I had my Diane Arbus moment. Actually, I had about 75 of them. I went to the Tatoo Expo with my husband and son, and hell yes, I brought my camera. My son is fascinated with tatoos, draws realistic portraits of eskimos on his forearm, and is more than likely trying to find a way around the 18 year legal age requirement for body art. We did not take him to the Tatoo Expo to encourage him, but to show him that identifying yourself visually with the body art scene might limit your prospects. There are some breaks you won't get if you go through life looking like a walking comic book. You may also prefer not to be associated with the gang element of tatoo culture, of which there was enough at this expo to warrant a no guns sign at the gate.
We weren't the only voyeurs on the scene - understated attire and an unmarked epidermis immediately outed you as a bourgeois looky-loo. But the overwhelming majority of the attendees were on a mission to get marked. The exhibit hall had literally been turned into a giant tatoo parlor. Clients winced, clenched their teeth or looked stoically away as the body artists manned their little drills. It was a fast food crowd - not a lot of money there - and most of the bodies being inked were lumpy and untoned. Vendors hawked goth jewelry, leather corsets and t-shirts touting "My first murder," in letters that dripped blood.
On a small stage in the back of the hall, a biker-MC in cat-in-the-hat headgear was attempting to banter with the crowd. Smiling broadly, he straffed us with F-bombs. It was an F-ing great exhibit, with some F-ing great artists, he's seen some F-ing great tatoos and now, for your entertainment, check out these F-ing great belly dancers.
Four plus-sized Sheherazades undulated onto the stage, finger-cymbals tinkling. Their dancing clothes had the makeshift quality of last minute halloween costumes. Ornate tatoos disappeared into their back fat. A handful of bystanders applauded good-naturedly but the real action was on the exhibition floor.
I admit it, I don't like tatoos. When my son asked what I would choose if I absolutely HAD to get one on pain of death, I told him I wanted a black dot so I could pass it off as a birth mark. I think the sight of beautiful Angelina Jolie in an evening gown with her dye-injected arms is just sad. I understand that sometimes life events cause such deep shifts and revelations in people's lives, they feel they must commemorate them. I know that there's something sexy to getting your first tatoo - I've got you under my skin, baby, and all that jazz. But whatever causes you to take the plunge, there is an element of self-destructiveness to tatooing and I think it can be addictive. After a while, some people have so many tats, they reach the dangerous point of WTF and do something irreversible, perhaps inking their faces like a Maori tribesman.
While dermatologists are probably already reaping the benefits of tattoo addiction, popular culture has yet to acknowledge the phenomenon, second cousin to compulsive plastic surgery, body dysmorphia and self-cutting. The body art movement has made big strides into the mainstream, and it would appear judgmental to suggest that there are folks who just don't know when to stop. It's going to take some remorseful people going public, crying to Oprah about the cost of having their markings removed and how the color green is forever. Once the self-proclaimed victims start coming forward, it will be safe from a politically correct standpoint to acknowledge the existence of tatoo addiction. In the meantime, boys and girls, think before you ink.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Arf, Arf! Art, Art!
Remember the elephant seals from our trip to Cambria? My daughter and her boyfriend went down to see them in mid-January. They got the same show we did (See my blog entry entitled Glittering Soirees and Bestial Orgies), with the added attraction of witnessing the actual birth of a pup. (This was followed by a seagull feeding frenzy over the placenta. Unlike Pamela Anderson, seals don't believe in burying theirs.) Anyway, my daughter was so inspired, she chose to do her painting thesis project based on the photographs she took. The thesis committee gave the paintings their "seal of approval"! Arf Arf! I'm so proud, it's making me blubber. So clap your flippers and give her a big round of applause.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
And Now, Live Off-Stage...
I'm not too old to rock, but I just may be getting too cranky for concerts.
Let's see. Sting and Natalie Merchant. Chattering yahoos behind us who refuse to shut up. Ever.
Tom Petty. Great show. Surprise appearance by Stevie Nicks. An outdoor venue that sells beer to underage young men who don't give a sample about Tom Petty and are so full of Heineken, the line at the men's room is longer - yes, girls, this is a seismic event in the history of mankind - longer than the line for the ladies' room. Some boys are soooo bursting with beer, they just cut to the chase in the bathroom sink.
And then there was our fourth and probably last Bob Dylan concert. My friend had scored four second row tickets. Having just met each other's spouses for the first time, we were chatting away, waiting for the concert to start, when the pack descended. Five tall, husky guys and one big, loud lady, all in their forties and fifties. Pathological Dylan fans who will go anywhere within a 500 mile radius to see him and spend anything to wangle first row seats. Which they don't need because they stand, the entire bloody time.
The pack blocked our view with astonishing effectiveness. I am a woman of average height and my friend's wife is petite. On the off chance that she might actually catch a glimpse of Dylan in his negative space, the obstructionist in front of her wore a broad brimmed black cowboy hat. If we wanted to see, our only option was to get up, thus passing down the inconvenience to the row behind us. We were all too polite to do so. Our mothers raised us right.
Now, I've gotten up and boogied at a concert from time to time, when the song is iconic and the beat irresistible and the whole crowd is on its feet. But these jerks even stood during the ballads. They simply stopped shaking their great hulks, swaying solemnly instead. At one point, the guy in front of Mike got tired and actually took his seat. Not surprising since he was pushing fifty, built like a refrigerator, and had just downed three or more stadium beers. So he plopped down, threw his arm over the chair and leaned his neck back until his head was practically in Mike's lap. Sensing the discontent behind her, the lady Dylan fanatic turned to me sympathetically and explained that this is what one does in the front row. Maybe, she helpfully suggested, we should sit on the side next time.
My husband was reminding me of our recent concert history as we sat in the IMAX theater, waiting for Shine a Light, Scorsese's Rolling Stones concert film, to begin. The current concert experience costs big bucks and sucks to such an extent, Mike remarked, movies like this are a better option. I was thinking he had a point when The Free Spirit sashayed up the aisle.
She was about forty, with butt-length, raven curls and a well kept figure. The kind of woman who can't outgrow the twenty year old girl's need to flash flesh regardless of the outside temperature, she wore black leather pants, a tall Russian fur hat and a white corset. Her hips swung like a pendulum as she walked, her straight-laced, whitebread boyfriend following right behind. They settled in three seats past me. Between us sat a lone Indian gentleman in a suit and tie.
The lights went down and the movie started. (Let me just say that in this film, the Stones are definitely larger than life. Cavernous closeups of Mick's mouth in IMAX make one feel like Jonah right before the whale gulped him down. The legendary Jagger tongue is the size of a three year old child. The stage lights shine through his front teeth when he sings and you can tell exactly which of his choppers have benefitted from the art of modern dentistry. Somebody please tell me why this is necessary.)
The movie introduces the Stones, pre-concert, photo-opping for Bill and Hillary Clinton and some of their relatives. Meanwhile, Scorsese is running around looking crazed because the song selection is not final and he needs to work out the camera placement (not suspenseful - you know he'll pull it together - he's Scorsese). Soon enough, the concert is on. And The Free Spirit is on too.
Shooting up from her seat like a trick snake from its fake nut tin, she begins to dance. She waves her arms in the air, whooping and yelling "Yeah, Mick!". She claps her palms raw after every song. When the Stones play an obscure cover tune, The Free Spirit bops around enthusiastically. When they tear into the opening riff of Sympathy for the Devil, she doesn't recognize it and stops gyrating to adjust her corset. She ooohs and squeals constantly, like the soundtrack from some lost sex tape of Marilyn doing both Kennedy brothers at the same time. Nobody else in the theater is acting like this.
The Indian gentleman stares in open disbelief. The Free Spirit's date remains silent and impassive, perhaps wondering whether the ensuing lay will be worth the current embarrassment. Mike puts his elbow up by his face and hangs his sweater on it as a blinder to keep The Free Spirit out of his peripheral vision. In desperation, I call out "You don't have to shout. They can't hear you. It's a MOVIE." No reaction. From the first song to the final encore, every number is marred by The Free Spirit's exhibitionistic whooping. I keep wishing she would hold up her lighter and get ushered out by the fire marshall.
So much for being spared the indignities of the live concert experience. I hold my tongue as I walk out past The Free Spirit, still carrying on as the credits roll. I'm dying to ask why she didn't throw her panties at the screen.
Let's see. Sting and Natalie Merchant. Chattering yahoos behind us who refuse to shut up. Ever.
Tom Petty. Great show. Surprise appearance by Stevie Nicks. An outdoor venue that sells beer to underage young men who don't give a sample about Tom Petty and are so full of Heineken, the line at the men's room is longer - yes, girls, this is a seismic event in the history of mankind - longer than the line for the ladies' room. Some boys are soooo bursting with beer, they just cut to the chase in the bathroom sink.
And then there was our fourth and probably last Bob Dylan concert. My friend had scored four second row tickets. Having just met each other's spouses for the first time, we were chatting away, waiting for the concert to start, when the pack descended. Five tall, husky guys and one big, loud lady, all in their forties and fifties. Pathological Dylan fans who will go anywhere within a 500 mile radius to see him and spend anything to wangle first row seats. Which they don't need because they stand, the entire bloody time.
The pack blocked our view with astonishing effectiveness. I am a woman of average height and my friend's wife is petite. On the off chance that she might actually catch a glimpse of Dylan in his negative space, the obstructionist in front of her wore a broad brimmed black cowboy hat. If we wanted to see, our only option was to get up, thus passing down the inconvenience to the row behind us. We were all too polite to do so. Our mothers raised us right.
Now, I've gotten up and boogied at a concert from time to time, when the song is iconic and the beat irresistible and the whole crowd is on its feet. But these jerks even stood during the ballads. They simply stopped shaking their great hulks, swaying solemnly instead. At one point, the guy in front of Mike got tired and actually took his seat. Not surprising since he was pushing fifty, built like a refrigerator, and had just downed three or more stadium beers. So he plopped down, threw his arm over the chair and leaned his neck back until his head was practically in Mike's lap. Sensing the discontent behind her, the lady Dylan fanatic turned to me sympathetically and explained that this is what one does in the front row. Maybe, she helpfully suggested, we should sit on the side next time.
My husband was reminding me of our recent concert history as we sat in the IMAX theater, waiting for Shine a Light, Scorsese's Rolling Stones concert film, to begin. The current concert experience costs big bucks and sucks to such an extent, Mike remarked, movies like this are a better option. I was thinking he had a point when The Free Spirit sashayed up the aisle.
She was about forty, with butt-length, raven curls and a well kept figure. The kind of woman who can't outgrow the twenty year old girl's need to flash flesh regardless of the outside temperature, she wore black leather pants, a tall Russian fur hat and a white corset. Her hips swung like a pendulum as she walked, her straight-laced, whitebread boyfriend following right behind. They settled in three seats past me. Between us sat a lone Indian gentleman in a suit and tie.
The lights went down and the movie started. (Let me just say that in this film, the Stones are definitely larger than life. Cavernous closeups of Mick's mouth in IMAX make one feel like Jonah right before the whale gulped him down. The legendary Jagger tongue is the size of a three year old child. The stage lights shine through his front teeth when he sings and you can tell exactly which of his choppers have benefitted from the art of modern dentistry. Somebody please tell me why this is necessary.)
The movie introduces the Stones, pre-concert, photo-opping for Bill and Hillary Clinton and some of their relatives. Meanwhile, Scorsese is running around looking crazed because the song selection is not final and he needs to work out the camera placement (not suspenseful - you know he'll pull it together - he's Scorsese). Soon enough, the concert is on. And The Free Spirit is on too.
Shooting up from her seat like a trick snake from its fake nut tin, she begins to dance. She waves her arms in the air, whooping and yelling "Yeah, Mick!". She claps her palms raw after every song. When the Stones play an obscure cover tune, The Free Spirit bops around enthusiastically. When they tear into the opening riff of Sympathy for the Devil, she doesn't recognize it and stops gyrating to adjust her corset. She ooohs and squeals constantly, like the soundtrack from some lost sex tape of Marilyn doing both Kennedy brothers at the same time. Nobody else in the theater is acting like this.
The Indian gentleman stares in open disbelief. The Free Spirit's date remains silent and impassive, perhaps wondering whether the ensuing lay will be worth the current embarrassment. Mike puts his elbow up by his face and hangs his sweater on it as a blinder to keep The Free Spirit out of his peripheral vision. In desperation, I call out "You don't have to shout. They can't hear you. It's a MOVIE." No reaction. From the first song to the final encore, every number is marred by The Free Spirit's exhibitionistic whooping. I keep wishing she would hold up her lighter and get ushered out by the fire marshall.
So much for being spared the indignities of the live concert experience. I hold my tongue as I walk out past The Free Spirit, still carrying on as the credits roll. I'm dying to ask why she didn't throw her panties at the screen.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Obama Drama
When I was in my early thirties, lo these many moons ago, I had just begun my advertising career. I remember boning up on demographic categories and realizing, to my chagrin, that I was a volvo, white wine and brie - and I was cool enough to know that wasn't cool. I haven't checked, but I'd be willing to bet that I've since graduated to the prius, red wine and goat cheese segment.
Lately, I've recognized myself on the popular blog "Things White People Like". The White People in question are upper middle class types with college degrees. (And if you look at their enthusiasms as depicted in this blog, these "white people" could in most cases just as well be African American or Asian - the real differentiator is income and education). These people like to travel, have gym memberships and know their arugula from their mache. They think of themselves as well-read and well-informed. Die hard, bleeding heart liberals. Environmentalists, secular humanists, internationalists and diversity lovers. Insufferable pompous bastards according to the White People blog. But damned if a lot of it doesn't reflect my tastes and values.
Which brings us to those outraged salt of the earth Pennsylvanians who are so offended, nay, so BITTER about Obama's recent comments. They feel they were glibly categorized as a gun-loving, illegal-hating, church-going herd. Well, folks, here's the deal. Elections nowadays employ sophisticated research and highly targeted messaging. Whether you like it or not, even if you're not Mr. or Ms. Guns, God and Go back to Mexico, many of your neighbors probably fit the bill. Obama was speaking in a strategic and analytical way about you as a group. It's a perspective one needs to occasionally adopt if one is to succeed politically. Remember the soccer moms? The disaffected white males? Even an elitist like yours truly (and believe me, I am not an elitist, I am just saving you the trouble of calling me one) is part of a target group. That's modern capitalism, baby.
Let's segue to your pocket book, the context of the offending remarks. Obama was talking about 20 years of hard times, disappearing jobs and cynicism bred of unfulfilled election promises from both parties. Of you and your neighbors, he says "They feel so betrayed by government that when they hear a pitch that is premised on not being cynical about government, then a part of them just doesn't buy it." So if you've given up on voting the economy, what issues can you still "cling to"? Social issues like gun rights, prayer in school, creationism and of course illegal aliens. Guns, God and anti-immigration.
So now you have Hillary and McCain rushing to your defense. You really AREN'T bitter. You're "resilient, positive and optimistic". And Hillary is just like you. Why, her Pa taught her to shoot by the watering hole on her Grandpappy's Pennsylvania farm. (Sorry, Hil, even Dick Cheney would be more credible with that one). She enjoys a little shot with her beer. (I suspect the last time she did shots was when she found out Bill was doing Monica). And of course, God plays an essential part in her life.
If you don't think Hillary Clinton is playing to your demographic, you really are the Pollyanna she's depicting you as.
One way or another, we're all getting sold. I am sure there is pandering of a different sort going on at those tony San Francisco fundraisers. And how do you sell a bunch of upscale, advanced degreed San Franciscans whose funds you are trying to appropriate? You talk to them like they are political insiders. You discuss strategy. The day the bitterness controversy bubbled up, Obama was speaking from a back stage perspective and ended up in the spotlight. So to my friends and fellow democrats in Pennsylvania, I say get over it. You're a demographic and I am too. It's the process. Vote your conscience, not your pride.
Lately, I've recognized myself on the popular blog "Things White People Like". The White People in question are upper middle class types with college degrees. (And if you look at their enthusiasms as depicted in this blog, these "white people" could in most cases just as well be African American or Asian - the real differentiator is income and education). These people like to travel, have gym memberships and know their arugula from their mache. They think of themselves as well-read and well-informed. Die hard, bleeding heart liberals. Environmentalists, secular humanists, internationalists and diversity lovers. Insufferable pompous bastards according to the White People blog. But damned if a lot of it doesn't reflect my tastes and values.
Which brings us to those outraged salt of the earth Pennsylvanians who are so offended, nay, so BITTER about Obama's recent comments. They feel they were glibly categorized as a gun-loving, illegal-hating, church-going herd. Well, folks, here's the deal. Elections nowadays employ sophisticated research and highly targeted messaging. Whether you like it or not, even if you're not Mr. or Ms. Guns, God and Go back to Mexico, many of your neighbors probably fit the bill. Obama was speaking in a strategic and analytical way about you as a group. It's a perspective one needs to occasionally adopt if one is to succeed politically. Remember the soccer moms? The disaffected white males? Even an elitist like yours truly (and believe me, I am not an elitist, I am just saving you the trouble of calling me one) is part of a target group. That's modern capitalism, baby.
Let's segue to your pocket book, the context of the offending remarks. Obama was talking about 20 years of hard times, disappearing jobs and cynicism bred of unfulfilled election promises from both parties. Of you and your neighbors, he says "They feel so betrayed by government that when they hear a pitch that is premised on not being cynical about government, then a part of them just doesn't buy it." So if you've given up on voting the economy, what issues can you still "cling to"? Social issues like gun rights, prayer in school, creationism and of course illegal aliens. Guns, God and anti-immigration.
So now you have Hillary and McCain rushing to your defense. You really AREN'T bitter. You're "resilient, positive and optimistic". And Hillary is just like you. Why, her Pa taught her to shoot by the watering hole on her Grandpappy's Pennsylvania farm. (Sorry, Hil, even Dick Cheney would be more credible with that one). She enjoys a little shot with her beer. (I suspect the last time she did shots was when she found out Bill was doing Monica). And of course, God plays an essential part in her life.
If you don't think Hillary Clinton is playing to your demographic, you really are the Pollyanna she's depicting you as.
One way or another, we're all getting sold. I am sure there is pandering of a different sort going on at those tony San Francisco fundraisers. And how do you sell a bunch of upscale, advanced degreed San Franciscans whose funds you are trying to appropriate? You talk to them like they are political insiders. You discuss strategy. The day the bitterness controversy bubbled up, Obama was speaking from a back stage perspective and ended up in the spotlight. So to my friends and fellow democrats in Pennsylvania, I say get over it. You're a demographic and I am too. It's the process. Vote your conscience, not your pride.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Berkeley Bumper Stickers 2
You can bomb the world into pieces but you can't bomb it into peace • Visualize using your turn signal • If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention • Obama '08 • When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in a flag and carrying a cross - Sinclair Lewis • These colors don't run the world • As God is my witness, I am an atheist • Question consumption • Uninformed people elect uninformed presidents • How can you be both pro-life and pro-war? • Abstinence makes the church grow fondlers • Obama '08 • Patriotism says your country is superior because you were born in it. George Bernard Shaw • One nation, under Goddess • One nation, undereducated • Telling the truth: a vast left-wing conspiracy • Don't believe everything you think • Obama '08 • The emperor has no brains • George W. Bush: Empty warhead • Pro-marriage, including gays • Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities • Obama '08 • Capitalism: The predatory phase of human development • Support our troops. Bring them home •Dissent is the highest form of patriotism. Thomas Jefferson • No child left a dime • Ignorance may be bliss, but it's bad foreign policy • How come my TV keeps lying to me? • We are creating enemies faster than we can kill then • Blessed are the children, for they shall inherit the deficit • No, really. Why DID we invade Iraq? • Obama '08 • If America ceases to be good, she will cease to be great. Alexis de Tocqueville • Kill your television • What IS the hokey-pokey all about? • The truth hurts but ignorance kills• Good planets are hard to find • Obama '08 • Evil only succeeds when good people do nothing. Martin Luther King
This is a city that has its own foreign policy, subsidizes solar conversions for low income families, keeps condoms in the high school nurse's office and is trying to run the marine recruitment center out of town. Surely you weren't expecting Jesus fish.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Karma's a bitch.
In the improbable event that one of the 5 people who read this thing doesn't actually know me, I'm going to tell you that I write for a living. No, nothing glamorous like novels or screenplays, or sizzling exposes for the New York Times. I write advertising. Ads, brochures, websites, radio and tv spots, all that intrusive (if I've done my job right) crap that muscles its way into your already cluttered brain. As a professional writer, I abhor typos and misspellings. The signs at the supermarket highlighting "avacados" and "chedder" drive me insane. When my daughter sends out cover letters without hitting spellcheck and shows them to me after the fact, I lecture her about the anal-retentive potential employers who will rule her out for forgetting a period. I get a "gotcha" feeling of perverse satisfaction when I find a typo in the middle of a 500 page novel. So when I was online the other day googling flights to Albuquerque and a discount flight site cropped up hawking flights to Albequerque, I practically vaulted onto my high horse.
I clicked on the link, went directly to "contact us" and asked them how I could possibly trust my travel plans to an outfit that can't even proofread a banner ad. Then, I went back to my online job hunting. You see, I left a very good job in my home town at age old-enough-to-know-better and moved to San Francisco. Now, I have to find employment before my freelance runs out and George Bush's recession comes crashing down on us like a cartoon anvil.
So there I was, perusing job postings, hurling my resume into cyberspace, sharing my curriculum vitae with a bunch of strangers probably half my age who have no way to appreciate my dogged work ethic and quirky personal charm, and doing my best to keep the faith. I downloaded the pdf from my website and was about to attach the resume when I saw it.
Like back fat on a starlet. Michael Jackson's nose. Or Lady Macbeth's damned spot. A typo, smack in the middle of the page. Senior copyriter, no W. Yes, I had checked the resume and rechecked it, and lived with it for months, and sent it out to dozens of probably anal-retentive potential employers without ever noticing the error.
Of course, I immediately called my web designer and had her insert the missing W. Now, I am crossing my fingers that all the people who have seen my resume are too busy to notice, or too nice to pick at the small stuff. When my daughter reads this, it will make her day.
PS. I just got a lovely email from the CEO of the online travel company. He thanked me for pointing out the typo which they immediately changed. I proofed my gracious response three times before hitting send.
I clicked on the link, went directly to "contact us" and asked them how I could possibly trust my travel plans to an outfit that can't even proofread a banner ad. Then, I went back to my online job hunting. You see, I left a very good job in my home town at age old-enough-to-know-better and moved to San Francisco. Now, I have to find employment before my freelance runs out and George Bush's recession comes crashing down on us like a cartoon anvil.
So there I was, perusing job postings, hurling my resume into cyberspace, sharing my curriculum vitae with a bunch of strangers probably half my age who have no way to appreciate my dogged work ethic and quirky personal charm, and doing my best to keep the faith. I downloaded the pdf from my website and was about to attach the resume when I saw it.
Like back fat on a starlet. Michael Jackson's nose. Or Lady Macbeth's damned spot. A typo, smack in the middle of the page. Senior copyriter, no W. Yes, I had checked the resume and rechecked it, and lived with it for months, and sent it out to dozens of probably anal-retentive potential employers without ever noticing the error.
Of course, I immediately called my web designer and had her insert the missing W. Now, I am crossing my fingers that all the people who have seen my resume are too busy to notice, or too nice to pick at the small stuff. When my daughter reads this, it will make her day.
PS. I just got a lovely email from the CEO of the online travel company. He thanked me for pointing out the typo which they immediately changed. I proofed my gracious response three times before hitting send.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Can't stop the music
Last week, my husband and I went to a garden show at the Cow Palace, San Francisco's old convention center on the the cold, south side of town. We don't have a yard and we don't have a house but it was something to do. (Besides, I like to store up the home and garden ideas because when housing prices reach their all-time low and we finally buy a place, I plan on going on a decorating and landscaping frenzy).
The main exhibit space featured plantings by various landscape designers. It was hard to take these "gardens" seriously as there was no sky and no sun to shine down on the plants, just the dark, dingy Cow Palace ceiling. Eastern religions were the theme du jour, with many of the mini-landscapes drawing inspiration from spas and yoga studios and featuring Buddhas and Hindu Gods. A peripheral hall was filled with plants for sale, including garish exotics from Hawaii, randy, intense-hued orchids, environmentally-correct succulents and garden variety vegetables. There were also plenty of gardening tools, statuary and crafts with a botanical twist. One booth stopped me in my tracks. Hanging there, like a cluster of salamis in an Italian butcher shop, was a giant wind chime. Wind chime, hell, it was an unassembled pipe organ. It sounded like a concerto of mini gongs outside your window. We had a good laugh. Who in their right mind would impose such a thing on her (or his) neighbors?
Cut to this afternoon. I am taking a tonic walk uphill to teach my butt a lesson (it never learns). I round a bend and what do I see? You guessed it. The Big Ben of wind chimes.
There oughta be a law. After all, here we are in Berkeley where they legislate everything for the good of the people. Surely this is unconstitutional. Or did our forefathers forget the right to peace and quiet? What if your house was next to the Mega Chime? Suppose the homeowner refused to take the damned thing down? Would you sue? Start a neighborhood petition? Slink over under cover of darkness and yank down the chimes? What a gigantic pain in the ass.
Even in our quiet hillside enclave, we are not immune from chime pollution. Our neighbor below has a small tinkly-winkly one. It's annoying but he is blind and if it makes him happy, we can live with it. It's only intrusive when the wind blows the sound in our direction.
Berkeley will probably address the chime issue at some point. Maybe they'll start selling wind chime licenses and put the proceeds to some noble use. Or maybe not. The problem is probably here to stay. Some people, it seems, just have to tinkle.
The main exhibit space featured plantings by various landscape designers. It was hard to take these "gardens" seriously as there was no sky and no sun to shine down on the plants, just the dark, dingy Cow Palace ceiling. Eastern religions were the theme du jour, with many of the mini-landscapes drawing inspiration from spas and yoga studios and featuring Buddhas and Hindu Gods. A peripheral hall was filled with plants for sale, including garish exotics from Hawaii, randy, intense-hued orchids, environmentally-correct succulents and garden variety vegetables. There were also plenty of gardening tools, statuary and crafts with a botanical twist. One booth stopped me in my tracks. Hanging there, like a cluster of salamis in an Italian butcher shop, was a giant wind chime. Wind chime, hell, it was an unassembled pipe organ. It sounded like a concerto of mini gongs outside your window. We had a good laugh. Who in their right mind would impose such a thing on her (or his) neighbors?
Cut to this afternoon. I am taking a tonic walk uphill to teach my butt a lesson (it never learns). I round a bend and what do I see? You guessed it. The Big Ben of wind chimes.
There oughta be a law. After all, here we are in Berkeley where they legislate everything for the good of the people. Surely this is unconstitutional. Or did our forefathers forget the right to peace and quiet? What if your house was next to the Mega Chime? Suppose the homeowner refused to take the damned thing down? Would you sue? Start a neighborhood petition? Slink over under cover of darkness and yank down the chimes? What a gigantic pain in the ass.
Even in our quiet hillside enclave, we are not immune from chime pollution. Our neighbor below has a small tinkly-winkly one. It's annoying but he is blind and if it makes him happy, we can live with it. It's only intrusive when the wind blows the sound in our direction.
Berkeley will probably address the chime issue at some point. Maybe they'll start selling wind chime licenses and put the proceeds to some noble use. Or maybe not. The problem is probably here to stay. Some people, it seems, just have to tinkle.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Glittering Soirees and Bestial Orgies
And what a weekend it was. Our trip to Cambria, California, a quiet seaside town exactly equidistant from LA and SF. Our aim was twofold: to visit Hearst Castle, and to see the elephant seal rookery at Piedras Blancas beach.
The dictionary says a rookery is "a breeding place or colony of gregarious birds or animals, as penguins and seals". This feels like lazy science to me. Small, flightless birds and large floppy marine mammals don't have much in common. Leave rookery to the penguins and find a new name for the elephant seal breeding grounds. When I got to the fourth meaning of rookery, I felt better: "A large, crowded tenement house." There is definitely something Dickensian about the conditions at Piedras Blancas, where in December of every year, 7,000 blubbery bodies take over a quarter mile of beach. (Come to think of it, it's a little like Rehobeth Beach, Maryland on labor day weekend).
At close to 3 tons, the male elephant seals are honking huge, but that's not where the name comes from. All elephant seals are born with cute round faces and big doe eyes, but around 3 years of age, the male's nose start to grow until it become a massive, floppy appendage dangling over the seal's mouth like a truncated trunk. The older, meaner and more dominant the male, the more pronounced the proboscis. While the adult females resemble plus-sized harbor seals, the males look like extras from the Star Wars bar scene.
The reproductive life of the elephant seal is a very odd odyssey. The males and females meet up once a year, at the very same beach. (12 of just 15 known "rookeries" are on the California coast). By the time the females arrive, they have been pregnant for a year. Not surprisingly, the first thing they do is give birth- to skinny black pups weighing between sixty and ninety pounds. The babies start nursing immediately, gaining as much as nine pounds a day.
Meanwhile, the males are in full harem building mode, fighting for dominance by banging their chests together and biting each other. Sometimes this occurs on the beach, and sometimes they take it out to sea. A salty old sea dog of an elephant seal will have a crusty, scarred up chest from years of turf battles. The prize? A harem of 40 cows, all ready to take Big Daddy's DNA into the next generation.
Once her pup is weaned, which takes about four weeks, the female elephant seal goes into estrus and is ready for mating. Within a matter of days, she is pregnant and ready to leave for her yearly migration. The fertilized egg inside her does not develop further for about 3 months. This is logical from an evolutionary standpoint, because the female elephant seal has not eaten in 6 weeks or more, and has lost a lot of her blubber feeding her pups. She needs to fatten up again before she can support a growing fetus. The females migrate West in temperate waters and feed primarily on squid and other swimming prey. Meanwhile, the males head north to the Aleutian islands and scarf down whatever they can find crawling on the sea floor - skates, rays, and other bottom feeders. Everybody gets fat and happy until it's time to meet again.
Observing the elephant seals is like being in your own episode of Animal Planet. Visitors park and walk 5 feet to the top of a fenced bluff, about 10-15 feet above the beach. The seals are right underneath you, barking, keening, grunting, swimming, sleeping, nursing, fighting, mating, giving birth and, in some cases, dying. Pups can literally get crushed by the males, who don't believe in going around any obstacle they can simply roll over. Occasionally, pups get separated from their mothers and starve to death. At birth, each mother imprints her pup with the unique sound of her voice, so the young one can find her in a crowd. Sometimes it works, sometimes, natural selection has its way with a tone-deaf pup. When the female seals give birth, seagulls fight over the placenta. And when a baby seal dies, they swoop down and peck away at their corpses, starting with the eyeballs. While these matters of life and death work themselves out, young males who have not yet acquired the status to have harems of their own slink around the shore. They watch for an alpha male to get distracted so they can sneak up and mate with one of his females. Mothers quetch and poke at each other over who gets to lie on a few square feet of sand. Pups just nurse and look, well, cuter than a baby alligator but considerably less cute than a kitten.
So, from the sublime to the ridiculous, or, depending on your perspective, the ridiculous to the sublime, we move on to San Simeon, publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst's folly on top of the world. The Hearst family owned an immense tract of land, which was and still is used for cattle ranching. When William Randolph was a boy, they used to camp at the top of the tallest point on the ranch at a place they referred to as "camp hill". Of course, camp included servants, cots and creature comforts. As an adult, WR longed to crown that mountain with a "modest lodge", but the land was in his mother's name and she refused to let him build on it or fear he'd get, as she put it, "carried away." When she herself was carried away by illness in 1919, William Randolph waited a respectful two weeks after her death before contacting architect Julia Morgan.
Julia Morgan became an architect in a time when women didn't have to worry about glass ceilings –– they couldn't even get into the building. Of course, Julia wanted to DESIGN the building. One of the first co-eds to graduate from UC Berkeley with a degree in civil engineering, she became the very first woman to attend the Beaux Arts architectural school in Paris. Despite glowing recommendations from the Berkeley faculty, Beaux Arts rejected her twice. In order to persuade Messieurs les professeurs to let her in, Julia entered every european architectural competition she could, won several of them, and finally wore the grey beards down. Out of a pool of 392 applicants, she came in ranked thirteenth. By then, she was two years shy of the 30-year age limit, and so was unable to complete the four year program. But two years of gilding at a prestigious French school put enough shine on her to launch her career as an architect. By the time WR Hearst hired her to build his palace, she had designed and built public buildings and private homes in San Francisco, Oakland and Sacramento.
Mr. Hearst's hill has a wide base and gradual incline. Viewed from the beach, it doesn't look so tall. Then, you get on the tour bus and climb up and up and up a perfectly maintained winding road and the panoramic views just keep zooming further and further out. When you finally reach the estate, you realize that there are ten miles of gently sloping prairie with a canyon or two thrown in between you and the silver sea. The location is so stunning, building on it is almost an act of hubris, but build they did.
While Dorothea Lange was photographing starving dust bowl victims and John Steinbeck was writing about exploited sharecroppers, Mr. Hearst kept blithely adding on to his castle, like a kid with a giant tub of legos. Surely he had an inkling that there was a depression going on. Every newspaper in the land was flown in to his private airstrip daily, and he read them all. Perhaps he rationalized that his endless building, demolishing, rebuilding and remodeling was keeping people employed. Poor Julia kept having to revise her blueprints to accomodate a 15th Spanish century ceiling recently ripped from its villa of origin, fit in a half dozen Roman columns bought at auction or add on two incongruous baroque church bell towers to the facade of the main house, aptly named "Casa Grande".
Over time, Hearst built three opulent guest villas, Casa del Sol, Casa del Monte and Casa del Mar. All the homes were furnished with art and antiques of the finest quality - greek and roman statuary, exquisite medieval paintings and sculptures, Persian carpets fit for a pasha, Egyptian deities, islamic tiles, rare books, chinese porcelains. Hearst bought his antiques by the roomful and why not? He had lots of rooms to fill. And he was as extravagant about the grounds as he was about the houses, adding tennis courts, lavish indoor and outdoor pools, a landing strip and even a private zoo. (When we arrived in Cambria, we spotted some descendants of William Randolph's zebras, grazing by the side of the road.)
WR entertained in legendary style, with his long time mistress Marion Davies at his side. (Unless the guest was of the stature of a Winston Churchill or Calvin Coolidge, in which case Mrs. Hearst, who lead a separate life in New York city, flew out to play hostess while Marion Davies kept a low profile back in LA). On any given weekend, the guest list might include legends the likes of Greta Garbo, Charles Lindberg, Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, Howard Hughes, Irving Thalberg, Harpo Marx or George Bernard Shaw.
All this beau monde was encouraged to have a good time but there were rules. Hollywood types might be pressured for gossip for Mr. Hearst's papers, a subtle way of singing for your supper. There was no room service, and sleeping in was frowned upon. You had to go out and play, while Mr. Hearst stayed indoors and ran his empire. Guests were expected to attend breakfast, lunch and dinner in the main dining room. The food was plentiful and mediocre - Hearst did not know the difference as he covered everything in ketchup. After dinner, every one would retire to the state-of-the-art screening room and watch the latest films from Hearst's and other studios.
Liquor was available even during prohibition, but it was doled out in modest increments. The charming retirees who work as Hearst Castle tour guides depict this relative temperance as though Hearst were some kind of crusader for moderate drinking, but if you do a little digging, you find out that Marion Davies had an affinity for alcohol and Hearst wanted to keep her sober. In any event, at the Hearst table, the wine, as David Niven once quipped, flowed like glue. If you were caught with alcohol in your room, your bags were packed and put out on the front porch. This happened to screenwriter Herman J. Mankiewicz and he was permanently scratched off the guest list. As a result of this humiliation, Mankiewiz nursed a life-long grudge against Hearst and Marion Davies, eventually collaborating with Orson Welles to write Citzen Cane.
So there you have it, the Cambria weekend. Humans and elephant seals, living life as fully and abundantly as their species allows. Glittering soirees on the summit, bestial orgies on the beach.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Our dining room table
When my daughter was in high school, she coined the expression, "FWP." It's an acronym for "first world problem." These are the kinds of problems that would mystify a third world person. Problems like bad haircuts. Incompetent waiters. Cancelled yoga classes. Bones in the chilean sea bass. An FWP is the kind of nuisance you are almost two embarrassed to complain about in the face of Aids, Katrina, waterboarding, global warming, gender apartheid and whatever the heck is happening to poor Brittney. Unfortunately, as much as we wanted to help our daughter popularize "FWP", it never took outside of our immediate family.
My FWP is our dining room table.
Once upon a time before our children were even born, my husband and I shelled out for a round, antique Eastlake dining room table we could barely afford. Its top formed a perfect circle that could seat four or five. The table had a chunky, intricately carved pedestal base as thick as a medium-sized tree, and you could pull that base wide enough apart to accommodate four leaves and at least twelve diners.
Unless there was something addictive on TV, we ate at that table every night. My parents shared many a Sunday meal with us. Visiting family joined us for dinner - my sister and her husband and children, my grandmother, and my grandfather and mother in law who have both since passed away. On that table, I triumphantly served up elaborate Christmas dinners I had slaved over for days- turkey, osso bucco, cassoulet with home made duck confit. Covered with old newspapers, the table became a workspace on which to make a diorama of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria, a model of the Viet Nam war memorial or a paper mache mask. Children did, or pretended to do, their homework on it. That table was the setting for perfectly planned soirees and totally unexpected arguments. With the lights dimmed, it became center stage for candlelit birthday cakes that glowed brighter with each passing year. With all four leaves in place, it offered up a gargantuan spread for my daughter's high school graduation party. Over the years, we refinished the tabletop two or three times, but the inevitable scratch or glue stain only added to its character.
Then, we decided to move to a better school district. Our new place was a loft-like vertical urban town home with no real formal dining room. The designated eating area was long and narrow, and there wasn't room for a massive oak table. We were downsizing anyway, and putting our piano and some excess furniture up for auction. I told myself it was stupid to get attached to things, that the table would be too expensive to store, that I'd probably never use it again. I think I actually convinced myself that jettisoning my beloved table would be a character-building experience, sort of like painting over your self-portrait and starting again.
We went to a modern French furniture store and bought a long rectangular glass table for the long rectangular dining area. My sister, who used to have a glass table herself, warned me. You can't refinish scratches on a glass top, and your table cloth slides right off. You'll spend your time cleaning it and if you put your bread down for a second, it tastes like windex when you pick it back up. But the the table was chic and sleek and fit the space perfectly, and I promised my husband I'd be the designated table cleaner.
2007 turned out to be a tumultuous year for our family. We were in the town home for little more than a year before deciding to move to the Bay Area. The new glass table, it seemed, was an omen: its catalogue name is "Golden Gate" , like the bridge. And when moving time came, the darn thing was about as easy to take apart and move and put back together as its San Francisco name sake.
Now, the table stands in the middle of the rental house dining room. It's starting to wobble a bit and needs to be reassembled, which would require the assistance of two Olympic weightlifters. The glass top is getting a little scratched up because the dog likes to jump up on it when we're not paying attention. It's such a pain in the butt to clean, my husband uses two place mats when he eats to avoid spillage. Since the dining area opens onto the kitchen, new condensation stains form on the glass underside every time I boil water. And unlike the inclusive roundness of its predecessor, Golden Gate's long boardroom rectangularity never lets us forget that there's just two of us for dinner.
So there you have it. My FWP. It's still one sharp looking piece of modern design. And yes, we put plenty of good and occasionally well-prepared First World food on that table and the candles we light are for atmosphere, not necessity. I'm grateful for all that, but I still miss our old oak table. There was just so much history between us.
My FWP is our dining room table.
Once upon a time before our children were even born, my husband and I shelled out for a round, antique Eastlake dining room table we could barely afford. Its top formed a perfect circle that could seat four or five. The table had a chunky, intricately carved pedestal base as thick as a medium-sized tree, and you could pull that base wide enough apart to accommodate four leaves and at least twelve diners.
Unless there was something addictive on TV, we ate at that table every night. My parents shared many a Sunday meal with us. Visiting family joined us for dinner - my sister and her husband and children, my grandmother, and my grandfather and mother in law who have both since passed away. On that table, I triumphantly served up elaborate Christmas dinners I had slaved over for days- turkey, osso bucco, cassoulet with home made duck confit. Covered with old newspapers, the table became a workspace on which to make a diorama of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria, a model of the Viet Nam war memorial or a paper mache mask. Children did, or pretended to do, their homework on it. That table was the setting for perfectly planned soirees and totally unexpected arguments. With the lights dimmed, it became center stage for candlelit birthday cakes that glowed brighter with each passing year. With all four leaves in place, it offered up a gargantuan spread for my daughter's high school graduation party. Over the years, we refinished the tabletop two or three times, but the inevitable scratch or glue stain only added to its character.
Then, we decided to move to a better school district. Our new place was a loft-like vertical urban town home with no real formal dining room. The designated eating area was long and narrow, and there wasn't room for a massive oak table. We were downsizing anyway, and putting our piano and some excess furniture up for auction. I told myself it was stupid to get attached to things, that the table would be too expensive to store, that I'd probably never use it again. I think I actually convinced myself that jettisoning my beloved table would be a character-building experience, sort of like painting over your self-portrait and starting again.
We went to a modern French furniture store and bought a long rectangular glass table for the long rectangular dining area. My sister, who used to have a glass table herself, warned me. You can't refinish scratches on a glass top, and your table cloth slides right off. You'll spend your time cleaning it and if you put your bread down for a second, it tastes like windex when you pick it back up. But the the table was chic and sleek and fit the space perfectly, and I promised my husband I'd be the designated table cleaner.
2007 turned out to be a tumultuous year for our family. We were in the town home for little more than a year before deciding to move to the Bay Area. The new glass table, it seemed, was an omen: its catalogue name is "Golden Gate" , like the bridge. And when moving time came, the darn thing was about as easy to take apart and move and put back together as its San Francisco name sake.
Now, the table stands in the middle of the rental house dining room. It's starting to wobble a bit and needs to be reassembled, which would require the assistance of two Olympic weightlifters. The glass top is getting a little scratched up because the dog likes to jump up on it when we're not paying attention. It's such a pain in the butt to clean, my husband uses two place mats when he eats to avoid spillage. Since the dining area opens onto the kitchen, new condensation stains form on the glass underside every time I boil water. And unlike the inclusive roundness of its predecessor, Golden Gate's long boardroom rectangularity never lets us forget that there's just two of us for dinner.
So there you have it. My FWP. It's still one sharp looking piece of modern design. And yes, we put plenty of good and occasionally well-prepared First World food on that table and the candles we light are for atmosphere, not necessity. I'm grateful for all that, but I still miss our old oak table. There was just so much history between us.
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