up when they’re doing the windows.”<br /><br />But then the honeymoon was over. The window guys scheduled a week in early March to come out and install our new windows.<br /><br />“It probably won’t take all week.” That’s what Dawn said when we settled on a date for the work to begin.<br /><br />Yep. Less than a week. Just backup the files, click on setup, and give it a couple of hours. And <em>voila</em>! New Windows.<br /><br />It turns out that it’s not like that for real windows. Not like that at all.<br /><br />I didn’t understand how disruptive installing windows would be, really. I mean, windows are more or less on the edge of a room, in the walls. That shouldn’t have anything to do with the middle of the room, right?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhl01_G9BRb2agCHGHR0UBO5I_qtn4XHpqyS7Uq8f4onBugPisWbcu_2phaUOgnulCKRt3uMcwECEkX6xeiSJmGyTYsKY5YCcb9pN6AnlSvgZSXHtsgHAqkLElInXUJCalVsp/s1600-h/pile-o-stuff.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181032790015598914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhl01_G9BRb2agCHGHR0UBO5I_qtn4XHpqyS7Uq8f4onBugPisWbcu_2phaUOgnulCKRt3uMcwECEkX6xeiSJmGyTYsKY5YCcb9pN6AnlSvgZSXHtsgHAqkLElInXUJCalVsp/s200/pile-o-stuff.JPG" border="0" /></a>How naïve I am! Mark knew that was not the case. Not at all. So the night before the workmen were due to arrive, I found myself packing stuff into boxes and moving it away from the wall.<br /><br />It’s surprising how much junk is in the periphery of our house. The houseplants, for example, seemed to be near the windows. What little furniture we have was clustered under windows. And we didn’t just have to move the furniture. I’d forgotten that all that furniture offered untold horizontal real-estate upon which to pile things. Magazines. Credit card receipts. Old laptops. Paper clips and rubber bands. Reminders of hobbies gone bad. Shredder oil. Shoe laces.<br /><br />You know: stuff. The million quotidian things we accumulate in the name of everyday life.<br /><br />Darn that furniture! Darn it!<br /><br />How many magazines could possibly have been published between 1999 and now?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj5Mik8Xw6g2p8EXX_kcJgJSv42yrKbRHW4Se2SpLL7kh-MsPE4vtI382MTN-s0yNorZcNpjwVZpJwOSA4IEvpJxc7ITsBtG2GLSxxyG-t9Gs3qlgvDbTB6ix2mOJ1WVOQUOt/s1600-h/newyorkercartoon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181033606059385170" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoj5Mik8Xw6g2p8EXX_kcJgJSv42yrKbRHW4Se2SpLL7kh-MsPE4vtI382MTN-s0yNorZcNpjwVZpJwOSA4IEvpJxc7ITsBtG2GLSxxyG-t9Gs3qlgvDbTB6ix2mOJ1WVOQUOt/s200/newyorkercartoon.jpg" border="0" /></a>The trouble with going through old magazines is that it’s almost impossible to not start reading them. And if they’re old enough, I guarantee you that the articles will be just as good as they were when they were fresh, especially if you’re like me and avoid news magazines. <em>New Yorker</em> cartoons? No matter how funny they were then, it’s likely you won’t remember them and will be able to enjoy them afresh. I can’t throw away old magazines without taking a second look at them. And after I take a second look, I’m sucked in for hours.<br /><br />Just how disruptive could it be to move everything into the middle of each room, away from the windows?<br /><br />Oh, it doesn’t sound bad, but figure it out. Let’s say we pack everything up that’s five feet or less from the windows. If a window is 6 feet wide, we lose the 30 square feet in front of the window, plus the 5 foot penumbra radiating out to the side; let’s say that’s 2 quarter circles with a 5 foot radius, or 3.14*5*5*2/4. Which is another 39.25 square feet per room (although, of course, some of that falls outside of the wall, but I’m going to ignore that nicety; that’d make the numbers much less dramatic).<br /><br />That’s 69.25 square feet per room. And there are <strong>7</strong> windows that are going to be replaced. <strong>7</strong>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRIzv-iriwY7vJdPj7Csq46mJ7S9ZvL5Hio6tZDeAPPUXfPQnLY8aSUt97AdYXTSLbjBVexw98DSQqo-p_ukhz6We6eEXwutmRFoH8FZasQ5SfxecFk34GiExDSRETQKSq02g/s1600-h/plants-paints.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181034078505787746" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRIzv-iriwY7vJdPj7Csq46mJ7S9ZvL5Hio6tZDeAPPUXfPQnLY8aSUt97AdYXTSLbjBVexw98DSQqo-p_ukhz6We6eEXwutmRFoH8FZasQ5SfxecFk34GiExDSRETQKSq02g/s200/plants-paints.JPG" border="0" /></a>Are you following me? That’s 484.75 square feet of crap that needs to be packed up and dragged into the center of the room, a zone that’s not exactly empty to start with.<br /><br />484.75 square feet.<br /><br />484.75 square feet of <em>dreck</em> to be dealt with.<br /><br />Now the house looks as you’d expect. The interior walls are piled high with stuff and there’s nothing anywhere near the windows.<br /><br />“It’s just for a week,” I reminded myself as I banged the shit out of my shins trying to get into bed that first Sunday night. “It’s just a week,” I said, stubbing my toe as I rushed to be ready for the workmen’s early arrival on Monday morning. “Just a week.”<br /><br />Then we confronted the oldest dilemma in homeowner-ing: when the workmen are there, do you stay or do you go? I think songs have been written about it.<br /><br />“<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ag8J2NMYmc">Should I stay or should I go</a>…”<br /><br />If you stay, you’re kind of in the way. No—scratch that. You’re very much in the way. You’re underfoot. You’re a nuisance in your own house. You’re a first-class pain in the ass. But if you go, you can’t answer questions –this latch or that? Does the house get locked up while everyone goes to fetch lunch? Does this minor glitch need to be fixed or not? And, of course, does some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drugstore_Cowboy">drugstore cowboy</a> get into your stash?<br /><br />You know what we did: we stayed. Of course we stayed. We stayed and were in the way. We stayed and watched the unfolding drama. We stayed and tried to ignore the pounding and scraping and whirring and grinding and the smelly dump one of the workmen took after lunch.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP4W1xf7bdjpwvFwOnUoDf07Ids9Nfksn1sJvQa1058jJKXR1zhnukDuIYzpI7AC0hlmrdKO_vwSQUkOOFXldjiYz3y8Qg0Kzw_5mBBVtYYAv1ELpLHfpzppKnJ4O11WDlGUe/s1600-h/lumpy-napping.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181034769995522418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP4W1xf7bdjpwvFwOnUoDf07Ids9Nfksn1sJvQa1058jJKXR1zhnukDuIYzpI7AC0hlmrdKO_vwSQUkOOFXldjiYz3y8Qg0Kzw_5mBBVtYYAv1ELpLHfpzppKnJ4O11WDlGUe/s200/lumpy-napping.JPG" border="0" /></a>One afternoon during that first week, Lumpy and I were napping on the futon downstairs while the workmen finished up the day’s work upstairs. Lumpy’s a cat who knows how to nap. He’s the king of naps, a napper of supreme confidence, competence, grace, and style. I don’t usually nap, but I’m an insomniac and accommodating the window installers’ harsh early-morning schedule made me sleep-deprived and nap-hungry right from the start. So there we were, Lump and me, snoozing away on the futon, ignoring the noise upstairs.<br /><br />The largest and most senior of the window installers, Murph, rapped on the door by way of warning and came in to tell me that the crew was knocking off for the day.<br /><br />Lumpy sprang into action.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjve3OpsgDeRUpV6w8MfFYdYgxb7-xK-bjyVtNF-K9s8b39YTpV4zTWgnpqEIdomURkIhqll2toMAoii9RdncktVUr4g6fV4oUwT_xOUWpX8Ps43wrolt76do2904zh93T7HIn4/s1600-h/ferociouslion.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181036372018323842" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjve3OpsgDeRUpV6w8MfFYdYgxb7-xK-bjyVtNF-K9s8b39YTpV4zTWgnpqEIdomURkIhqll2toMAoii9RdncktVUr4g6fV4oUwT_xOUWpX8Ps43wrolt76do2904zh93T7HIn4/s200/ferociouslion.jpg" border="0" /></a>He arched his back and roared like a lion. Like a large, ferocious lion. You’d never have known that seconds earlier he was curled in a compact half-circle, snoring softly, doing a pretty convincing impression of a housecat napping in a sunny spot.<br /><br />I’ve never seen a housecat so delusionally fierce.<br /><br />Murph said, “He’s trying to protect you.”<br /><br />Protect me? Protect me from what? Maybe Lumpy knew something I didn’t. Perhaps he was protecting me from the rather obvious observation that the workmen weren’t done and wouldn’t be when Friday afternoon rolled around.<br /><br />That the job would drag on and on. The way people had warned me that remodeling tasks do.<br /><br />By Friday, I’d grown weary of being in the way and had gone to work. But Mark was still home. And after his one outburst, Lumpy was at home too, safely hidden under the futon. Way under the futon, in a place so dusty that he’d emerge in the evening with little bits of cobweb and dust bunny clinging to his luxuriant whiskers and eyebrows. Hardly the guy who’d roared so convincingly earlier in the week.<br /><br />Around 4:30 Mark called me in my office. “I lost it,” he said. “I lost it at the workmen.”<br /><br />“What do you mean, you lost it?” I asked him. “Did they finish?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Well, what’s left for them to do? Are they close?”<br /><br />“You’ll see.” He said this in a tone so ominous that I decided it might be a good day to work extra-late.<br /><br />I’d wondered about the measurements the two men had made a few months ago, before they had built the windows; they seemed so, well, CASUAL. Sure, they used a tape measure. But they didn’t do what I would’ve done, checking and re-checking. Saying “Here. You try it and tell me what you get.” It was almost as if they could eyeball these distances, make wild-ass guesses, and the numbers would come out just right.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PbmjfuZTlc4fT2PVc4B1w-FWv968qsXdFVrFJqVsHPn1NGq-HYfmpt-K_lckcCxU4PubZ67sKRcWuXUXOEG7n_zOOuet1CMNfNqVX9DGSm4yQG18Bv2jtJRc5zd4EAov5wod/s1600-h/graysanatomy.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181036668371067282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PbmjfuZTlc4fT2PVc4B1w-FWv968qsXdFVrFJqVsHPn1NGq-HYfmpt-K_lckcCxU4PubZ67sKRcWuXUXOEG7n_zOOuet1CMNfNqVX9DGSm4yQG18Bv2jtJRc5zd4EAov5wod/s200/graysanatomy.gif" border="0" /></a>That’s why they’re experienced professionals, I reassured myself. They can really estimate distances well. They’re like surgeons: you wouldn’t want them to be pulling out copies of <a href="http://www.bartleby.com/107/">Gray’s Anatomy</a> when they’re making the cuts, right? Of course you’re anesthetized at that point. Perhaps surgeons do pull out copies of Gray’s Anatomy. That’s why they give you anesthetic early on: so you won’t see them consulting the textbook.<br /><br />Maybe these guys needed to give us some anesthetic. That way they could’ve been more careful without us knowing.<br /><br />But by the time I’d worked through that, the two men had finished their measurements, talked to us about latches and hinges and that sort of stuff, gotten in their white panel van with the company’s name on the side, and left.<br /><br />That was three months ago.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FumNG8DgU0C4GxXVRL1NkpWtOdWwGTriKcPf8u4ZvWzX2euDUZFz-bpVpyvOZu9Jmap2SxsUxeWO9WUYy3VtJ7y10wk6VqDbp1PnK3sUxI6oas5cBFgcDH21b16lBjl4zOpj/s1600-h/The-GAP.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181037703458185634" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6FumNG8DgU0C4GxXVRL1NkpWtOdWwGTriKcPf8u4ZvWzX2euDUZFz-bpVpyvOZu9Jmap2SxsUxeWO9WUYy3VtJ7y10wk6VqDbp1PnK3sUxI6oas5cBFgcDH21b16lBjl4zOpj/s200/The-GAP.JPG" border="0" /></a>When I got home, I saw why Mark had lost it: The new French doors in the back bedroom ended considerably before the wall began again. It wasn’t the workmen’s fault either; they weren’t the ones who’d done the measuring. Their boss had measured. Their boss had measured, and now they were stuck at the job site with a psychotic homeowner and French doors that ended considerably before the wall started back up again. There was no denying it: The French doors were almost two inches too short. They took some photos of the problem and slunk back to their workshop in the East Bay, another perfectly good Friday afternoon shot to shit.<br /><br />It’s just like installing Windows ™. It is. Better wipe that C: drive and start again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOQ2Qa3eGZVhXyHLtR0UK9nttTNFOGtZdmWpXvYab4GkZcetYKpO92vNwPwWUd3Guz2edO-t2zLxSoF0Dbw3L8hyphenhyphenZ5xC-PNscbwztZOzx6OvD-7ofcieF-GuBx_zXcW2laMfg/s1600-h/cymbidium.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181038025580732850" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOOQ2Qa3eGZVhXyHLtR0UK9nttTNFOGtZdmWpXvYab4GkZcetYKpO92vNwPwWUd3Guz2edO-t2zLxSoF0Dbw3L8hyphenhyphenZ5xC-PNscbwztZOzx6OvD-7ofcieF-GuBx_zXcW2laMfg/s200/cymbidium.jpg" border="0" /></a>Me, I’m sulking because my cymbidium was about to flower and the flower stalk has been knocked off in the process of installing the new kitchen window. My fault, really, since it wasn’t moved out of the way. But still I’ll sulk. The orchid hasn’t bloomed in the two-and-a-half years I’ve had it and I was looking forward to the flowers. I try to focus on the two inch gap at the top of the French doors and a few other window infelicities instead; I know that this is the time—the interregnum between the putative end of the major installation work and the writing of the final check—to mention gaps, latches, and divots in the wooden frames.<br /><br />I’m not a very good homeowner; I just wish it was over. Although, after a week, I have grown accustomed to living in the center of all the rooms, well away from the walls.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVX6wkX8avf01ywFW4A18K1NxHvfqkEUanBKLMNFYkvgqSfk09_Pf1JiDD3H1T_n7T1_P_duK9nvLeTdXt0CK8yKLDVG-mkyQpUCD1k7ndqr87UKyofaQHjabSumN4Zv4QFOE/s1600-h/fishbowl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181038489437200834" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVX6wkX8avf01ywFW4A18K1NxHvfqkEUanBKLMNFYkvgqSfk09_Pf1JiDD3H1T_n7T1_P_duK9nvLeTdXt0CK8yKLDVG-mkyQpUCD1k7ndqr87UKyofaQHjabSumN4Zv4QFOE/s200/fishbowl.JPG" border="0" /></a>I’m not yet quite used to living in a fishbowl; we cannot put up new shades or curtains until they’re finished with the work. I tell myself that there aren’t very many vantage points from which you can actually see into the house; yet I know this to be patently false. That to all our neighbors up the hill—including the man who looks suspiciously like <a href="http://www.threescompany.com/tcompany/www/cast.html#Norman%20Fell">Mr. Roper on <em>Three’s Company</em></a>—we’re a reality show. A reality show that’s too dull to go on into the next season, but a reality show nonetheless.<br /><br />The next week the boss is out to mollify us. He seems used to all this and it occurs to me that he must go through this disgruntled customer routine all of the time. He’s good. Very good. He even seems to be enjoying himself. He jokes. We’re sheepish. Lists are drawn up. The sales guy, Matt, who has come out to make the rounds with the boss is defensive, but the boss is self-assured. Before it’s over, I half expect us to admit it’s our fault and to volunteer to do the work ourselves.<br />We show him that the balcony door doesn’t open all of the way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhye1DYoM4m5ELoThtl67M98vhlmzSBV_0QTHug_ClxZth9MwFy9OxUuf2NFtQtRb0uH1NrIsw_8y5AU7LMVgyjYmYCbhGV-O4YyuemvD_nFyLhzoZRyUMcuL_8NlRJWbtDGAFl/s1600-h/clam-taking-notes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181038858804388306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhye1DYoM4m5ELoThtl67M98vhlmzSBV_0QTHug_ClxZth9MwFy9OxUuf2NFtQtRb0uH1NrIsw_8y5AU7LMVgyjYmYCbhGV-O4YyuemvD_nFyLhzoZRyUMcuL_8NlRJWbtDGAFl/s200/clam-taking-notes.jpg" border="0" /></a>Matt can’t hide his irritation, “I remember what you said. I have it written down. You said, ‘if someone can’t fit through a 21 inch door, the balcony can’t hold him anyway.’”<br /><br />I tell him that I remember what I said too, and that he should think about it more carefully: that 21 inches refers to the opening, and that we were discussing whether it should be <em>wider</em> (and thus admit a bigger person), not <em>narrower</em>. That if anything, at the time I was trying to convince him of the wisdom of making the door narrower <em>so that it would open all of the way</em>. Now it does not open all of the way. They did not calculate the width taken up by the hinge’s geometrical offset.<br /><br />I can see Matt getting hot. He’d like to shout at me, smack me with his clipboard.<br /><br />I’d rather the door opened all the way, but I’m not going to get into a real lather over this. I already know they can’t fix it without making a new window, and that they have no intention of doing that.<br /><br />The boss is smooth though, and seems to know I’ll give way on this issue. He smiles and we move on to the next window, which does have a fixable problem. Promises are made and the two men leave.<br /><br />I’m anticipating that the workmen will be back soon. But they aren’t. We wake up early several mornings expecting a crew, but there’s no-one at the door. I’m getting black rings around my eyes and starting to feel progressively more sleep-deprived.<br /><br />They finally show up one morning, two workmen we haven’t seen before. Soon the senior one abandons the junior one, who is Hispanic and shy and nice, to do most of the touch up work alone. He tells him that he’ll pick him up at the end of the day.<br /><br />I watch him pounding on the new window. It is supposed to go back to the shop because one of the edges has been knocked off during the installation process. They did not mention this to us, but Mark caught the gaffe. It is the window we inspected with the boss immediately after the one that doesn’t open all of the way; this one we have been more adamant about after giving way on the other one.<br /><br />The young workman pounds and pounds. “This will be noisy,” he tells me after he’s been pounding for a while.<br /><br />“I can tell.”<br /><br />He takes a different tack and asks me what kind of motorcycle I think he should buy. He has seen all of the bikes in the garage and doesn’t realize that the only one that is mine is the tiny Honda dirt bike, that I don’t ride the big street bikes.<br /><br />“Have you ridden much?” I ask him.<br /><br />“No. Not so much. Just a dirt bike when I was a kid.”<br /><br />“Get a small bike then, a 250 or something. It’ll make you a better rider.” I’m watching him horse the window out of the frame and hope he’s not going to drop the thing. It makes me nervous to picture him on a motorcycle.<br /><br />Installing windows is loud business. Although to-date our policy has been to be here with the workmen, I’m guessing this young guy’d be a lot happier if I disappeared and went off to work.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxirtfZQE1Z0Ap_hIArPHeUL6hQ974OX6jaJTXvAitMClJ0cIMSFoZ-a4NdUBlz77_unGvfbWw_RVcJoESMR3j43h2vh4bR_JsASdikMXiyHdfOz94qNWqOTP0XQrFuqwcIZC9/s1600-h/dining-room.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181039266826281442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxirtfZQE1Z0Ap_hIArPHeUL6hQ974OX6jaJTXvAitMClJ0cIMSFoZ-a4NdUBlz77_unGvfbWw_RVcJoESMR3j43h2vh4bR_JsASdikMXiyHdfOz94qNWqOTP0XQrFuqwcIZC9/s200/dining-room.JPG" border="0" /></a>At about 3pm, Mark calls me in my office, wondering about my lack of judgment leaving the young workman alone in the house. And he’s right. When I come back, Lumpy is locked in downstairs and is yowling pitifully at my approach. There’s evidence that something’s gone wrong—a clump of wet paper towels, some weather stripping on the floor, a hunk of broken glass (which looks to be part of one of the jelly jars)—but it’s nothing important. And there is no narrative that I can invent out of these elements to weave together a story of what has happened, but the window the workman had been pounding on is gone, replaced by a hunk of pressed board and not much else has happened.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7Mln7tL3ihfYrRxFfamLYWgDuapCylh0F-WOOx5wUF-z5vo2ynSWLA2-BeR_tncrZCe5Xd94MUNDqs3WMz2wuU7qMxDcPBtSp2FIE_BnZeO9EpSExp_w38tibJW3utLQ_6Ce/s1600-h/the-gap-take-2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181040559611437554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7Mln7tL3ihfYrRxFfamLYWgDuapCylh0F-WOOx5wUF-z5vo2ynSWLA2-BeR_tncrZCe5Xd94MUNDqs3WMz2wuU7qMxDcPBtSp2FIE_BnZeO9EpSExp_w38tibJW3utLQ_6Ce/s200/the-gap-take-2.JPG" border="0" /></a>THE GAP is still there, looming as large as ever. But now it has tape over it.<br /><br />There is a subsequent visit by two of the senior crew members. They have been sent to do something about THE GAP. Although they do something—and it looks credible—they don’t have time to finish and they leave a huge sheet of flapping plastic covering the outside of the French doors.<br /><br />As if to give us a consolation prize, this time they leave behind an industrial vacuum cleaner, which sits in the corner of the dining room like a watchful space alien.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3dN-r22sG_oJz10EPw6fuN5ao617pPX_wDHNYhzFrmq4XWnG7tIhGROfHOqOHBzzq205URIS2FS0GVXbsBcGzD7aLbUw-rPrR7it0IOOQLaAnfP5D-xGTcL7hj8Kf0ExuLbe8/s1600-h/vacuum-cleaner.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181040804424573442" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3dN-r22sG_oJz10EPw6fuN5ao617pPX_wDHNYhzFrmq4XWnG7tIhGROfHOqOHBzzq205URIS2FS0GVXbsBcGzD7aLbUw-rPrR7it0IOOQLaAnfP5D-xGTcL7hj8Kf0ExuLbe8/s200/vacuum-cleaner.JPG" border="0" /></a>At least we know they’ll be back. Eventually.<br /><br />Next Friday, Dawn says when she talks to our answering machine. Next Friday they’ll come back and finish.<br /><br />I’m looking at the giant sheet of plastic covering the French doors in the back bedroom and the board filling in the dining room window. I’m looking at the missing stops and weather stripping yet to be installed. There’s a lot of work left to do. And I’m reminded of every remodeling story I’ve ever heard.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BN0Ngc6VvG1ZB00c9MnltNrxwX3tfLZdExA8LLMHT-wuyLd9u43VGHS2Tl9xqLNsVGqHG_Bth-nAcfGzJqk5fLhtElQ65-i3dAFOKntehBZr5tly33lD7hVeW4LKke_CA9us/s1600-h/french-door-almost-done.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181041100777316882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BN0Ngc6VvG1ZB00c9MnltNrxwX3tfLZdExA8LLMHT-wuyLd9u43VGHS2Tl9xqLNsVGqHG_Bth-nAcfGzJqk5fLhtElQ65-i3dAFOKntehBZr5tly33lD7hVeW4LKke_CA9us/s200/french-door-almost-done.JPG" border="0" /></a>“It shouldn’t even be a whole day’s work,” Dawn tells us on the phone. For some reason, we still harbor fresh credulity.<br /><br />“Next Friday,” we echo. “At 7:30. We’ll be ready.”<br /><br />I’ll be happy when I can plug in my shredder again. When I can reclaim the 484.75 square feet at the edges of our house. When I can sleep ‘til 8am.<br /><br />Seeing out the windows? Honestly, that’ll be a bonus.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-38366971648271591912008-02-13T17:01:00.000-08:002008-02-13T19:19:44.851-08:00Info for a friend<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcZBRNVYA36WFTasmms9v5Q5jRTTdBVFxzK4SxyNvK4sVG25Wbqx7m6EsrS3O7sJcyWFunsNIqwKxKfmMdEIgX4EULX6A3O4CJ0aVD0i1WqaxzUIUDJkBLsYjRd1f8fwqlv5c/s1600-h/trap2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166640252714753122" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixcZBRNVYA36WFTasmms9v5Q5jRTTdBVFxzK4SxyNvK4sVG25Wbqx7m6EsrS3O7sJcyWFunsNIqwKxKfmMdEIgX4EULX6A3O4CJ0aVD0i1WqaxzUIUDJkBLsYjRd1f8fwqlv5c/s200/trap2.jpg" border="0" /></a>It all started innocently enough.<br /><br />Early last week, I got a message from one Nicole B. I almost didn’t open it—the subject line said, “help”, an inauspicious tag line when the message is from a stranger. Usually when a message starts with “help”, it purports to be from a voluptuous 22-year-old Russian beauty who is looking for a date, a date with your credit card number. But the tone is so desperate and her intentions seem so honorable.<br /><br />How could I say no?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoNZI3fb9czpqlLoCePPHhvYtSVF7pDcfhtOot6lm98hexvGXao4UXPsvdSCz_DzLL_5CmGUBd5PrpxGdI4_GjBebqNGiSjtZUxRDA2mbKHgn4QDWlOffpFEvKmnQFlx6TVjO/s1600-h/seaofinformation.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166641352226380914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcoNZI3fb9czpqlLoCePPHhvYtSVF7pDcfhtOot6lm98hexvGXao4UXPsvdSCz_DzLL_5CmGUBd5PrpxGdI4_GjBebqNGiSjtZUxRDA2mbKHgn4QDWlOffpFEvKmnQFlx6TVjO/s200/seaofinformation.jpg" border="0" /></a>This Nicole B. was not looking for a date; this Nicole B. was looking for what she termed <em>info</em>. Nicole B. was looking for info on the Web. Imagine that! My friend, you’ve come to the right place. Info, info, info. Nothing but info. A veritable sea of info: you could drown in all that info.<br /><br />This info was not for herself either. Rather it was for a friend. And not just any friend. It was for her <em>best friend</em>:<br /><br /><em>My best friend is doing a report on Catherine Marshall and I was hoping you could help me find info for her. She’s really scared about this whole project for school, it’s a huge part of our entire semester grade, and if she fails this she fails the class. It’s very difficult to find info on Catherine Marshall. Your help is most appreciated.</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aLsgfBe7VjUnFQCb0ZdGGyNCstsmdlCs67nijQ5EuneyGjEAlook4zT7s6nVCoUEorWcZpkQMXB2_tcB_E8t4D3plM5RIjX2Oj2iRTFbSYhP0p74jRPHxtngS92kKQ7EKf_N/s1600-h/TheRealCatherineMarshall.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166645148977470594" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aLsgfBe7VjUnFQCb0ZdGGyNCstsmdlCs67nijQ5EuneyGjEAlook4zT7s6nVCoUEorWcZpkQMXB2_tcB_E8t4D3plM5RIjX2Oj2iRTFbSYhP0p74jRPHxtngS92kKQ7EKf_N/s200/TheRealCatherineMarshall.jpg" border="0" /></a>Okay. I confess: I almost bit. It seemed so compelling: a scared best friend; <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Christy-Catherine-Marshall/dp/0380001411">a long-dead author of Christian romances</a>; a big assignment; unspecified difficult-to-find info. I toyed briefly with actually becoming that Catherine Marshall, the real Catherine Marshall. She’s been dead for 25 years; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. I could even type in <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/04/case-for-lowercase.html">ALL CAPS</a> LIKE MY AUNT FRANCES to make it seem more realistic.<br /><br />It’d be a challenge, but I just know I could pass for a 93 year-old writer of faith-based fiction.<br /><br />But I couldn’t do it; I had the distinct feeling that Nicole B. wouldn’t buy it anyway. I don’t know why I suspected cynicism and suspicion. Maybe it was the apostrophes in her email, correctly and casually deployed. Maybe it was the way she was interceding for her poor BFF—<em>she’s really scared</em>—that put me on edge. Why did she write me? Nicole B. just didn’t seem like the sort of girl who would be unable to dredge up her own <em>info</em>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiFEbLO3K9v3aXoIxtUkVp0QLcavq13UCefFLbci8NxWhB1rdZsV8YnNHR3qwdSm_CnJiC73anNPIj8ws_X7kfswdMD3YClYj2GM4EVR9Zq3f9cCAhwRXqxHJYR_7UX6mLzcG/s1600-h/amy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166646394517986466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiFEbLO3K9v3aXoIxtUkVp0QLcavq13UCefFLbci8NxWhB1rdZsV8YnNHR3qwdSm_CnJiC73anNPIj8ws_X7kfswdMD3YClYj2GM4EVR9Zq3f9cCAhwRXqxHJYR_7UX6mLzcG/s200/amy.jpg" border="0" /></a>When I wrote back to her, I pictured an Amy Winehouse, a tough girl, perhaps with a heart of gold, but perhaps not. Perhaps she was a mean girl who would make fun of a small furry geek girl without any tattoos.<br /><br />It seemed like a big, fat trap.<br /><br />I wondered: does she actually think that it’d be normal for a person with a common name to have the inside scoop on her <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/doppelgangers.html">doppelgangers</a>? And why was her friend so fearful? Didn’t her friend have the wherewithal to type Catherine Marshall into some search engine?<br /><br />Perhaps I was wrong in assuming it was for a high school project. Maybe (just maybe) she was helping her friend with her PhD dissertation. It’d be some post-modern feminist treatise about hegemony in the narrative interstices of the Christian romance novel and her friend, a budding Catherine Marshall scholar, was freaking out. Her therapist was on vacation. Her credit cards were maxed out. Her freezer contained nary an ice cube; the antidepressant bottle in her medicine cabinet, empty. Here she was, on the verge of being the number one Catherine Marshall scholar in the MLA, and she was just <em>freaking out</em>. It was then that her Amy Winehouse-like friend jumped in to the rescue, looking for more primary sources.<br /><br />Probably not though. We do know that it’s a huge part of her grade, but it doesn't sound like a graduate program. It’s a book report, isn’t it? That’s the genre our Nicole B. is implying. Maybe a 9th grade reading assignment. I envision 4 pages cribbed from the Web equivalent to Cliff’s Notes.<br /><br />Wait a minute! <em>The Web equivalent to Cliff’s Notes</em>—Isn’t <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catherine_Marshall">the Wikipedia entry for Catherine Marshall</a> the 4th item that Google returns? There’s something fishy going on here. I should be wary.<br /><br />But I couldn’t resist. Once again I wrote back to Nicole B.<br /><br />I played it cool: I just asked her what she’d found so far. And signed it Catherine Marshall. I’m not sure why I did that. I don’t even turn around if someone yells, “Hey, Catherine!” (with the exception of my mother, of course). And I never, ever sign informal email with my last name. Never.<br /><br />Nicole B. wrote right back—almost too quickly. She’s clearly a girl who expects answers. She said:<br /><br /><em>A question: I don’t know a lot about Catherine Marshall, but is this really her? I love Christy. I own the book and the movies.</em> =D<br /><br /><em>Is this really her?</em> I’m such a big fan. The custom smiley. =D<br /><br />C’mon. She knows I’m not really that Catherine Marshall. How could she have missed all of the bios that reported that this author of “affirmations of faith” bought the farm in 1983? Not a single biography that I saw neglected to mention that she died in 1983. And there are plenty of biographies. Plenty.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4eGwh7t7nmCX2SK3IbBYt6WYNp6oGiHwwuCTmvUOfeTj04RrIIzJ1sGCKcEe1FeOtGxYF5zNdKeI_qbs3xXYqlQpkGrM8JcYfBrfn9D29jwaznlKypxkABxF2ua0JtphxVMW/s1600-h/hollywoodsquares.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166649662988098738" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4eGwh7t7nmCX2SK3IbBYt6WYNp6oGiHwwuCTmvUOfeTj04RrIIzJ1sGCKcEe1FeOtGxYF5zNdKeI_qbs3xXYqlQpkGrM8JcYfBrfn9D29jwaznlKypxkABxF2ua0JtphxVMW/s200/hollywoodsquares.jpg" border="0" /></a>Even the <em>People</em>-style website <a href="http://www.whosdatedwho.com/celebrities/people/dating/catherine-marshall.htm">Who’s Dated Who</a> reports that she married Rev. Peter Marshall <em>in 1936</em> (although it did not warn the casual reader that Rev. Peter Marshall never emceed <em>The Hollywood Squares</em>, which would’ve been my first thought). <br /><br />Then I clicked on the wrong link.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz6GOYUvw0iCWGIbYZqwdSRT_z3tbYAdnxJbe-zqDdE67PXxumoPpBF2WPYcmgj4uCiYYDkTNiIEYQc3BTiZ2dsIteal6w8bdMjIclVaEUFo_HPUWlj15orocWWy3oKXooeK6/s1600-h/olanmillsphoto.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166652506256448706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz6GOYUvw0iCWGIbYZqwdSRT_z3tbYAdnxJbe-zqDdE67PXxumoPpBF2WPYcmgj4uCiYYDkTNiIEYQc3BTiZ2dsIteal6w8bdMjIclVaEUFo_HPUWlj15orocWWy3oKXooeK6/s200/olanmillsphoto.jpg" border="0" /></a>I don’t know if you’ve seen the <a href="http://listoftheday.blogspot.com/2007/09/great-olan-mills-photos.html">repurposed Olan Mills photos</a> yet—someone must’ve grabbed them off the <a href="http://www.olanmills.com/">Olan Mills web site</a>, from their portfolio of past work. They're photos like the one on the left, with inventive captions like, <em>Bobbi isn’t the first waitress to fall for her manager, but she and Dale both got fired from Shoney’s</em>.<br /><br />What, you must be thinking, does Olan Mills have to do with Catherine Marshall?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0h46m2FeOSHv8DcaTlfLVb2fQdjVZnPTI4jiIjGu0k_w2hdchQ571t8npYUP6FrNy7uQv1wZ8J0ifDDs5ExmERQp48zwgBjL3aP-Q2Cm5hodF8kGNSG7ogy4eN7GvLPUTosoW/s1600-h/moreolanmills.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166654267193040082" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0h46m2FeOSHv8DcaTlfLVb2fQdjVZnPTI4jiIjGu0k_w2hdchQ571t8npYUP6FrNy7uQv1wZ8J0ifDDs5ExmERQp48zwgBjL3aP-Q2Cm5hodF8kGNSG7ogy4eN7GvLPUTosoW/s200/moreolanmills.jpg" border="0" /></a>Here’s what: when <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/authors/17577/Catherine_Marshall/index.aspx">I followed a biography link for Catherine Marshall on the HarperCollins website</a>, I found yet another <a href="http://www.olanmills.com/">Olan Mills photo</a>, one I hadn’t seen before. This one seems to have been altered with a ball point pen: the eyeballs have been intensified into smoldering black coals and a sinister mustache and soul patch have been penned in.<br /><br />I don’t think that’s the real Catherine Marshall. I bet someone would’ve mentioned the soul patch by now: “Catherine Marshall: The only best-selling Christian romance writer with satanic facial hair.”<br /><br />They would’ve said <em>something</em>. Certainly they wouldn’t have kept quiet.<br /><br />When I saw this, I began to wonder about Nicole B. and her BFF. Was I being had? <em>Am I getting picked on by the mean girls again?</em><br /><br />But mean girls and Catherine Marshall doesn’t add up.<br /><br />I’ll write back to her one last time, I decided. One last time. A short message to dispel the notion that I might be foolish enough—and gullible enough—to fall for that old line about ‘my best friend’s homework’. Honestly!<br /><br />Yes, indeed, my refrigerator is running. And I have Prince Albert in a can.<br /><br />There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re the butt of a stranger’s joke. I picture Amy Winehouse laughing so hard that her mascara runs. I picture Amy Winehouse laughing as hard as I did when I got the Olan Mills photo set. Ah, but that was different. Those photos are of anonymous strangers; Nicole B. knows my name.<br /><br />If your friends put something over on you, you feel okay. You can be the good sport. Everyone gets to laugh at you and it’s just fine. You feel loved. You don’t feel that way if someone you don’t know is laughing at you.<br /><br />But here’s what Nicole B. said at the end of her next message:<br /><br /><em>Hey, I’m getting a book published. I’m excited</em>.<br /><br />And then she added, almost as an afterthought:<br /><br /><em>So who exactly are you?</em><br /><br />This response makes me even more confused. Why is she telling me about her book? Should I be jealous? Will it be published by HarperCollins? <em>Confessions of an Internet Prankster</em> by Nicole B. How old is she anyhow?<br /><br />And, as she so succinctly puts it, who <em>exactly</em> am I? Exactly. She’s seen my home page—that’s where she no doubt found my email address—and she’s unconvinced that this is <em>exactly</em> who I am. Whoever I am, I am not well represented by my home page.<br /><br />I think about writing back to her again—just one last message to settle the score—and suffer what I’m sure is a minor Woody Allen-style identity crisis: Who <em>exactly</em> am I? It’s the exactness that has me worried. If I were allowed some wiggle-room, I might be able to squirm out of this, but as it is there’s not a lot I can do. I’ve been forced into a corner and exhorted to be precise.<br /><br />What should I tell her? Who exactly am I? I’ve got it: I’m the type of person who’ll follow a mystery—no matter how dumb and improbable—to the ends of the earth. That’s who I am. Someone who seizes upon ambiguity and absurdity and chews and chews, a goat loose in the garden.<br /><br />I write back, but make no mention of my own identity. It’s not important. What’s important is who she is. After all, she’s piqued my curiosity, and once my curiosity is piqued, very little will still it. What kind of book is she publishing? What’s the genre? Who’s the publisher? What’s the imprint? A million dollar advance? A round-the-world book tour? <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/11/book-tourist.html">Readings in airport bookstores</a>? Autographed first editions going for $3,000 on eBay?<br /><br />Sold! Sold to the goat with the vivid imagination!<br /><br />In our next exchange, Nicole B. confesses to being 16. Her message was sent at 3:51am, which does not suggest a healthy lifestyle for a 16 year old. Unless, of course, this is a time zone issue and she’s on Eastern Standard Time. In that case, 6:51am is early, early for a budding author who should be cultivating dissolute habits. Shouldn’t she be smoking a cigarette? Shouldn’t she be pouring bourbon on her Wheaties? At the close of her message, she tells me that she is setting off for school: this does not sound very writerly.<br /><br />I’ve read <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Carroll">Jim Carroll</a>; I know what 16 year-old writers should be doing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELHYNIbTQZ5rILt_1GPwRxYB7w-exPNFC9RSloEBtj6V32p_iaPoJ3uOifLSbB89hWJ1FcobAoetGtQiA2wMo_2PAjbk0ut4JR62LjjLcdOq_B4wgXcJ9ULjctkd76piuOiCk/s1600-h/lordofthehissyfit.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166658768318766306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELHYNIbTQZ5rILt_1GPwRxYB7w-exPNFC9RSloEBtj6V32p_iaPoJ3uOifLSbB89hWJ1FcobAoetGtQiA2wMo_2PAjbk0ut4JR62LjjLcdOq_B4wgXcJ9ULjctkd76piuOiCk/s200/lordofthehissyfit.jpg" border="0" /></a>It is not until her next message that she reveals that she has a literary agent. Oh, right. No unagented fiction. All of the decent publishers say that. Smart move to get an agent. Smart move. And she tells me that she’s designing the cover with the help of ‘a professional IT guy’. Oh, that’s a good idea too. That’ll keep the publisher from digging out that standard bodice-ripper artwork, the one with the guy who’s a ringer for Fabio, with an open shirt and hairless chest. Who’d want something like that on the cover of their first novel?<br /><br />No-one. You’d certainly want to design your own cover.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMi_J7iMs3AFUOYaFh09KC8nMzORi_GGADxq9bjKFN9lEfc6MR8Vg4f43zb9n4FnShTqJzl0snXRmGmxAcvwC-wXKQDWcI5S_tivzePkBBbvwHE5g-U5tZdFiemkvkrinwVjhO/s1600-h/joyce-maynard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5166659103326215410" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMi_J7iMs3AFUOYaFh09KC8nMzORi_GGADxq9bjKFN9lEfc6MR8Vg4f43zb9n4FnShTqJzl0snXRmGmxAcvwC-wXKQDWcI5S_tivzePkBBbvwHE5g-U5tZdFiemkvkrinwVjhO/s200/joyce-maynard.jpg" border="0" /></a>It’s just so implausible that she has me hooked. I’ve stopped seizing upon that image of Amy Winehouse. <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/04/chewing-chick-lits.html">Now I’m envisioning Joyce Maynard or Kaavya Viswanathan</a>: a young woman posed for her debut media coverage looking dreamily out of a dormer window. Ah, soon she’ll fall madly, deeply in love with a middle-aged reclusive literary figure whose greatest work is behind him.<br /><br />Naturally I tell Mark what’s going on as Nicole B. and I continue to exchange messages. The deeply ambiguous nature of this conversation—one of us is clearly the dupe here—has me wound up. It’s like the cat chasing the beam of the laser pointer: we all know this is nothing, a bright shiny nothing, but I feel compelled to chase it. Compelled.<br /><br />Mark tells me: "It’s probably a fat old man like me, and not a 10th grade girl at all."<br /><br />I try very hard to visualize a fat old man, sitting at his keyboard in a SRO bathroom-down-the-hall place in the seedy part of town and I just fail. Nicole B. is not a fat old guy sitting around in ratty underwear. She helps me along too. She bades me farewell, telling me she’s <em>off to frolic about in the snow</em>.<br /><br />Frolic about in the snow: Is that the locution of a fat old man? I ask you: Is it?<br /><br />She’s wowing me with details. Her novel, which takes place in 1857 is being published overseas, in Germany, being translated by her agent. But they will publish it in English eventually; they’ve acquired the rights to do so. The cover—she describes the cover to me—the cover has columns and a long patio. It sounds very romantic. I embellish it with vines and creepers, a Truman Capote-esque profusion of vegetation in a humid climate.<br /><br />Even if I bought the agent who doubles as a translator, I could not go for the self-selected cover. For I have never known an author who wasn’t shocked by the publisher’s choice of cover matter. Every writer I know has begged for a change of cover. Implored. Either it’s got a picture of the writer (usually as a younger person, a photo the writer hates) or it’s got appalling graphics that have nothing to do with the story or both.<br /><br />Why is it that once someone starts making up the details, they have a hard time staying the course?<br /><br />Once Nicole B. tells me enough, she fades away, back into the Web’s dim recesses. She disappears just when I am beginning to enjoy the story.I wonder if I have become part of her friend’s book report. I wonder if I am now the real Catherine Marshall.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-78967812565793880842008-01-18T16:03:00.000-08:002008-01-18T17:25:56.891-08:00mystery by the front gate<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdga1d31o8DJV685OfXXBDvMM3tpJBHnBLaEtbRh4v15cKQOJv20gVs4uCvdhQPI-rkjPUPRxjptSpfmLJxCJN-bVAl7iw1dZBR88jvZh1kibnSWWRb9TekeyVzeyOW45iJ9jc/s1600-h/cash-drawer-blog.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156979144842979090" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdga1d31o8DJV685OfXXBDvMM3tpJBHnBLaEtbRh4v15cKQOJv20gVs4uCvdhQPI-rkjPUPRxjptSpfmLJxCJN-bVAl7iw1dZBR88jvZh1kibnSWWRb9TekeyVzeyOW45iJ9jc/s200/cash-drawer-blog.JPG" border="0" /></a>How long has it been here?<br /><br />What I mean by <em>it</em> is a cash drawer, in pieces, scattered in among my neighbor’s terraced foliage. In among the half-dead ferns, bamboo, sawgrass, and calla lilies. Plainly visible as you walk down the stairs.<br /><br />Could it have been there the day I first found the two key rings right inside our gate? Each of the rings held a bounty of keys. I pictured a <em>whole room full of filing cabinets</em>. The first key ring I spotted had a yellow plastic kangaroo hooked to it. It made the keys seem unimportant.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDVDskJCVKzxrAJhWXAkJLVEcxJo-iHPM1AEVwYKTJdUpxYCjy2FUVFGi-8cB6rg4RCPB3kMejj-k2kw5QViXTpR_uHrYNf7lLka46jlkakqxtCZekz8PJjfB490tY_b3j-90/s1600-h/kangaroo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156980085440816930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFDVDskJCVKzxrAJhWXAkJLVEcxJo-iHPM1AEVwYKTJdUpxYCjy2FUVFGi-8cB6rg4RCPB3kMejj-k2kw5QViXTpR_uHrYNf7lLka46jlkakqxtCZekz8PJjfB490tY_b3j-90/s200/kangaroo.jpg" border="0" /></a>A yellow plastic kangaroo. A toy.<br /><br />That was perhaps a month ago. The keys were buried under the last leaves of fall, wet and clumpy behind the gate leading out to the sidewalk. I just barely noticed the first key ring <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/12/paean-to-years-end.html">when Jon and I were leaving on our walk to Twin Peaks</a>. I found the second key ring when we came back home.<br /><br /><a href="http://sfbay.craigslist.org/search/laf?query=keys">I looked for lost or missing keys on Craiglist</a> for a couple of days right before Christmas. Looked and looked. Every day I did a search and dutifully went through the listings. People do lose their keys in some pretty unlikely places, but usually they’re car keys or house keys, not two rings full of keys that look like they open file cabinets.<br /><br /><em>How much escapes our notice when we pass by, just inches away?</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaouTB-e2KyzstzucVI-4EttYZ5i6omyhOWTC0xWpiMM3mlJzP3dXREFnrPXmvBaSQoaj5pUzr3G5yErV73hka3jPds0rLNvKlKyqikKgiUALqQtzqgX57pK5FKNKKD2kdIx8n/s1600-h/pennies.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156982074010674994" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaouTB-e2KyzstzucVI-4EttYZ5i6omyhOWTC0xWpiMM3mlJzP3dXREFnrPXmvBaSQoaj5pUzr3G5yErV73hka3jPds0rLNvKlKyqikKgiUALqQtzqgX57pK5FKNKKD2kdIx8n/s200/pennies.JPG" border="0" /></a>The pennies were the next thing that caught my eye. They’ve been there for a couple of weeks. Just pennies. Fewer than ten of them, but more than five.<br /><br />I feel silly picking up pennies, even though deep down I believe them to be lucky. My grandfather would always pick up coins like that. Always. He’d press them into my palm when I was a little kid and say, “Hang onto these. They’re lucky.”<br /><br />We’d spot them in the parking lot, crossing the street, in the courtyard of the apartment building where my grandparents lived in Torrance. On the courtyard's tiny putting green, marking where a golf ball had been lifted off the close-cropped grass.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IkR2OpkWmVFecyFT2VfHKvmN_ZmUKe8nOYiHIQYa70FdVlSP77_yT2lrcAqfDWkTaYRf3NAd1rJ0Tc7R-_r4h8leb7OLNuiPHH6pJXf9Ye9s4wLaoxgpVYM2aGOtSH2DsCVV/s1600-h/penny.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156982460557731650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4IkR2OpkWmVFecyFT2VfHKvmN_ZmUKe8nOYiHIQYa70FdVlSP77_yT2lrcAqfDWkTaYRf3NAd1rJ0Tc7R-_r4h8leb7OLNuiPHH6pJXf9Ye9s4wLaoxgpVYM2aGOtSH2DsCVV/s200/penny.JPG" border="0" /></a>I didn’t pick up any of the pennies on my stairs, but I noticed them every time I walked by them, day after day. I hoped I wasn’t accumulating bad luck by NOT picking them up.<br /><br />“Pennies.” I’d explain if someone was with me. “Pennies. See! Someone somewhere still uses cash. See! See!”<br /><br />I thought someone had flung the pennies out of their pocket in a kind of adolescent display of bravado. I remember boys doing that to impress girls: they’d get change for our tab at a restaurant. Then, when we were walking out the door, they’d fling the coins onto the hot pavement. Pennies and nickels would hit the ground with small metallic chings and go rolling away.<br /><br />Not exactly a grand gesture.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharOCull4250lOgZUiwiDmRavnUznzZn8BVQx70VKIdCJmloAPae4X6vXMRMyIvT8fl0pZsxYVT1bg2YTT5HfQLYRemccYK1j04yPmYT6Qq43TE_kVENY3g5kcZzhDmMiiCKWl/s1600-h/stairs-down.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156984822789744482" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharOCull4250lOgZUiwiDmRavnUznzZn8BVQx70VKIdCJmloAPae4X6vXMRMyIvT8fl0pZsxYVT1bg2YTT5HfQLYRemccYK1j04yPmYT6Qq43TE_kVENY3g5kcZzhDmMiiCKWl/s200/stairs-down.JPG" border="0" /></a>But I could imagine someone walking by our front steps and doing just that—hurling the change over the wall and onto the stairs. It wouldn’t be that satisfying though. Any noise the coins made would’ve been muffled by the wet leaves.<br /><br />I didn’t notice the cash drawer until today. Mark and I were walking down the stairs and I spotted a metal case in the plants.<br /><br />“People are soooo fucking rude!” I said to Mark, mistaking the change drawer’s metal case for a PC chassis. “I can’t believe they dumped this here.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNALb8XJt7AJlt3ZVa7x3stvaOVRHENYAJcXFYBbIl1LPyZKzrS31ZxE8_iXl4yNemvpDNH5vwMhLyRNlhfNN5BSdXAS0T39YrYRpcvORMpU2ftJobNOlihuBVSDMPat5LZdYy/s1600-h/computer-chassis-masquerade.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156985127732422514" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNALb8XJt7AJlt3ZVa7x3stvaOVRHENYAJcXFYBbIl1LPyZKzrS31ZxE8_iXl4yNemvpDNH5vwMhLyRNlhfNN5BSdXAS0T39YrYRpcvORMpU2ftJobNOlihuBVSDMPat5LZdYy/s200/computer-chassis-masquerade.JPG" border="0" /></a>Who’d have thought that computers would become such everyday commodities that people’d chuck them out of their cars into someone’s front yard? Who knew? Who knew I’d end up taking them as a personal affront?<br /><br />I started to flip the thing over to see whether there were any insides to it when I noticed the telltale lock. Most computers don’t have locks. Oh, maybe sometimes they do, but not the computers that people dispose of on the sidewalks of our neighborhood.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmD2KcoDzSg4-c4E-bE2yKtOmawNlly_HZmbBAUVVYurhyWpDTK87rJkfftRam8RyuYpNRVKbg5FH6b0SpydzbO3KvW7EObGGHcjJpDYWGJyf9ARisDRzZ_ALdVtk27zgPzFN/s1600-h/leaves.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156983907961710418" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmD2KcoDzSg4-c4E-bE2yKtOmawNlly_HZmbBAUVVYurhyWpDTK87rJkfftRam8RyuYpNRVKbg5FH6b0SpydzbO3KvW7EObGGHcjJpDYWGJyf9ARisDRzZ_ALdVtk27zgPzFN/s200/leaves.JPG" border="0" /></a>The sidewalk in front of our house is, in fact, a dumping ground for all sorts of things that nobody wants: old stained futons (eewww), small appliances (I’m not the only one who gets frustrated with Signature Gourmet coffee makers), hole-y socks (holy socks, Batman!), and countless other items. Items too large to stuff in the brown Sunset Scavenger toters and <a href="http://sfbay.craigslist.org/zip/">too useless to give away on Craigslist</a>. People bring this shit to our sidewalk and walk away from it, possibly under cover of the night.<br /><br />“Oh. That refrigerator? Never seen it before in my life.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdN7-xoymNanU1GPl0v4ohJRUI1KlQ2OcN5mpiRailohWvdc20n_NmKn4cyJemx_afi9IMYuyKaohbDbnYYLeOnTL0FbBqxVrrcGcaIbbzdFd5FMSv3us9itHY-HLMb0KPQis/s1600-h/cash-drawer-way-down.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156985625948628866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdN7-xoymNanU1GPl0v4ohJRUI1KlQ2OcN5mpiRailohWvdc20n_NmKn4cyJemx_afi9IMYuyKaohbDbnYYLeOnTL0FbBqxVrrcGcaIbbzdFd5FMSv3us9itHY-HLMb0KPQis/s200/cash-drawer-way-down.JPG" border="0" /></a>There’s real dog shit too, but that’s another story. I suspect the dogs actually crap there: no-one just <em>brings</em> dog shit to our front yard. At least if they do, it’s still inside the dog at the time.<br /><br />More investigation reveals that not only is there the shell of the cash drawer in the plants; there’s also the telltale black tray, the one that used to be full of fresh crisp twenties, tens, fives, ones, and coins.<br /><br />And pennies. Did I say pennies? Lucky pennies.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqL21w7BcgxDDZBS-t_-z0YLrb33pnL0GjKmbSA-Q8Oikab19ELNu5qF5F1dL666iJc1dTedXLli9yzXM3O3pwP554LoklL4G9ciUB9horj2hHlk2YMT-sK2aBDiw2yhKfh6l/s1600-h/lemonadeStand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156988044015216530" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqL21w7BcgxDDZBS-t_-z0YLrb33pnL0GjKmbSA-Q8Oikab19ELNu5qF5F1dL666iJc1dTedXLli9yzXM3O3pwP554LoklL4G9ciUB9horj2hHlk2YMT-sK2aBDiw2yhKfh6l/s200/lemonadeStand.jpg" border="0" /></a>I didn’t notice anyone running a lemonade stand on the sidewalk in front of our house: Lemonade! Free wireless! Spankings! You’d need a cash register for that, to run a thriving sidewalk business.<br /><br />The pennies are still there. They've been there for at least two weeks. The two key rings are gone from where I put them on the wall after I didn’t find any ads for them in Craigslist. I feel vaguely clueless.<br /><br /><em>Has that cash drawer been there for a whole month?</em><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwVChMfQ02MbOYLzf-5bvI_WsAzVb7n_4hoNlRXfCm6ahidO-p4f3EKo9ZFSnZhj34S_nGgJXRo_TrbqYWXsBO6ANUSVXp97AOeoHAv4z2llXNSs10d_5rjoz4PsMqx9NXxIl/s1600-h/crime-syndicate.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156988426267305890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwVChMfQ02MbOYLzf-5bvI_WsAzVb7n_4hoNlRXfCm6ahidO-p4f3EKo9ZFSnZhj34S_nGgJXRo_TrbqYWXsBO6ANUSVXp97AOeoHAv4z2llXNSs10d_5rjoz4PsMqx9NXxIl/s200/crime-syndicate.jpg" border="0" /></a>Or has someone been running some kind of crime syndicate from our front stairs? It makes me feel weird to think that this spot—not visible from our windows and hidden from the street—is just the sort of shelter someone would use to disassemble the bits of cash register, to parcel out the loot from a robbery.<br /><br />There aren’t many businesses on the part of the street where we live. Just a comic book store and Bill’s, the corner store where you can buy milk, newspapers, Anchor Steam, small frozen pizzas, and all the other ordinary things that a corner store carries, only older. Bill is actually Nabil, a large Egyptian man, very nice, very free with information, who I’m certain would have told us if he’d been robbed.<br /><br />It's a mystery, this discarded cash drawer, a bona fide mystery.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlhVd_dDdkH-9SpSRt56Z3aFFE7Ryj-XEeoJQHXrYDTBe868NLoNvwaGSCiSWkNFmCktIY9dX60Kjaqsr7LS3dXMZXpOUxv6DgfKdY0uDyVq0U1lRV3lr5_sqaePNMmmcM2q/s1600-h/ladylikehandgun.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5156989478534293426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlhVd_dDdkH-9SpSRt56Z3aFFE7Ryj-XEeoJQHXrYDTBe868NLoNvwaGSCiSWkNFmCktIY9dX60Kjaqsr7LS3dXMZXpOUxv6DgfKdY0uDyVq0U1lRV3lr5_sqaePNMmmcM2q/s200/ladylikehandgun.jpg" border="0" /></a>Creepy. I walk up and down these stairs at night, in the dark. With my groceries and without my ladylike handgun.<br /><br />Yet it’s annoying and banal too. It’s people—once again—throwing stuff they don’t want into Evert’s garden. It’s bad enough that the recent cold spell has eviscerated all of the <a href="http://members.shaw.ca/newgardener3/Weskwick%20gunnera%201%20SGE%20(908%20x%20600).jpg">Gunnera</a> and the winds have toppled his stand of <a href="http://www.historyforkids.org/learn/egypt/literature/papyrus.jpg">Papyrus</a>.<br /><br /><em>Are pennies still good luck if they’re stolen?</em>Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-42160843049684957092008-01-07T13:38:00.000-08:002008-01-07T15:37:28.310-08:00ask me how<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyz-B9h8sn3Uzzhs3VpSGLv5faJw8IugE7eDe6AkUvqCFiKE8vvY6GrAjYM4grIhcZTAv9Iy9yy5yQBzLYDlm8iAbZjmCc1Bhyphenhyphen8gvzZuU4kjHj1trLcUKaLO213QtZdKg0enM/s1600-h/bumpersticker.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152869900522792674" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqyz-B9h8sn3Uzzhs3VpSGLv5faJw8IugE7eDe6AkUvqCFiKE8vvY6GrAjYM4grIhcZTAv9Iy9yy5yQBzLYDlm8iAbZjmCc1Bhyphenhyphen8gvzZuU4kjHj1trLcUKaLO213QtZdKg0enM/s200/bumpersticker.jpg" border="0" /></a>I've always thought that putting a bumper sticker on your car is a little like wearing your heart on your sleeve: it's just too revealing.<br /><br />Most of the people staring at your bumper hate you anyway. They're behind you on 101 and they just want you to <em>get the hell out of their way</em>, even if you're right smack dab on top of the guy in front of you and they're busy juggling multiple cell phone calls. You know how that is. Better not make these aggressive Silicon Valley achievers any angrier than they are in the first place.<br /><br />They're busy guys who are easily provoked. No need to goad them further.<br /><br />My old friend <a href="http://mahtin.blogspot.com/2005/10/rest-in-peace-lennox-sweeney.html">Lennox Sweeney</a> would have disagreed. He was a great fan of bumper stickers. It got so that I'd recognize his faded yellow Reliant from the numerous sentiments plastered all over the back: FREE TIBET. <a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/svj/ralph.html">Bill and Bob make me want to Ralph</a>! Food Not Bombs.<br /><br />When he was a younger man, Len was discreet about his politics–and his politics were of the live-and-let-live neither conservative nor liberal sort. But for the last decade of his life, he was an activist. A real activist, one who followed his slogans into battle. <a href="http://lefti.blogspot.com/search?q=Lennox+Sweeney">He was the kind of guy you'd want to take up your cause</a>.<br /><br />Yesterday I saw a bumper sticker that would've pleased Lennox. It was on a yellow Hummer parked on Castro Street in front of <a href="http://cliffsvariety.com/">Cliff's Variety</a>. A Hummer in San Francisco: It's halfway between an over-the-top fashion statement and a <a href="http://fuh2.com/">vehicular Fuck You</a>. Who would want to drive a Hummer in San Francisco? Even my Honda Civic seems like a whale when I'm negotiating the double-parked obstacle course that's the Mission.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAd0efde1eYKihJEoT_HSLFtr7BPCl8FDzI1Gx198Pf_Mj1nBuMOm1jX97FowEMoVrm1IP7ImnUIxuUD8Eez14Q148gUr3DxBA7cjIQJhn1Drnwu3_1Tsc4cUdiSJ3S4vxuDH/s1600-h/bumpersticker2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152870123861092082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAd0efde1eYKihJEoT_HSLFtr7BPCl8FDzI1Gx198Pf_Mj1nBuMOm1jX97FowEMoVrm1IP7ImnUIxuUD8Eez14Q148gUr3DxBA7cjIQJhn1Drnwu3_1Tsc4cUdiSJ3S4vxuDH/s200/bumpersticker2.jpg" border="0" /></a>Actually there were two bumper stickers on the Hummer, one on each side of its broad yellow behind. And they weren't literally on the bumper; rather they were affixed to that hard-as-a-beetle yellow paint job. I'm sure the Hummer's owner was none too pleased to see one bumper sticker that said:<br /><br /><strong>I'M CHANGING THE CLIMATE! </strong><a href="http://everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=971376"><strong>ask me how</strong></a><br /><br />and another that said: <strong>I SHOULD KNOW BETTER</strong>.<br /><br />Research informs me that these bumper stickers have been <a href="http://www.imchangingtheclimate.com/latimes.html">around</a> <a href="http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,423534,00.html?iid=chix-sphere">for awhile</a> (long enough so that the original web site that sold them has gone missing). <a href="http://www.allacademic.com/meta/p61020_index.html">Unfortunately I think they'll eventually be dated</a>. Either the most dire of the predictions will be shown to be correct and we'll all be doing the backstroke to Greenland. And you know that if the predictions are off, another cause célèbre will take global warming's place. Sad, that. The fashion of activism.<br /><br />Nobody will invite Al Gore to their parties any more.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFy9WSfI4MjbKesEMU6y2DBMg4Jma9QIrkbCzP9Q2RDDQV9tbVlss5zvh6pcHo_doaT8flyGUuYHYMT8kl_UVmDTX-ffsWs_86UUPLE8cFYGG7DBlCsw8wyA9y2vrZpI9m8kKN/s1600-h/putin.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152870957084747522" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFy9WSfI4MjbKesEMU6y2DBMg4Jma9QIrkbCzP9Q2RDDQV9tbVlss5zvh6pcHo_doaT8flyGUuYHYMT8kl_UVmDTX-ffsWs_86UUPLE8cFYGG7DBlCsw8wyA9y2vrZpI9m8kKN/s200/putin.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Al? Oh, he's such a bore. Don't invite him! Last time he brought those... what were they? Oh! Those <em>charts</em>. Invite someone fun. Vladdie Putin or someone like that."<br /><br />One of my favorite bumper stickers was the brainchild of another old friend <a href="http://bits.blogs.nytimes.com/tag/jim-cser/">Jim Cser</a>. He made them up around the time that everybody was ♥ing (heart-ing) something.<br /><br /><strong>I ♥ my Labradoodle</strong>. <strong>I ♥ my Hummer</strong>. <strong>I ♥ Bees</strong>.<br /><br />You remember.<br /><br />Jim's bumper sticker said: <strong>I ♣ my baby seal</strong>. (That's a <em>club</em> for all of you who have something up with your system unicode fonts.) I still have my Jim Cser baby seal bumper sticker. The adhesive did something odd to the message so that it's all blotchy and discolored.<br /><br />I have days that I'm all blotchy and discolored too.<br /><br />No matter how much I once admired it, "<strong>I ♣ my baby seal</strong>" seems oddly dated too. From a different time and place.<br /><br />But <strong>I'M CHANGING THE CLIMATE! ask me how</strong> worked for me yesterday on Castro Street. I stood in street behind the Hummer, admiring some stranger's handiwork.<br /><br />"Let's not stand here too long," Mark suggested. "Someone'll think we did it."<br /><br />Don't I wish.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25215770.post-23338186872249694842007-12-31T21:18:00.000-08:002008-01-03T13:45:36.086-08:00a paean to year's end<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLIVlImVCLtvnLsCesfEEzQLSvzHiZnykIybTn9bH9tzVvQ58_n1Wa-efka7scKuPjCqfjr-jtMTcRy2fSHiyj6Yz2NPEHwULJ4gnHH45TCSvI3e-XaM8_1vwcDGsA4lkTY9g/s1600-h/numb2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151033643089962370" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLIVlImVCLtvnLsCesfEEzQLSvzHiZnykIybTn9bH9tzVvQ58_n1Wa-efka7scKuPjCqfjr-jtMTcRy2fSHiyj6Yz2NPEHwULJ4gnHH45TCSvI3e-XaM8_1vwcDGsA4lkTY9g/s200/numb2.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’ve thrown away 3 prospective year-end blog posts.<br /><br />Three of them! That’s enough words to fill up the phone book of a small town in the Upper Midwest. At least it would be if the people in that town had names like Celexa Campanile, Farallon Velveeta, or Tinsel Bidet. It’s a lot of discarded words: enough words to feed a family of five. It scares me to just toss them out like so many reverse-fit jeans.<br /><br />As Mark would say, “What <em>IS</em> your problem?”<br /><br />I don’t know. What <em>IS</em> my problem?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDB94hBNxrnAw0AdIII_23UxskvQZEY3z-hRko7Xz3cteY2VC3olTw3stU5wpiebN3p46wVpNq0zWQlt9GbOR0mMCdPxpCVDwZ5JPBDCkOjRQij_BbEbDs6kvE_vhddM6SD94j/s1600-h/crumpled_paper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151061650571699618" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDB94hBNxrnAw0AdIII_23UxskvQZEY3z-hRko7Xz3cteY2VC3olTw3stU5wpiebN3p46wVpNq0zWQlt9GbOR0mMCdPxpCVDwZ5JPBDCkOjRQij_BbEbDs6kvE_vhddM6SD94j/s200/crumpled_paper.jpg" border="0" /></a>Why can’t I get the sentences to stop jostling one another off the page? Surely there must be something to say about 2007, a year that at the very least <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/07/best-excuse-in-world.html">left me with a scar</a> that ruined my modeling career. In 2007, I had many new experiences: <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/#bonusfunfact">I ate raw pork</a>; I had several <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/03/josh-kornbluth-about-town.html">chance encounters with Josh Kornbluth</a>; and I participated in <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2007/08/eight-random-facts-meme.html">my first meme</a>. It was the year that an <a href="http://www.csdl.tamu.edu/~marshall/cute-shoes.html">inexplicably angry former manager</a> of mine came clean about his (now her) struggle with Gender Identity Disorder. It was a landmark year in another way too: 2007 was the year that I abandoned my LA roots and <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/12/non-disclosure-agreements.html">did not spend Xmas vacation at the Sea Sprite Motel</a>.<br /><br />Surely there must be something punchy to say at year’s end. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RO2xi0uLnj8">It was one heck of a year, Brownie, one heck of a year</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_apiuQT55U2kLf86_HW94wAeitqYGiZ2OSG3eCHry4TK3uNVki3TX9420Snd065CCTknLKavlj5nIJ5emS3LqCoeff41Rm4D2RxPYzAtcjTyOKhyphenhyphenKW_qFRDE7W5Aup4Z8rlF/s1600-h/parademagazine-fear.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151081171198059970" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_apiuQT55U2kLf86_HW94wAeitqYGiZ2OSG3eCHry4TK3uNVki3TX9420Snd065CCTknLKavlj5nIJ5emS3LqCoeff41Rm4D2RxPYzAtcjTyOKhyphenhyphenKW_qFRDE7W5Aup4Z8rlF/s200/parademagazine-fear.jpg" border="0" /></a>Could my year-end writer’s block be a symptom of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder">Seasonal Affective Disorder</a>? You know, Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD. The condition that <em><a href="http://www.parade.com/index.jsp">Parade Magazine</a></em> popularized during the 1990s: it’s winter; there’s not enough light; and you feel like heaving your <a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/05/small-appliances.html">Signature Gourmet coffee maker</a> off the balcony five stories down onto Castro Street.<br /><br />That is, if only you could summon the energy to get out of bed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9WC6bjIAPLCa-QVd_WCayBS-QmS4x74jLR_rIm0dVBTGLrnL6qRuSHxtbfeVcNbXQ6OiuUm08FxetP1V-JWlys6lUCQDAO_ZheJWceFbLbW4-NucCn7qUedrSSZjqh9UIz1w/s1600-h/sadchart.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151081501910541778" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb9WC6bjIAPLCa-QVd_WCayBS-QmS4x74jLR_rIm0dVBTGLrnL6qRuSHxtbfeVcNbXQ6OiuUm08FxetP1V-JWlys6lUCQDAO_ZheJWceFbLbW4-NucCn7qUedrSSZjqh9UIz1w/s200/sadchart.jpg" border="0" /></a>Seasonal Affective Disorder is even less sexy than ordinary year-around depression; depression will at least get you sympathy and a prescription for something anti-depressive. Seasonal Affective Disorder is like insomnia; it’ll just get you the obvious advice.<br /><br />I’ve noticed that anything that’s called <em>seasonal</em> is uglier than its year-around counterpart and invariably in worse taste. Consider if you will: seasonal recipes, seasonal headwear, and seasonal allergies. The fact that this disorder is seasonal is a bad sign. A Seasonal Disorder probably has reindeer appliqués on it or is made with <a href="http://www.campbellskitchen.com/recipedetail.aspx?recipeSource=MealIdeas&recipeID=24099&rc=807&page=1&index=4&Lastindex=false">Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup</a>.<br /><br />Nobody will even get upset about it on your behalf, since it’s destined to go away of its own accord once the so-called Season is over. There’ll be no telethons, no call-in donations, no SAD walks.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82ptWUjk4FvxT9gGM4JMjOEHS2nkay9TY8dZIXUtloRM2S1V5k2oMXS7IL-G1gToITDn08nCaWk168JT549JoiMOZQx6dBSzz2vVQPGN0LKANbktD7-ldLfGw3LbGmTqqEbZR/s1600-h/booklight.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151083834077783522" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82ptWUjk4FvxT9gGM4JMjOEHS2nkay9TY8dZIXUtloRM2S1V5k2oMXS7IL-G1gToITDn08nCaWk168JT549JoiMOZQx6dBSzz2vVQPGN0LKANbktD7-ldLfGw3LbGmTqqEbZR/s200/booklight.jpg" border="0" /></a>In other words, if you put your mind to it, you could probably cure yourself by taking that clip-on LED book light that some misguided friend got you (“oh, I know you love to read in bed!”) and applying it directly to your forehead. Or you could drink Aqua-Velva—a seasonal sale item at Rite-Aid—to banish the seasonal heaviness from your heart.<br /><br />You know how I know that SAD is an undesirable neurosis? If you look up SAD in Wikipedia, you’ll learn that <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seasonal_affective_disorder#Famous_sufferers">your fellow SAD-sufferers</a> are singer Natalie Imbruglia and science fiction-fantasy author Barbara Hambly.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6VUOpcYcjoX0teJ-OYX4nNA0Oy5ASdGeEewKBEYDquFnkCV6IRgUs-ZrO-T279lzSRSTRRIjWGnyoukivVeVvE8cxaCH6xCH2YDHp9lSTYIId63Gf15dd-a2xIlM4vplZtgw/s1600-h/b_hambly.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151085152632743410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo6VUOpcYcjoX0teJ-OYX4nNA0Oy5ASdGeEewKBEYDquFnkCV6IRgUs-ZrO-T279lzSRSTRRIjWGnyoukivVeVvE8cxaCH6xCH2YDHp9lSTYIId63Gf15dd-a2xIlM4vplZtgw/s200/b_hambly.jpg" border="0" /></a>That’s all anyone could come up with: <a href="http://www.natalie-imbruglia.co.uk/">Natalie Imbruglia</a> and <a href="http://www.barbarahambly.com/">Barbara Hambly</a>. Now, I have nothing against either one of them. No doubt they’re fine and talented people. But they are not full-fledged celebrities. No paparazzi lurk outside their villas, waiting to snap photos of the cellulite on their upper thighs.<br /><br />You aren’t going to brag, "You know who else has Seasonal Affective Disorder? BARBARA HAMBLY. That’s who."<br /><br />If, say, Angelina Jolie turns up with SAD—or even adopts an orphan with SAD—then you might be able to suffer with pride. But as it is, it’s just not a desirable condition.<br /><br /><em>I have no intention of attributing my perfectly good writer’s block to Seasonal Affective Disorder</em>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaOOBpV_q5t_xLRUy1odT49pdkoqqXaBYswTuoAyK1lwXMqRQ3SW0Cyv23vdNbFZmq6ZSlZKHOAEIcL8m_w_dSyvtkGQ7HhnsTHHH4EF8ZqKX4BJyHMXeVGwO12Aoj0mT-92O/s1600-h/writersstrike.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151087626533905922" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaOOBpV_q5t_xLRUy1odT49pdkoqqXaBYswTuoAyK1lwXMqRQ3SW0Cyv23vdNbFZmq6ZSlZKHOAEIcL8m_w_dSyvtkGQ7HhnsTHHH4EF8ZqKX4BJyHMXeVGwO12Aoj0mT-92O/s200/writersstrike.jpg" border="0" /></a>Okay. If SAD isn’t good enough, how about the long-running writers’ strike? Many people have stopped writing in sympathy with that.<br /><br />The problem is, the writers’ strike has been going on for so long that I’ve forgotten about the <a href="http://www.colbertnation.com/index.php">Colbert Report</a> (just try to find any new Stephen material!). News of the strike no longer appears in my morning <a href="http://www.colbertnation.com/index.php">Crickler</a>. <em>There’s no writing to remind me that the writers' strike exists</em>.<br /><br />And while I’m entirely sympathetic with the writers who have walked out, you can’t blame a scapegoat that you’ve completely forgotten.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglH4lm3Ugvia7FQ_rWYJIiaSJXCNUGPCpOU5BV6pcdOnVuFAfCyfq70HXUb3LC8mv37fNcWezKPGmEX-woERiNU8E2g9VIxSXElddFEeI2wiQu1GYVgniqsbWY4Z11LFL3yThZ/s1600-h/recognizablysanfrancisco.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151088820534814226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglH4lm3Ugvia7FQ_rWYJIiaSJXCNUGPCpOU5BV6pcdOnVuFAfCyfq70HXUb3LC8mv37fNcWezKPGmEX-woERiNU8E2g9VIxSXElddFEeI2wiQu1GYVgniqsbWY4Z11LFL3yThZ/s200/recognizablysanfrancisco.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, in the end, I’m tempted to lay the blame on San Francisco itself.<br /><br />San Francisco is desolate this time of year. The tourists who throng to San Francisco in the summer—when the weather is arguably colder and nastier than it is right now—don’t come around here in the winter. Their numbers are few and they come from far afield. These are half-hearted tourists, the ones who took advantage of a special seasonal discount. <strong><em>These are the tourists who had to knit their own airplane seats and pack their own lunches</em></strong>.<br /><br />Meanwhile the people who live here have all left. They’re gone. It’s almost like a college dorm: the inhabitants pack up and go to the place that they think of as their real home. Columbus, Ohio. Omaha, Nebraska. Decatur, Georgia.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5EtgLi7GzfiQDgBeaw9RUxTIG1N06CucphGiUlO2-1Y67OQ0G-sbW2Dacfas7w30aPq33Nw0gy6rXVSrwsbeC5DFYg-k1kIqUQPAQWYMVAESRzlDUphNX_IU5jQkqKOu-aAx/s1600-h/skating-central-park.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151090044600493602" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx5EtgLi7GzfiQDgBeaw9RUxTIG1N06CucphGiUlO2-1Y67OQ0G-sbW2Dacfas7w30aPq33Nw0gy6rXVSrwsbeC5DFYg-k1kIqUQPAQWYMVAESRzlDUphNX_IU5jQkqKOu-aAx/s200/skating-central-park.jpg" border="0" /></a>Maybe they even all charter a plane together and go to the same place in the Midwest, the small town with the phone book I was talking about earlier. Or perhaps they skip the Midwest part of the story and go directly to Manhattan to ice skate in Central Park and stroll down Fifth Avenue, their arms laden with packages from <a href="http://www.fao.com/home.jsp">FAO Schwarz</a>.<br /><br />For sure they don’t stay here.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqRVWl4_rhi72tigyMExLZOU5_kWaHyH4gbM27cQf61a49GWPtIeraIXOeYZv5AH28FiKxvCevGSJMjsH9DMuDtC0RvBsNt62PYENpVrYm8-WMUTiHQocWVN99gpaXV9Lj5uz/s1600-h/northpeak.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151136292808336946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqRVWl4_rhi72tigyMExLZOU5_kWaHyH4gbM27cQf61a49GWPtIeraIXOeYZv5AH28FiKxvCevGSJMjsH9DMuDtC0RvBsNt62PYENpVrYm8-WMUTiHQocWVN99gpaXV9Lj5uz/s200/northpeak.jpg" border="0" /></a>My brother and I walked up to Twin Peaks just before Christmas. We stood up there, looking out to sea: at the <a name="OLE_LINK2"></a><a name="OLE_LINK1">Farallons</a>, at the afternoon sun glinting off the water, at the tankers passing through the Golden Gate. It was beautiful and clear. The ocean was quiet and almost blue. For once it wasn’t windy and it most certainly wasn’t crowded.<br /><br />Some tourists, a mom, dad, and almost grown-up daughter appeared at the top of the hill where we were standing and, after conferring briefly among themselves in Chinese, asked my brother to take their picture together.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLh1EUGpcv8pe-zE4WX1IXu1LYb0QfDgQo_HghPiZPDJhSfg2buXYAOsT68YQepPJj_nVJmPlB6oNqm26zRBRQROMDRRDK-eGz8TWZXl1mWsIBB85HHEBV4Z3WgmSJR60LvXq/s1600-h/viewfromtwinpeaks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151136812499379778" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpLh1EUGpcv8pe-zE4WX1IXu1LYb0QfDgQo_HghPiZPDJhSfg2buXYAOsT68YQepPJj_nVJmPlB6oNqm26zRBRQROMDRRDK-eGz8TWZXl1mWsIBB85HHEBV4Z3WgmSJR60LvXq/s200/viewfromtwinpeaks.jpg" border="0" /></a>My brother motioned them to move so the San Francisco skyline would be their backdrop.<br /><br />He knelt and pointed their digital camera at them. The three of them didn’t all fit in the picture. My brother motioned to them again, this time signaling them to move closer together. They shuffled toward one another, a little awkward and stiff together like they weren’t used to these Disneyland-style photo ops.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaymdJaF1ofDJ4vVQOsdiMAI45lYfehFAb8aYrpTq2DzMztmVLCjqn2bttZsVnZBjVJVdKi_FiGsjy3idYr_7iEHWAHI1KPdGFVYmItjXPonYiGBx9Ogx8tCnr0RaT5LrIIzPY/s1600-h/saycheese2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151290026867730002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaymdJaF1ofDJ4vVQOsdiMAI45lYfehFAb8aYrpTq2DzMztmVLCjqn2bttZsVnZBjVJVdKi_FiGsjy3idYr_7iEHWAHI1KPdGFVYmItjXPonYiGBx9Ogx8tCnr0RaT5LrIIzPY/s200/saycheese2.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Say cheese," my brother said and clicked the shot. They all said cheese and smiled. The father had bad teeth; it looked like half of one of his front teeth was missing entirely.<br /><br />Then my brother walked over to them and handed them back their camera.<br /><br />My brother does not let the city’s Christmas stillness nor the cold get to him. He can muster enthusiasm for scenes like this; out of thin air, he can tell awkward strangers to "say cheese!" and mean it. And they did say cheese like they meant it. I hope the photo came out well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9gnpYj5m5yMisXvmz6_IbBzvb7DLCzhud5ocLy5-ukA445w578IwUmTREpcekACK9bJHl-9vzOwcgBDPO_ekX8WtCMFjvpEEiwYww2vD5gDafbx6syC5r9DVgSk9C09Z-4xnp/s1600-h/ggbfromtp.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151297697679320674" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9gnpYj5m5yMisXvmz6_IbBzvb7DLCzhud5ocLy5-ukA445w578IwUmTREpcekACK9bJHl-9vzOwcgBDPO_ekX8WtCMFjvpEEiwYww2vD5gDafbx6syC5r9DVgSk9C09Z-4xnp/s200/ggbfromtp.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few minutes later, two gay guys, obviously a couple, one man black and the other man Asian, had him take a shot of them. He framed them with the Golden Gate Bridge as a backdrop. He was about to snap the picture when the black guy said "Wait!" and took off his sunglasses and knit cap so you'd be able to see his whole face and his eyes in the photo.<br /><br />Their smiles were dazzling.<br /><br />Then a larger Asian family asked him if he would mind—he did not—and a few minutes later a European couple on a motorcycle, looking sophisticated and tousled, had him snap them by the 50-cents per view telescopes.<br /><br />The small groups of tourists materialized, had their photo taken, and left, happy. It was as if they were checking off <a href="http://pujianto-cemerlang.blogspot.com/2007_04_01_archive.html">San Francisco things to do</a> from a <em>Lonely Planet</em> list.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.spirer.com/fsf2006/attached.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151300025551595122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAQNIk7eoYJQme43dMSkv2NvHaZnv2Lzb9FkEU5PfvhSSxewL1IXuh7M9GbrlZ4n7h_66c6AcgBJcrZKIx5y9_dt3sZz9fAnhfmfPdaXsC-dmRP9pjd6iq90ScYMdAizLfIrzf/s200/fsf.jpg" border="0" /></a>I don’t think very many people come to San Francisco to celebrate the holidays. San Francisco isn’t the right place for Christmas. They come here for Halloween. They come for Pride Weekend. Perhaps they surface for the <a href="http://www.spirer.com/fsf2006/attached.jpg">Folsom Street Fair</a>. Out of habit, they come here in the summer. And they cruise around Chinatown, North Beach, and Fisherman’s Wharf. They don’t drive out to Twin Peaks, have their photo taken by a stranger, and then drive off. And most of all, they don’t come to San Francisco for Christmas.<br /><br />We tried to spot landmarks in the far distance. Jon picked out Fairfield first.<br /><br />"How do you know that's Fairfield?" I asked him.<br /><br />"That's just probably where Fairfield would be."<br /><br />"I mean, do you see any landmarks or anything?"<br /><br />"No. But see—there’s Emeryville, and there's Berkeley. There's the Campanile. You can just see what's what," he told me.<br /><br />"I guess so." But I wasn't sure where one East Bay city left off and another one began. He was taking Fairfield on faith.<br /><br />In the near distance, I could pick out 22nd Street, General Hospital, our redwood tree, and the hairpin turn where Collingwood meets 22nd.<br /><br />San Francisco looked completely uninhabited.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe13WWH-qjLWA5xg7NfJGjh3b4luYQRSX2usfpTjJs0rePP1ldUaamSHYjp1wROR8Qx_TWXCnUX2U9D4hJreiupThhqzL3XfUNCEJC0zbG9gcwqwzIGPmJ3080FYXyrPtozXf/s1600-h/sightseeingtelescope.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151369393568392914" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUe13WWH-qjLWA5xg7NfJGjh3b4luYQRSX2usfpTjJs0rePP1ldUaamSHYjp1wROR8Qx_TWXCnUX2U9D4hJreiupThhqzL3XfUNCEJC0zbG9gcwqwzIGPmJ3080FYXyrPtozXf/s200/sightseeingtelescope.jpg" border="0" /></a>I fished two quarters out of my pocket as if to put them in the telescope. But really, my brother is right, and I do know what's where. Who actually uses the telescopes mounted at the edge of the Twin Peaks observation area? There's Market Street. There's Rincon Tower. There's the Transamerica Pyramid. You’d probably use the telescopes to look in peoples’ windows. I put the quarters back in my pocket.<br /><br />We walked down the hill toward a Market Street overpass we'd spotted from the top of the observation area. We’d walked up on the north overpass and we were walking back on the south one. We saw two friendly black-and-white cats on 23rd Street on the way home.<br /><br />I felt like a neutron bomb had gone off in San Francisco and these were the two cats that had been spared.<br /><br />Where were all the people?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvg9JUa4IH4QlvCqfaIdYW_uu9WizbUVoa65cMXt0wCc9MJUNCw-NyEupJZFKtng4_dPd_OEnnQixJx2pZ3z9TzMQP_Q2RW0vJsa0sKHf2GYLWsMOqLxIzutUjylXXejJ18Mh/s1600-h/santainawetsuit.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151300897429956242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvg9JUa4IH4QlvCqfaIdYW_uu9WizbUVoa65cMXt0wCc9MJUNCw-NyEupJZFKtng4_dPd_OEnnQixJx2pZ3z9TzMQP_Q2RW0vJsa0sKHf2GYLWsMOqLxIzutUjylXXejJ18Mh/s200/santainawetsuit.jpg" border="0" /></a>They probably went to LA, where it’s warm. They went to LA, where by tradition Santa wears a wetsuit rather than that tacky red-and-white Santa suit. Santa not only wears a wetsuit; Santa surfs. They went to LA, <em>where we used to go every Christmas</em>. They probably all stay at the <a href="http://www.seaspritemotel.com/">Sea Sprite</a>—“Stay on the beach, play on the beach”—despite all <a href="http://www.hotelchatter.com/story/2004/8/10/15813/4036/hotels/Sea_Sprite_Motel_Will_the_real_slim_shady_please_stand_up_">warnings</a> to the <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g32490-d119452-r8606706-Sea_Sprite_Ocean_Front_Motel_and_Apartments-Hermosa_Beach_California.html">contrary</a> (<a href="http://ccmarshall.blogspot.com/2006/12/non-disclosure-agreements.html">including my own</a>).<br /><br />Look out for that pier, Santa. Look out!<br /><br />Look out for the Sea Sprite, homies. <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g32490-d119452-r5057098-Sea_Sprite_Ocean_Front_Motel_and_Apartments-Hermosa_Beach_California.html">Look out</a>! <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g32490-d119452-r6014271-Sea_Sprite_Ocean_Front_Motel_and_Apartments-Hermosa_Beach_California.html">Rumor has it that they charge you for cleaning up the vomit</a>.<br /><br />In spite of myself and all of my vows to have no regrets, I think momentarily of the dolphins playing in the waves and the mild days that remind me of why I never lasted beyond February in a climate where there’s ice and snow.<br /><br />It only takes one visit in December for me to remind myself that Ocean Beach is nothing like Hermosa Beach.<br /><br />If I’d gone to LA, I’d have something to write about.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLeHkyMfvJHgMuSTU9zpkS1Q18NMzzA6ipUXoFDfSjhPln1NeeO_HOnH8xmOSYQjj_PrNwurDHWZY_o31hdNPJFY-kuOtKq1sX0MqX4sCRSaCuz0JpKFG-FQRCX007_Ntw1xbU/s1600-h/xshow6.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151306128700122786" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLeHkyMfvJHgMuSTU9zpkS1Q18NMzzA6ipUXoFDfSjhPln1NeeO_HOnH8xmOSYQjj_PrNwurDHWZY_o31hdNPJFY-kuOtKq1sX0MqX4sCRSaCuz0JpKFG-FQRCX007_Ntw1xbU/s200/xshow6.jpg" border="0" /></a>I thought about that as Jeff (not his real name) and I watched <a href="http://www.xtheband.com/liveinla.html"><strong>X</strong></a> take the stage at <a href="http://www.slimstickets.com/evinfo.php?eventid=19707">Slim’s last Saturday</a>. Wouldn’t you know it? They played <em>Los Angeles</em>. They played <em>Johnny Hit and Run Pauline</em>. They played <em>We’re Desperate (Get Used to It)</em>. Was that two encores? We were far enough away from the stage that the band looked just like they did in 1979. In Los Angeles. <a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=45130516">Except now they have 26411 friends</a>.<br /><br />This isn’t Seasonal Affective Disorder; I’m just blue and nostalgic for something that doesn’t exist anymore. It happens every year.<br /><br />The only thing that can dispel glumness and writers’ blocks is time. As I write this, the local airports are crowded with people returning. Repopulating San Francisco.<br /><br />Traitors. I know I’ll regret hating the quiet the minute they’re back.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFeP-C_3XV1oZRPW0Nc3rpe49hvEAlKNHUY9_dciU_Qc3Cy_1qqSZmIgqvN-tXr6DaW_qfHExqMdKlAxLq7OQUXtjEO90frY7Cu5bWSY8M9xAxo0zZbwsOpBxYDtYz-vyAOltC/s1600-h/houseon14thandcastro2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151308611191219890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFeP-C_3XV1oZRPW0Nc3rpe49hvEAlKNHUY9_dciU_Qc3Cy_1qqSZmIgqvN-tXr6DaW_qfHExqMdKlAxLq7OQUXtjEO90frY7Cu5bWSY8M9xAxo0zZbwsOpBxYDtYz-vyAOltC/s200/houseon14thandcastro2.jpg" border="0" /></a>But I also know from past years’ experience that even the most elaborate Christmas decorations—say, the tableau worthy of Martha Stewart on Castro Street around 14th Street—will disappear by next week and things will be back to normal. There’ll be a few Christmas trees shedding tinsel on the curbs, waiting for the Sunset Scavenger post-holiday pick-up.<br /><br />Can I convince all the rest of you that this Christmas thing is a bad idea?<br /><br />People tell me that this is a holiday for kids. Not for me. But even as a kid, it seemed like a bad idea.<br /><br />Here’s what I remember: “You want to come over and look at our tree?” Cheryl would ask on a slow day between Christmas and New Year. “I’ll plug in the lights for you. You want to see my presents?”<br /><br />She wanted to give me the frisson of Christmas joy via proximity to her loot.<br /><br />It wouldn’t work and I didn’t much care about the highly flammable dead trees in peoples’ living rooms anyway. Not unless you gave me a match.<br /><br />It’s still early in January, but in a few weeks everything will be okay again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF6ZffgoFZ7s68QklYMlmfAGe9tpC5QJd_Wa3jw3rv39UmNGNND9WuEuhAn79l9AlbzLUQ7VBHLVAUwBY0BO0cHW0P_4mZi3Xs8vCVVDcu2fovLCsKL3X7G4M9zVeBSkQEMsN/s1600-h/lumpy-the-boss.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151310054300231362" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidF6ZffgoFZ7s68QklYMlmfAGe9tpC5QJd_Wa3jw3rv39UmNGNND9WuEuhAn79l9AlbzLUQ7VBHLVAUwBY0BO0cHW0P_4mZi3Xs8vCVVDcu2fovLCsKL3X7G4M9zVeBSkQEMsN/s200/lumpy-the-boss.JPG" border="0" /></a>All of the seasonal effects and affects, disorders and maladaptations, sweaters and mufflers, and decorations and fruitcakes will sublimate, not to be reconstituted until after Thanksgiving, 2008. The days will get longer. I will forget my New Year’s resolutions (to write shorter and more frequent blog posts; to floss regularly; to exfoliate; and not to let Lumpy and Mark boss me around so much).<br /><br />But now I’ve got to go get some black-eyed peas lest I pass up an easy opportunity for good luck.<br /><br />If 2008 is anything like 2007, I’m going to need it.Cathyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02723810120366521835noreply@blogger.com2