The sky and its minions

Today I went for a short jog in Piedmont, the city entirely encompassed by Oakland. In the past, when I was a more steady runner, I had gone in my car and determined two, three, four and five mile roundtrip turning points. The sad thing is, so much time has elapsed that I don't remember the five mile point. Not that I'm ready for that anyway. I have to admit, I only went two miles. But I ran a blistering six-minute mile pace to make up for that.

Hint: somewhere in this post is an outright lie.

As I went, I looked up at the sky and was amazed how there was not a single cloud, and the sky was a uniform rich blue. No wispiness, no graduations of color... just a solid, deep cerulean (I'm not familiar with this color, but know it to be a fancy form of blue.)

I thought of that old childhood song, "Where seldom is heard a discouraging word, and the skies are not cloudy all day." When I was a kid, I did not see the attraction of the cloudless sky. I loved clouds (and still do), back when I'd lie on my grassy yard in Vermont and look up, watching the always-moving clouds, performing my own Rorschachian therapy.

But I have to hand it to the California sky: there is something impressive about seeing the sage-green leaves against that broad panel of blue. I always wish I could paint it when I see it like that.

Speaking of leaves, someone on that route has a full-grown holly tree. And as I lurched in my oxygen-deprived state, I kind of ran into it, with several spears digging into my forehead. Those are sharp leaves! I had to rewrite the Christmas carol:

O the holly and the ivy
When they are both full grown
Of all the trees within the forest
The holly kicks your ass

Music by the Lake

Just got back from walking around Lake Merritt. It rained on me; I put up my hood; the sun came out and dried us all up. Such are the moods of the lake.

[This is a stock archives photo of the lake, from a month or so ago]

As I walked, I listened to my mp3 player with the varied songlist (everything from Johnny Cash’s “I’ve Been Everywhere” to Gorillaz’ “Dare”). When the Bowie/Mercury song “Under Pressure” came on, I indulged in a little daydream about karaoking with David Bowie, singing all the Freddy Mercury parts. Of course, in this fantasy, David is so impressed that he insists we must go into the studio and record together.

My favorite musicians are:
1. David Bowie
2. Cake
3. The Pixies.

And here are my musings on those musicians.

Bowie: I first encountered him after a ninth grade lab partner Amy Carpenter made me a tape with Ziggy Stardust on one side and Duran Duran on the other. Soon I was a Bowieophile, trying to play his songs on my guitar (my guitar lessons had ceased after fifth grade when my instructor gave me a pedophilic vibe, but I still knew the major chords) and trying to find out everything about him. I would study his album covers over and over, trying to see if there was secret information I was missing.

In December 1989 (I think), I was in Ansbach, Germany with my then-boyfriend’s family. We learned David Bowie was performing in Stuttgart on the Sound + Vision tour, so we hopped a train and pulled into town to fulfill a dream. Our scalped ticket was so much money that we ran out of money for a hostel that night, and spent the entire night traversing Germany, sleeping on trains with our Interrail pass.

The concert? Freaking amazing. I loved the two-story projection screen, with the Gigantic David image reaching down to pluck at the tiny, real David on stage. It was spectacular, and since it was a greatest hits tour, it was the best thing possible for someone who had loved him so long.

I was distressed when he had his recent heart attack. My daydream (huh, it seems like I have a lot of Bowie daydreams, doesn’t it?) is that someday he will come stand on a little wooden platform in my backyard and perform for my birthday party. First, I need to get a backyard, and then I will think about approaching him.

My favorite songs: Sound + Vision (which I relate to as a writer), Rock and Roll Suicide,
Lady Stardust, Oh You Pretty Things (which I once ran a red light for, in high school, since I was so involved in listening to it. I only knew about this potentially-fatal mistake from all the cars honking after the fact), Drive In Saturday, Time, Fantastic Voyage, Ashes to Ashes, Boys Keep Swinging, John I’m Only Dancing, Life on Mars, Memory of a Free Festival (well, just the end part, where the orgasmic Sun Machine is Coming Down), Queen Bitch, Sweet Head, Velvet Goldmine, We are the Dead (if you’ve noticed the list suddenly got alphabetical, it’s because I consulted the excellent teenagewildlife website), and oh just scads of others.

I once read Bowie himself chose Suffragette City as either his favorite song or at least his favorite song to perform… I was surprised.

What I like most about Bowie is that he’s so emotional. So many times his voice cracks or he surges up into falsetto to say what has to be said (as in “Ain’t there one damn song that can make me… BREAK DOWN AND CRY?”). He’s always fervent, caught up in his own moment… entirely earnest. God love ya, Mr. Bowie.

2. Cake. Absolutely, without question, the best band to run the lake with. Meaning somehow their rhythms fit with my footfalls. They also tend to be our Road Trip accompanists since Alan loves them too. Alan once remarked that they sound as if they broke into their third grade music room and stole all the instruments: the Jew’s harp, the wooden block, the triangle…

I have not seen them live but thanks to watching a Direct TV Freeview concert, I was able to identify the lead singer walking around our very lake one day, and some of the other band members at the Parkway Theater and at some local club watching the Lovemakers.

What I like about them is their exuberance paired with their world-weariness. A nice paradoxical mixture. And some brilliant lyrics: my current favorite is from “Dime,” the first-person tell-all from a coin: “I am determined not to be dented/By a car or by a plane or anything not yet invented.”

My favorite songs: Pretty Pink Ribbon, Dime, Meanwhile Rick James, the very sardonic I Will Survive, She’ll Come Back to Me, Italian Leather Sofa, Sheep Go to Heaven, etc.

3. Pixies. What a solid rush of relief that they got back together. They’re an inspired band whose songs are unpredictable, taking left turns in the middle of the melody. It has not escaped my attention that my number one hero David Bowie chose to cover one of their songs, Debaser! The highs are high with this band, and the lows are misery-soaked as they should be.

I used to usher at the Warfield in San Francisco and got to see the Pixies twice in the ‘90s before their breakup, and then I saw them at the Greek Theater last year after they reunited (and it feels so good). I’ve also seen Frank solo at the tiny Star & Plough in Berkeley, the Breeders at Slim’s, the Martinis somewhere in SF, the Amps… wait, did I see the Amps? Actually, I think I saw the Amps at Slim’s and the Breeders never. They are all talented on their own or in different combinations, but they are ALL POWERFUL as the Pixies.

Favorite songs: UMass, Alec Eiffel, Debaser, Bone Machine (this one is my absolute favorite, actually), Tony’s Theme, Where Is My Mind (no, wait, THIS one is my absolute favorite), Here Comes Your Man, La La Love You, Is She Weird, the Happening, Motorway to Roswell.

And now it occurs to me I have spent a lot of time thinking about music, when really I should have been doing other things. I got waylaid.

Cross-country skiing

My friend Cinderella and I have a tradition of going into snow country on MLK Day. This year we went to the Alpha and Omega rest stop off Highway 20, whose portentous name made me think one or both of us would end up giving birth and/or dying. There we donned our hats and gloves and skis to enter the woods.

It was rough terrain that made me miss the groomed trails at Royal Gorge. The middle of the trail had fairly packed snow (pockmarked, however, from dogs' paws and snowshoes) that we skied on, but the sides of the trail that you use for poling were soft and VERY DEEP. Many times my pole sunk down, catching me off guard. The analogy would be: you're on crutches and every now and then one crutch is instantly shorter by 10 inches.

We skiied about eight miles. I confess I'm a little bruised and battered. At one point Cinderella and I were completely stopped, motionless, talking, NOT MOVING ONE WHIT, you understand... and I fell down.

As I lay there looking up at the sky I complained, "There was no reason for that to happen." Then while I clumsily stood up, the tree hovering over me unleashed seven heavy clods of snow upon me. Nature was evil today.

But there's something so amazingly invigorating about X-C skiing. My cheeks felt burned with all the good blood rushing through them... and our vista over the valley was worth all the trudging.

And trudge we did. We forded a running stream several times, skirted a fallen tree and broke trail at one point (well, I broke it to the vanishing point and then we returned back to the trail. We were looking for better ground and we didn't at all mean to create a trail that others might follow, thinking it led somewhere good... although that might actually be funny). I remarked we were like Lewis and Clark, and Cinderella wittily revised us to "Louise and Clara."

And now, to return to the man whose abbreviated work on this planet we remember today, here is a passage of Dr. King's that I found on Stanford's website. He might possibly approve of our nature-seeking on his day:

"And it was at this time of year that I made it a practice to go out to the edge of the campus every afternoon for at least an hour to commune with nature. On the side of the campus ran a little tributary from the Delaware river. Every day I would sit on the edge of the campus by the side of the river and watch the beauties of nature. My friend, in this experience, I saw God. I saw him in birds of the air, the leaves of the tree, the movement of the rippling waves...."

Offbeat Xmas Part III: Father, Son and the Miner Ghosts

Rather than spending Christmas with the Ghost of Christmas Past, we spent it with the ghosts of dead miners. To wit, we hit a ghost town.

Our original destination had been Calico, California (destination being a loose term meaning “we saw a sign as we drove past and resolved to return”), but after some advice given to us on Christmas night (see the Unhappy Hellidays post), we decided to bag Calico, which had been described as Disneyized, and instead head to Goldfield, Nevada, a REAL ghost town.

Our Delusional Adviser described the riches of Goldfield with such vigor that I grabbed a scrap of paper to make notes (and hence have evidence now of the pure delusion of his advice). Goldfield, he said, was a boom town that had been abandoned and there were lots of buildings still around, included a haunted hotel that, if you talked to the guys at the saloon across the street, they might let you into. Moreover, Goldfield had just received its state historic designation a few weeks ago, so I thought, “Hm…. freelance story?”

I was in ecstasy. And since our Delusional Adviser told us Goldfield was only a few hours north of Las Vegas and that Reno was only a couple hours north of Goldfield, we decided to reroute our trip home to Oakland through Reno. This means that rather than going back through California, we would head north through Nevada, and then take a left turn at Reno to cut through the mountains. Sounds easy, right?

We arrived in Goldfield.

Now, to me, the main characteristic a ghost town must have is that it be abandoned. That only the GHOSTS live there, right? Hence the name?

Well, Goldfield has some live residents living there with real homes intermingled with the abandoned shacks. In fact, a cursory examination would say half the homes were being lived in, half not, and my friend Tamim said later, “That’s not a ghost town. That’s Flint, Michigan.” According to Webster’s 9th, a ghost town is “wholly or nearly deserted,” so I think my disappointment is valid.

The other criteria I have for ghost town, and I admit I’m wrong on this one (but can’t prevent my tender feelings nonetheless), is that it be from the 1800s. I need the wooden saloon with one of its doors hanging half-cocked blowing in the wind, and a moldering brothel. But Goldfield wasn’t established until 1902 and was “abandoned” around 1912, a little late for my taste. Instead of wood, we had brick.

We walked around Goldfield, trying to figure out what in this salvage yard was what. Everyone seems to have rusted metal objects on their lawns (side note. I just turned to ask Alan what kinds of things they had in their yards, and his nonjudgmental response was, “I can’t believe how many times you want to revisit how messy Goldfield was. Let people have whatever they want in their yards!”)

I am not the most fastidious housekeeper, but I do like things tidy. I would not randomly cast things aside in my yard to see how the weather treats them. I would not want it necessary to plan a tactical assault while walking through one’s yard, to avoid getting gashed by sharp, tetanus-ridden objets d’art. I had a brainstorm that I could come to Goldfield and offer an all-day conference on How to Get Organized.

In retrospect, I think that this messiness was a way of helping ease the eye’s transition from “1912 abandoned shack” to “home sweet home.”

Anyway, we went to the courthouse to see if we could get some help. There, we were “assisted” by a sheriff who did not want to offer information about Goldfield but instead wanted to talk about how a romance novel lists his name in the acknowledgments section. I nodded and smiled and very much appreciated looking at that acknowledgments page, meanwhile trying to crane around him to listen to the woman behind him. I heard her utter some tantalizing information about ghosts she could hear upstairs in the courthouse sometimes. I was impeccably polite but also trying to steer my sheriff with direct questions about the town. Finally, I had to give up and assume that Alan would remember everything the woman was telling him.

When I overheard her say there was a pamphlet outside with a walking tour of Goldfield, we used that as our exit. The light was fading and we wanted to take photographs for that hypothetical article I might write. We stepped outside and rifled through all their pamphlets – not a one about Goldfield. Shit. But I was damned if I was going to go back inside that office and risk more Harlequin talk. So we just wandered around, took some photos.

The haunted hotel did look kind of cool through the windows, but still too modern for the ghost town experience. And of course the saloon across the street had no one in it, with key or without.

I must make the confession that later when we returned home and googled Goldfield, we learned it had a pretty damn cool history. Wyatt Earp lived here after his O.K. Corral gunfight, and there was apparently a bar so long it took 80 bartenders to serve everyone… but we knew none of this. Our experience was underwhelming. Here’s a picture of me giving a thumbs down (my black glove blends against the background). Did I mention it was freezing cold there, too?

So, we continued on to Reno. Delusional Adviser had told us to beware the speeding traps in these small communities, so I was vigilant during the parts I drove. I quickly decelerated from 70 to 50 to 40 to 30 in the three seconds they give you to do so in each of these little towns.

However.

We got behind a swerving black sedan whose driver was clearly drunk. I slowed down and watched their lurching progress. Finally, they turned off onto another road and I accelerated back to the 40 mph which was the last sign I’d seen. Apparently, Drunky had distracted me so much I missed the 30 mph sign – and sure enough, I got a ticket.

Alan’s been in P.A. school and little paperworky things have been somewhat ignored. Things like making sure you have current insurance and registration in your car (I hasten to say both WERE current, but the proof was simply not in the car.) Adding to my $117 speeding ticket was $700-something for the proof of insurance. Our peace officer said “nine times out of ten,” when you show the court proof of insurance, that part will be dismissed. Well, great. Given my luck, I’ll be part of that ten percent solution.

The officer asked me my profession and I replied, “Instructor.” Later, I looked at the ticket and he had written “Constructor.” I don’t know if he thinks I helped build the Wynn or if I’m still active with my Legos, but I had to laugh. Snort, really.

We continued on, pissed. Since Delusional Adviser had been ludicrously off on his distances, we ended up having to stay in Reno instead of continuing on to Oakland, giving us the extra expense of another hotel night. Then the next day we were in scary Sierra weather going through Donner Pass (yes, exactly, where the wagon train people were stranded and had to eat each other).

Here’s the highlights of that portion of the trip.

We saw a sign that says chains are required even for cars with 4-wheel drive. In the past, we’ve always gone through the pass just with 4-wheel drive. I asked Alan if the chains were in the car, and he astutely replied, “Gosh, I didn’t think I’d need chains driving down California to the Nevada desert.” Thanks, Delusional Adviser!

So we sweated bullets thinking we were going to have to pay the $40 to have someone rent you chains, and then the $20 to remove them four miles down the road, but thankfully we were waved through. We passed the dozens of cars pulling off to put on their chains… and now we were like one of three people on the road. It was really scary. We began to wonder whether being waved through was a good thing or not! We were on ice and at one point when Alan tested his brakes we fishtailed. It was pretty harrowing.

Then all of a sudden all the Chain People began catching up, as well as other 4-Wheel Drives going recklessly fast thinking their tires were, I don’t know, magical. We passed no fewer than three serious accidents by the side of the road. It was like the scene in The Shining when Mr. Halloran is trying to rush back to the Overlook.

One accident – well, we think the driver is either dead or in a wheelchair. It was a pickup truck upside down, facing the wrong direction, the cab completely smushed in. There wasn’t really room for a person there anymore. And the cover for the truckbed had been sheared off. His/her personal belongings were strewn across the snow (passenger was already in ambulance somewhere). The sobering thing is that there was no other car there (besides the cop car). So, this driver got himself in a whole mess of trouble all by himself. Meaning he must have been speeding like a m-f-er. I just got so sad thinking, “Here’s someone who went up to Tahoe for a fun ski weekend and he’s just driving a little too fast on the way home… and it’s all over.”

Traffic was going 10 mph in major portions, including when I took this picture. We were just steaming over Delusional Adviser, thinking “We would have been home yesterday if not for him.” After two hours of white-knuckle driving, we emerged out of the pass and continued on home.

Where Alan discovered he’d missed a credit card payment by one day, with the slap-ding of $35.

So, to recap:

1. Delusional Adviser said Goldfield is a “couple hours” north of Las Vegas. It’s three. D.A. said Reno is a “couple hours” from Goldfield. It’s four. A reputedly four-hour trip turned out to be seven hours.

2. Due to the underestimation of travel time, we had to spend the night in Reno. $84 dollars extra.

3. I got a speeding ticket. $839.

4. Harrowing trip through Donner Pass. Threatened expense of chain rental.

5. Alan’s late fee. $35.

6. Goldfield is not as exciting as it could’ve been. In spite of its purported Disney qualities, Calico might’ve been a better bet. And since it’s unlikely we will ever drive to Las Vegas again, I will probably never get to see Calico.

Emotional toll: heavy
Financial toll: $958

Not to mention the gas costs associated with the extra hours in the car.

My advice: do not listen to advice.

Offbeat Xmas Part II: Stigmata in the Elbow

Yes, we all understand Christmas to be a time of blood-letting. Alan took it seriously this year. So did Penn and Teller, who, through the 13 Bloody Days of Christmas, let you have free tickets to see their Las Vegas show if you donate blood.

We had decided we needed to splurge this time and see a show (rather than just that free noontime Elvis impersonation show at the now-defunct Westward Ho, both of which rocked), and “splurging” for some means the course of blood through a vacuum-assisted line, rather than the opening of a wallet.

We drove out to the suburbs (yes, there is a Las Vegas Walmart) and checked into a clinic where the other six people ahead of Alan on the sign-up sheet were also there for Penn and Teller tix.

Alan was doing great, despite his needle thing… up until the phlebotomist said, “Uh oh.” And then started calling out, “I need some help over here!” Alan started dizzying, and they had to throw some cold packs on him and dip his chair so his feet were above his head. I stood there and tried to assure him his lifeblood wasn’t being drained out of him… although of course it was.

The problem was a little bit of decaf he’d drunk that morning: did you know caffeine makes your veins seize up and close down? Scary to think.

Alan, who is a P.A. student, wanted me to say that the “elbow” in this post’s heading should really say, “antecubital.”

Anyway, this cool underage phlebotomist joked him out of his anxiety and we liked her and the other phlebotomist so much we just had to get their photographs with him. They said we can return in March and give blood for Le Reve tickets!

Fast forward a few hours…

We are in the Penn and Teller Theater in Rio, and we have been invited up on stage along with everybody for box viewing. This is an opportunity to put your hands all over one of those disappearing boxes and check for the false bottom… here’s Alan checking.

Hint: if you go, check out the bass player who accompanies the box viewing. He’s not just any musician…

The show was just incredible, worth every penny--- uh, every drop, I guess. Those guys are brilliant. Here’s a picture of me in the audience before the show starts, ready for all the spicy magic.

Afterwards, Alan told Penn in the lobby that he liked his NPR piece, which Penn responded had been important to him. I showed Penn, in the viewer of my digital camera, the image of Alan flat on the phlebotomist’s chair so we could see the show, and he laughed.

Next time: the ghost town of Goldfield

Offbeat Xmas Part I: “Unhappy Hellidays”

Alan and I drove from Oakland to Las Vegas (8.5 hours) in the hopes of finding a Christmas that matched our moods this year. 

Our first choice was the ghost town Bodie, but it sits off the highway on a 10-mile dirt road that is ostensibly covered in deep snow, so we changed our destination to Portland, Oregon. Then we got the weather reports that Portland was just as deluged with rain as we were, so we decided to hit our old friend Las Vegas.

We had a pretty noneventful ride down the length of California. Near Barstow, I saw a sign for a ghost town called Calico, which got me in a frenzy of excitement. I could get my ghost town after all! Alan promised we’d hit it on the way back [insert ominous oboe sounds….]

We arrived in Vegas just after midnight on the 24th, which means we checked into our nondescript, non-strip, non-casino hotel on Christmas Day itself. 

Christmas Day included some random gambling (craps being our game), looking forward to that evening for the first event that would mark this as an Offbeat Christmas. : the Unhappy Hellidays exhibit at MTZC. MTZC is an art gallery that advertises “No wine, cheese or children.” Here’s the description that attracted us:

"Unhappy Hellidays" (First Friday 12/2/05 - 1/2/06) - Not everyone embraces the Hallmark spin on this time of year. MTZC's disturbing December exhibit is a group show that allows no fewer than 23 artists (each with their own coal-filled sweat-sock nailed to the mantle) to explore the depths of cynicism & misery some people experience during this month with the highest suicide rates. FREE

We enjoyed such pieces as the Last Bath, a photograph showing a woman’s legs in a bath of blood, and the row of yucky sweat socks nailed to the mantel. When we arrived, one of the socks had already been filled by Santa, with a flyer illustrating sexual acts. Cybele, the co-artist of this latter piece with Mark T. Zeilman, is shown here in front of it in her holiday evening gown. 

Get ready for the Oakland connection: Cybele used to live in Adam’s Point! I can’t explain her terrible oversight in choosing to leave Oakland, but she was wonderful and it was great to talk to her.

We also really liked a piece by Lorraine Leslie, pictured at the top of the post. A Dia De Los Muertos-esque Santa pulls a sobbing, terrified little girl onto his lap. The painting is framed with a “candy cane” that is smeared with blood. Lorraine was there too, and she wore a t-shirt that read, “Waste your life. Be an artist.”

Also present was Michael Kruis, who owns the gallery next door, and Brian Paco Alvarez. We had a great time with these guys and their eggnog; it was the perfect way to spend this particular Christmas evening. Here’s a picture of, from left, Cybele, Michael, Brian doing an Imitation of Christ, Lorraine and Alan.

We were so glad we went to this showing. For all the times we’ve gone to Las Vegas, this was the first time we ever connected with real people (other than the dealers’ perennial “Where you folks from?”) who actually live real lives there.

It was also the night we got some terrible, terrible advice [oboes sound again].

Next time: Alan gives blood in Las Vegas.

. . . . .

White Coat

Well, I had been wondering how to transition in this blog from the utter sadness of losing Debi to more mundane topics. But what has arisen is another big moment in my life: watching my partner Alan graduate from the academic portion of his P.A. program to the clinical rotations segment.

To mark this transition, the school holds a White Coat Ceremony where the students actually receive their white coats for the first time. Over the last year and a half, I have watched Alan work harder than I have EVER SEEN ANYONE WORK IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

My heart was full to bursting to think of him successfully negotiating this insanely hard program… and doing it with a great GPA and earning the support of everyone around him. His classmates voted him the class speaker, and sitting in the audience with his parents watching him deliver this speech was so moving that I had to bite my fist and control the little rags of breath that were threatening to push me over into full-bore sobbing. (As it was, I wept very discreetly and in the photograph here of me with him—in his coat!—and his parents, my mascara hadn’t run… and it wasn’t even waterproof! A miracle.) 

His speech was perfect: laugh-out-loud funny, surprising, and of course with a thoughtful message and all the poignancy that such a situation demands. As a writer, I loved it that part of his “thoughtful” part was about the power of words… how someone in the medical field can build up or destroy someone with just a few words. Patients lay their hearts in their hands and present them up to their health care providers, hoping that the news back will be something they can handle. 

Another main theme was how everyone around the students wants them to succeed, and he told an anecdote about volunteering at a diabetes screening in the Fruitvale neighborhood where people gladly offered up their fingers for clumsy and multiple stabbings, knowing that they were helping PA students learn how to do it. 

Man, was that ever an impressive speech, and of course peppered with Alanisms that made everyone laugh (I saw one guy half-rise out of his chair and bury his head in his neighbor’s shoulder, he was laughing so hard). And afterwards, he got a huge and extended standing ovation. 

As many people told him, and I wholeheartedly agree, that was the best speech they’d ever seen. He was just so real, as one person said. In fact, one of his jokes was to mock the speechiness people usually deliver. Leaning into the mic, he lowered his voice and talked about how we are leaving behind the past (pointing behind him with his finger), and moving into the future (again, gesturing) and that this was the “equinox of our education.” (Alan said he was really proud of this equinox line and originally intended to use it seriously, but at 2 a.m. in the café the night before graduation while he was pounding out the speech on his laptop, he realized how ridiculous it was.) 

I have never felt so proud of someone that it actually felt painful. I wonder what it feels like to be a parent and watch those graduations. Someday I’ll need a big prescription of Valium – and I know just the person to prescribe it!

. . . . .

Debi's infectious grin

Here's a better photo of Debi, showing her in the grip of her seismic grin. This is what ran in the Chronicle and is in the front window of the bookstore.

Unexpected goodbye

Here’s a post I never, ever expected to make: my dear friend Debi Echlin has died unexpectedly.

I first met Debi in 2000 or 2001. She was doing the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk, and I met with her to interview her for a Montclarion story. I went on a hike with her and her dog Molly—and soon enough we were hopelessly lost. I didn’t mind a bit: the conversation was wonderful, Debi was incredible, and it was a great excuse not to go back to the office. After finally plummaging through the woods, we found a trail that finally led us back to the car, rueful and laughing. We had a meeting of the minds that day and became fast friends.

Debi was the owner of Second Edition at the time, a new and used bookstore. Later, she bought out her two partners and changed the format of the store to stock only new books, changing the name to A Great Good Place for Books. The name apparently harks to a book that provides a model for “great good” meeting places for community—something Debi took seriously with her store. It wasn’t just a bookstore; it was a place for people to come together. It’s no surprise that the store launched and supports dozen of book clubs. 

When my Oakland Hills book came out, Debi staunchly supported me, giving the book prime placement in the store, on the front left corner of the table as you first enter. It was also on the cashier’s counter. What an amazing, supportive friend she was.

I confided in Debi things that many of my friends don’t know. As a mentoring, loving personality, with wisdom and depth from years of being on this planet as a good person, Debi encouraged my confidences and in turn shared with me some of her battles and hopes. I loved her and can’t believe she’s gone, so irreparably taken from us. And when I say us, I mean myself in my own selfish craving for my sweet, fiery-haired friend again, and us: Montclair, Oakland, the community, the booklovers. 

I wish I had the chance to take just one more hike with her. I had been thinking of calling her for just that purpose earlier on the day I got the news. And we had talked of going to Ireland in the new year together: a gift of her time I will never get to enjoy. How great to have one last ramble over the hills with her, with Molly jingling away in her dog collar. I miss you, Debi.

Off to wine country

Ah, Napa. The place where I (hopefully convincingly) detect tobacco or chocolate in my wine, where I swirl the glass and look at the “legs,” and where I stick my schnozz down deep into a glass and pretend that when I inhale with gusto I know what I’m smelling for. The first time I ever went tasting was with my friend Amanda, years ago, who was the bartending instructor at the New England Culinary Institute: she hipped me to all the nuances but I’ve since forgotten.

I can say, however, that this here discriminating palate can instantly tell a Bud Lite from a Sam Adams.

I hit Napa this last Friday with Daron and Edgar who were visiting from Denver (last seen on this blog in their Halloween costumes). I couldn’t believe how pretty Napa is in autumn, because the grape vines turn color just as if they were maple trees in Vermont! The whole landscape was reddish, ochre, golden… I was in love.

Despite a well-meant turn off the beaten path that rendered 2/3 of the carload nauseous, we had a great time hopping from winery to winery. Napa is a lot less crowded this time of year. We hit V. Sattui (one of my favorites for the deli and picnic grounds), St. Francis (didn’t actually taste here; walking off the carsickness), Ravenswood (one of my favorites for its gorgeous logo), Schug (the name intrigued), Sebastiani (can’t come up with another parenthetical that has nothing to do with wine), and tried to hit Christian Brothers, but apparently the brothers lost the faith; there’s a culinary school there now. Alas we didn’t go to Hess, where I love to visit the art gallery with the on-fire typewriter (have you noticed that I choose wineries with focuses other than on wine? I’m like the people who go to Las Vegas and never gamble).

I do like wine; in fact, there have been several choice times in the last few months where a big glass of Cabernet Sauvignon was like the nectar of the gods to me. And what a beautiful loll that produces….

Photo info:
top: view from St. Francis
next: Daron, left, and Edgar tasting at V. Sattui
left: Edgar pores over the wineries map before we leave
below: Statue of St. Francis at his titular winery. Although I'm not Catholic, I like this saint because the animals liked him.

Hairdresser malapropisms

I went for a cut and highlights this weekend with a woman who was utterly charming. Many amazing things came out of her mouth, and I silently made a point of memorizing two of them. First, she told me with a straight face that a particularly rough situation she’d been in was a Catch-20/20.

Later, she told me that someone’s child’s autism could possibly be traced to the fact that “she took a fertilizer” while pregnant. While I initially thought a toxic manure pile was to blame, I later figured out she meant “fertility drug.”

And now I have blonde streaks in my hair.

Best Oakland graffiti

Now then!
I am intrigued by this cryptic diagram overseeing a vacant lot near the West Oakland BART station. Who or what are the Butt People?

I was in West Oakland trying to photograph the BART train as it sped by on the elevated trackway. I can't now remember why I was trying to do such a thing. I was pretty intent on doing it, remember climbing on top of my car to get a different angle. But as the BART crashed by (surprisingly often, given how long I have to wait for a train at MacArthur station), the protective side railings of the track prevented a good photo. No matter. The Butt Person rescued the failed mission.

Halloween continued

Several states away from our Halloween party, Daron and Edgar got dressed up for theirs… That’s Daron’s incredible, incisive rendering of Lynndie England, and Edgar as the tortured. (On a light note, he has great gams.) This is a pretty damn cool conflation of two famous photographs: Lindy with lollipop/cigarette (and exactly this pose, albeit flipped 180 degrees) and the man on the stand believing he is hooked up to electrical wires. A great reminder of folly across the waters. As Daron said, “We couldn't think of a scary costume than to portray what our country has become with the current idiots running the show.”

Professionalism

I gave a lecture last night at the Oakmore Homes Association annual meeting, on the topic of Walter Leimert. This guy was a 1920s real estate man responsible for the settling of Lakeshore Highlands (Trestle Glen) and Oakmore, among other things. He was a very colorful character, playing practical jokes (sometimes not very nice ones) on people, like preventing his brother from watching the last five minutes of a very heated Superbowl game that he had money riding on (he did this in his 90s, in case you’re wondering how 1920s people had televisions.)

I had a great time. The Oakmore folks are really nice. I’m often in Oakmore since it’s a quick walk across the Leimert bridge for me. And now I can call myself a Professional Lecturer since they paid me an honorarium. Thanks, guys!

I’m also a Professional Artist because at a yard sale once a guy paid $1 for something I made. (I always want to be an artist, but somehow it never pans out.) This piece was made out of the cross that your Christmas tree is stapled to, if you should happen to buy one at Long’s Drugs. I took the tree off, discarded it (no, I’m kidding; I decorated it and decked the halls) and painted the cross. Then I attached little milagros to it with tiny carpet tacks. That’s it. That was my famous art piece that a guy paid $1 for, even with the big nails of the crossbar still sticking out the back!

I’m also a Professional Shoe Model. Long ago, a photographer friend was hired to do a shoot for Bitch magazine, and she in turn hired me and another woman to wear the funky, sexy shoes Bitch supplied. The photographer was, I think, not entirely familiar with the Bitch format, and she was staging the photos by doing things like putting rose blossoms by our feet. In one photo, I’m wearing argyle (!) socks and propping my legs up against a tile mosaic that shows men golfing. The other “model” and I kept trying to suggest more lurid, perhaps Bitchy poses—we would pseudo embrace, etc. We wanted to do things like have one of us place our high-heeled boots on the other’s shoulders while sitting facing each other, but instead we got more flowers. In a combined fit of boldness and shyness, I took off my shirt (no bra) –but kept my back turned towards the camera! This was in Lakeside Park, by the McElroy fountain, and I wonder what the joggers thought was happening. Anyway, Bitch magazine didn’t like the “sweet” feel of the photos and paid the photographer a kill fee. Bummer.

My very first job was cutting articles out of the newspaper (to go into subject files for the reporters’ reference), so I guess I’m a Professional Scissors Wielder. Alan was once in a focus group where he had to drink beer, so he’s a Professional Drinker. If anyone out there is possibly reading this blog – my one lead is my cousin’s girlfriend Lynette, although Mike Chorost said he looked at it once—what are you a professional at?

A morbid Martha Stewart

Since everyone is my family is really, really good at painting, quilting, basket-weaving, carving and/or cabinetry, and I am terrible at all those things, I have to make up my own sort of crafts. These fall under the loose category of Halloween Manufacturing.

The first craft to discuss is the Hands of Death that Lead You to the Door. Here's how I cooked it up. I saw that the Oriental Trading Company offered a dozen vinyl hands for like $6. In the photograph, the hands looked perfectly rounded and I assumed that they were full-on rubber hands. But rubber does not vinyl make, my friends. I learned that the bitter way. The hands, when they arrived (hilariously, in a clear plastic bag), were hollow. So, putting that Yankee ingenuity to use, I filled them with water and put them in the freezer. This actually added the nice element of the hands being ice-cold to the touch. I had also purchased a dozen orange glow sticks for the express purpose of inserting one into each hand's, uh, hand, so that when I lined them up, they would lead hapless trick-or-treaters right up our steep staircase and to the candy. And that's what happened!

The next craft is the Tombstones a la Home Depot. I had to buy an eight-foot by five-foot sheet of thick styrofoam. It was huge. I asked the Home Depot staff to cut it down just so I could fit it in my car. Their box cutters only allow 2 centimeters of knife to poke out; they're the equivalent of safety scissors with rounded edges. But we managed. At home I used a regular kitchen knife (I suppose it's dull now) to cut out tombstone shapes. Recommendation: do this outside, as lots of little styrofoam shrapnel is released during the cutting process. Then I spray-painted them gray. One interesting thing to note is that the force of the spray paint actually pushes in the styrofoam a bit, which gives the "stones" a weathered, time-beaten look. Then I used a thick black marker to write 1800s-y epitaphs on the tombstones. Finally, I used a screwdriver to make a hole in the bottom of the tombstone, which I pushed a short dowel into. The other end of the dowel drives down into the ground, so the tombstone can stand up in the yard. Be careful when pushing in the dowel because it wants to rip through the front of the tombstone (thicker styrofoam makes this less likely). I made three tombstones (see the really tall one in the very back, with the circular headpiece?) out of half of this sheet; I will make three more next year. The other two were from last year, when somehow I was able to buy a smaller sheet. Those colorful skeleton figures are from a Day of the Dead celebration several years ago: Alan made the one on the left and I made the one on the right.

We had a Halloween party on the 29th. I rented an 1800s costume from a costume store, and Alan was a cow. We had a costume contest and awarded these very cool trophies. The tall one was for first place, which was won by the woman dressed as Frida Kahlo. (Her name is Tamsen and she is named for Tamsen Donner of the Donner Party! How could she not win?!). The second prize of the Dog Buddha was won by a couple dressed as Shrek and his wife.

Neighborhood proofs

Today I looked at the printer's proofs for the Oakland Neighborhoods book and OK'd them. Pretty fascinating to hold a mock-up of a book in your hands. The proofs I got from Arcadia for the previous book were not bound like these were. It makes a cool psychological difference!

It looks like I will have the shipment of books in time for the Nov. 19 launch party. There was a little nail-chewing on this timing aspect, but I asked the printer to Fed-Ex three copies when the book is ready (the rest will arrive by truck), so that if worse came to worse, I'd at least have a few copies to pass around.

Now it looks like I'll have 1,003 copies to pass around.

Being Loudy

I've been thinking all Frenchish lately. Besides remembering the modified "C'est la vie" of my old French teacher, I was last night trying to tell someone that my favorite vegetable was haricots verts (sp?) because they are so darn skinny and crunchy. (His favorite was broccoli.) My third French link in as many days was remembering something that happened to Alan and I in August. We were trying to get Coke out of a machine and wouldn't you know it, we fumble a coin and it rolls under the machine.

Now, in the U.S. when you drop a coin it's at most a quarter and oh well. In France, it was a 2-Euro coin, basically $2.50, so we were on our hands and knees trying to fetch it. It was too far back to reach, so we stood back up and Alan started trying to move the Coke machine. I wasn't aware that we were causing any kind of commotion (we were alone in a hallway of a shallow mall outside the train station at Versailles), but all of a sudden this guy comes out into the hallway from one of the shops and demands to know what we are doing.

"We dropped money," is what I tried to say, but I didn't remember the verb for "dropping" and instead used the verb for "falling." (In retrospect--this very minute, in fact -- I'm thinking that the verb is laisser tomber, to let fall. So I maybe wasn't that far off. Oui?)

So, the employee's eyes widen and he is asking me, "You fell?" He is worried about Le Litigation. "No, no," I say. "The money." It takes a while to sort out, but finally he understands.

He looks at us both and says in English, "And this gives you the right to be so loudy?"

It's clear we are being scolded, but it's pretty hard not to laugh. I hastily apologize (always scared of being the Ugly American) and he helps move the machine. We get our 2-Euro back and there's another one under there as well, so he is rewarded for his trouble.

Alan and I have both tried to assign the nickname Loudy to each other, but it just isn't sticking. Maybe because although we are Americans with all the boisterous crudeness the world expects of us, deep at heart we are really actually quiety.

A writers' community

I belong to the San Francisco Writers Workshop, a writers group that has been in existence since the 1940s with circulating membership. Currently, our leader is Tamim Ansary, author of West of Kabul, East of New York.

I love our group. Since writing is such a solitary activity, it’s great to get together with a bunch of people on a weekly basis and share our heartaches/successes/slog tales. It’s also good to get some feedback on a work in progress from serious writers.

Our group has spawned some well-known writers, like Tamim; Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner; Joe Quirk, author of The Ultimate Rush and a forthcoming book on evolutionary biology vis a vis the genders; Michael Chorost, author of Rebuilt; and Maria Strom, author of Rainbow Joe and Me.

There’s also been a spate of debut novelists getting publishing contracts. Kemble Scott’s book SoMa will be published by Kensington (I just read it and it’s a page-turner); Melodie Bowsher’s book The Embezzler’s Child will come out from Bloomsbury; and my novel tentatively titled A Woman of Ill Fame will be published by Heyday.

Our group has many, many talented writers, including Gary Turchin, and I know their turn is coming up next if there’s any justice in the world.

A note on the post titled “Please Excuse Prior Post”—that post was apologizing for a test post that appeared with the enigmatic text of simply “bbb.” While I had deleted the post, it simply wasn’t disappearing, so I decided to let it lay and address it… when of course, it then decided to disappear. Ah well. C’est la vie. Or as my high school French teacher used to say so astutely, “C’est la vie, c’est la guerre; ce n’est pas une pomme de terre” (That’s life, that’s war; it’s not a potato.)

Excuse the prior post

"BBB" isn't really meaningful except to slobbering infants testing out sounds. That arose out of my frustration at crafting a really long, heartfelt post called "Would-Be Squirrel Rescue" about my attempts to shepherd a squirrel out of the road, only to hit "publish post" and have it disappear. Agh! So I did a test post (the BBB) which I now cannot delete because it oddly does not show up in my dashboard, though it does show up on the live blog. Whatever. I continue.

About the squirrel: turns out he was already dead, even though the breeze of passing cars made his fluffy tail stand up and waggle as if he were tormented, which is what made me do the U-turn and come to his aid. With my windshield sun screen, I pushed his rigor-mortised body out of the road, thinking it was the least I could do. As we approached the grassy median, his body jammed into the curb and no amount of maneuvering could get him up that slope, so I used my index finger and thumb of my left hand to grab his little back paw (where I thought fleas and rabidity were least likely to reside) and swoop him up to the median. I used that same hand to do the father-son-holy spirit thing you see the pope do, said "take care" to him, and got back into my car, studiously avoiding use of my left hand. I unrolled the window (right hand) and dangled my left arm out, driving fast enough that I hope the breeze would blow the germs right off!

In my original post, I talked a lot about my former animal rescues (most notably, a pigeon with a broken wing -- I saw the car that hit it or vice versa is more accurate-- that I held in my arms, fighting my own tears and its writhing while I begged the 7-11 clerk to call my friend and come get me. My friend did, we went to the bird rescue place and supposedly the pigeon is today flying with a healthy wing!) and how I have a certificate on my wall about my bravery in showing a skunk how to safely exit our basement.... oh well. My heart bleeds for my animal friends, and that was the gist of it.

The Oakland Heritage Alliance house tour was today, and it was great. Nothing so wonderfully lurid as walking through people's houses in a publically-endorsed event! It's funny to see the houses all carefully staged... and then you see in the Craftsman-tiled shower that they are using Head and Shoulders dandruff shampoo. Or they leave up their family photos so you study the faces and wonder where they all are right now... at a cafe while strangers wander through their house? It was all for a good cause, to raise money for OHA.

And now I am off to read the rest of my friend Scott's cool novel Soma, which will be published next year by Kensington.

Historic history

I'm working right now (deadline breathing down my neck, so of course I decide to blog instead) on an update to Beth Bagwell's wonderful Oakland history book Oakland, Story of a City. This reference book is the be-all, end-all of Oakland history.

But it was written in 1982 and since then we've had a big earthquake, a firestorm, a Strong Mayor initiative, a dot-com rise and crash, etc. etc. My job is to update the book for the last 20 years. Right up my alley: I love Oakland, and I love history.

Right?

Ostensibly, yes. But I'm finding I have a real bias for old history. Historic history. What happened here in the 1970s is perhaps a little less compelling. Give me streetcars and ostrich-plumed hats and I'm in ecstasy. Give me Broadway Auto Row and I'm working rather than playing. But I can't complain. I'm honored that I was asked to do the update, and it is compelling to learn about Oakland's more recent history. I moved here in 1991 -- just in time for the firestorm--and so there's a lot I don't know.

For instance, during some research yesterday I came across these cool pictures of our City Hall just after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. The quake battered City Hall so badly that there was talk of tearing down the gorgeous 1912 structure, which was the first City Hall in the U.S. to be built as a skyscraper. Preservationists fought to save the building, and today it rests on seismic pads in the basement, which will move around and allow it to sway like a winsome girl in a daisy field next time the Big One hits.

Anyway, Bagwell's book is currently out of print -- the Oakland Heritage Alliance sold out of its print run. Which is good news, because it shows that Oaklanders love their history and will buy this book, and because as soon as the update I'm working on is ready, we can start fresh with a new print run with a new cover. (While I love the book, the cover could use a new design.)

Oakland Heritage Alliance is a very cool group that we can thank for many wonderful things still being around. It's not just a nostalgic, let's-love-the-past group; the members actively push for preservation--ironically, by attending City Council meetings in the City Hall they once saved!