Orchids and Onions

We Were There

2012-02-07T15:39:00.000-08:00

It was the Spring of 1986 and I was fifteen years old. My father's favorite brother and our favorite uncle, Gerry, had come over for what would turn out to be his final visit. I don't remember being told in advance how his illness would make him look. I don't think I remember being told how he'd become ill. 'His immune system is under attack, it's compromised.' Okay. So what did that mean? What that meant was that a previously healthy, tall, trim man of 43 years had been reduced to a frail, gaunt, and very sickly figure who was not at all the uncle who had previously been able to pick me up and carry me in his arms when I was still in single digits. He walked with the aid of a cane. He wore a knit cap and pea coat in warm weather. He couldn't even eat the meager piece of bread draped with sandwich meat that was to be his lunch.

Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor Moscone had been murdered. The 70s were long gone. I was a teenager living in Pacifica, CA., not 20 miles south of San Francisco. It could have been miles and years away from what was happening with such ferocity to people I knew and loved living up in the City. Uncle Gerry was sick; 'Uncle' Ric was, somehow, not. Gerry and Ric had met in SF back in '67 while Gerry was still married. They had quietly begun a relationship. Eventually, Gerry's marriage broke-up and Ric and Gerry then lived together as an out, gay couple from that point on. Theirs was a great love that lasted until Gerry's death in '86. Ric drifted away from the family after that. My cousin and I would occasionally bump into Ric in the City throughout the 90s. We had asked him why he'd stayed away after Gerry's death. He said that he couldn't face the family because it hurt too much. I was always so glad to run into him. He didn't seem to want to remember and I didn't want to forget.

I know that Dad and my siblings went to the City to have a final visit with Gerry as his time became short. I don't know where I was or why I wasn't included in the visit. I wish I could have given him one more hug. Uncle Gerry died before the year was out. He opted not to go into hospital and instead stayed in the apartment he and Ric shared on Fulton Street, choosing to die at home with his partner by his side.

I have a vague memory of, perhaps, returning from having gone out to dinner with Dad. It was dark out and he'd opted to not turn the kitchen light on once we'd gotten inside the house. He needed to tell me something. We stood in the darkened kitchen and he told me that Gerry had died. Then Dad began to cry. It was a pinched, pained sobbing that made me feel both startled and sad. We stood there in the dark for what felt like a long time.

Last night I happened upon a documentary entitled, 'We Were Here' on BBC 4 chronicling the AIDS epidemic as it hit San Francisco in the early 80s experienced by five people who lived through it. They were the fighters, lovers, carers, healthcare professionals and friends of those who died. I'm so very grateful that director David Weissman decided to take on this project. His interview subjects were a window into what it was like to live through something so devastating. Their clear, thoughful, and, at times, emotional discussion of local life during the height of the crisis is both illuminating and invaluable to me. It's been thirty-one years since the epidemic began and and twenty-five years since Uncle Gerry horribly and painfully died of 'AIDS-related complications'. They were there and, thankfully, lived to tell about it.

Kitchenaid Kaper

2012-01-28T11:28:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday this week I received a call at work from a man claiming he was calling from Scotland and wanting to purchase some Kitchenaid mixers for family living locally. He knew exactly what he wanted; he quoted colour and price correctly. I told him that we'd have to order these items as they were not in stock and that I'd call our supplier to see both if they themselves had them in house and how many days it may take to have the mixers be delivered.

nine hundred ninety-eight pounds

What I actually did was to call my boss and confer with her whether she thought this transaction were on the level. I thought that the whole thing smelled of fraud and really didn't want to have anything to do with 'Jay' and his mixer mission. I also envisioned somehow being tagged as an accomplice and having my visa revoked. If I were going to be kicked out of the UK, then I'd certainly want it to be for something a bit more racy than wonky Kitchenaid mixer purchases.

My boss, too, felt like something wasn't right, but bade me to continue on with the transaction. That meant taking payment for the items via telephone. Apparently, performing credit card transactions over the phone here aren't that uncommon and we accept payment at work this way on a regular basis. I find it strange not to see the person, and, more importantly, not to be able to verify that the person using the charge card is the actual card holder. I know that this a 'chip and pin' society, and that, really, if you don't have the pin associated with the card, then you may as well be holding a cheap piece of plastic. However, if you're paying via phone, then you, magically and confusingly, don't need your pin at all. CC# and expiry date=sale. Nuckin' futz.

On Thursday I sent my boss a text asking her if she wouldn't want to phone the credit card company asking if they couldn't please contact the card holder in order to verify that the transaction was valid. I didn't hear back from her. In the afternoon I went by work to talk to her directly. She said that she'd call the cc company later that afternoon to ask if there were anything she'd need to 'look out for' with such a large purchase amount. With imaginary question marks over my head, I smiled at her, nodded and let the matter drop.


Charge it!

The transaction went through without a hitch. I packed up the order on Friday and someone--not the guy with whom I spoke because he was allegedly in Scotland--came shortly before closing time yesterday to collect it. It felt weird. I wondered where these mixers were headed. Their fate seemed as enigmatic as the sale.

Autumn Pudding

2012-01-19T12:01:00.000-08:00

After watching an episode of the those fat dudes who call themselves bikers, I was inspired to make a pudding. They, of course, made things look deceptively easy, so I (sort of) knew that I'd not really be able to create such a wondrous pud', but I was certainly willing to give it a go!

The dudes used fruit of the season: bramley apples, plums, blackberries, and pears. I, on the other hand, used the fruit found at my local supermarket: bramley apples, plums, raspberries, and blueberries.

Cooperative supermarket bounty.

Instead of following a recipe, I watched their show, absorbed (somewhat) what they'd said to do, and just frickin' went for it! This slap-dash method is probably why the fruit didn't yield as much juice as it should have thus leaving me with a pud' not quite coated in red goodness. Note the bits of too-much-white in the below image. Boo.


-unwrapping the pudding after 15 hours in the 'fridge.

Not only was I not able to coat all pieces of bread evenly with berry-fruit juice, but I, being an American, did not have a pudding basin in which to put this mess. Instead, I used a small, pyrex casserole dish.

Why does this pud' remind me of Stonehenge?

What this Autumn pudding lacked in charm it made up for in flavour. This was especially true when doused in double cream.

Come to mama!

Even the hubs who hates stuffing and claimed that he would most assuredly hate this pudding seemed to enjoy his slice.

I, of course, really enjoyed mine.

[Insert sounds of weasel slurping here.]

Here's the link to the actual recipe for those of you interested in doing things correctly: http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/autumn_pudding_30736

The Magic of Maupin

2012-01-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I finished reading Armistead Maupin's final installment in the 'Tales of The City' series entitled 'Mary Ann in Autumn'. It was amazing to catch up on the lives of the characters (plus a few new ones) from Barbary Lane. As the title suggests, Maupin's latest book is contemporary. -hard to believe that Mary Ann is now well into middle-age, Mrs. Madrigal is just plain aged, and that the repercussions of actions from 40 years ago come back in such an unsettling way to haunt us.

I devotedly watched the series when 'Tales' was broadcast on public television some 20-odd years ago. The show resonated and stayed with me for a long time thereafter. While reading AM's latest work, I couldn't help but visualize Laura Linney (Mary Ann), Mrs. Madrigal (Olympia Dukakis), and that kick-ass actress who played Janis Joplin as Mrs. Mad's daughter as I turned page after page.

As I read, I thought about how some of my own family members in 1970s San Francisco had lived their version of 'Tales'. Gay, attractive and coupled, my Uncle Gerry ('Scotty' to his friends) and 'Uncle' Ric lived, for some number of years, in an apartment on Fulton Street in SF. They owned a small business together maintaining plants in the office buildings of downtown San Francisco. Some years after Gerry died, I found out how much both he and Ric liked to 'party'. I can almost see them socialising together with 'Mouse' from 'Tales' at that gay bar on 18th (whose name escapes me) that has since been turned into a Starbuck's coffee shop.

Today is both Uncle Gerry's and my father's birthday. They would have been 69 and 72 years old, respectively. Both Dad and Gerry were complete characters. They spoke to each other in well-honed, silly voices with an eye-brow pitched and teeth purposely bucked for dramtic effect. They'd make each other laugh until their eyes watered. As a young teen, I couldn't pinpoint what it was, exactly, that made them laugh so. It was all a bit beyond me. Sexual innuendo and goofiness rolled into one was their trade.

Unlike with the well-rounded characters of 'Tales' who, over the years, have become an almost extended family of sorts, I can't just pop open a book and find out how Dad and Gerry are getting on now in their later years. I have memories and photos to stimulate me, and, only sometimes, that's enough.

Americans, the simpletons of British prose.

2011-12-27T14:17:00.000-08:00

"How are we going to keep this up for 10 years?" I hissed.

"Ten years?" He looked stricken.

"Her cousin still believes in Santa Claus and he's 13!"

Her cousin is American.

The above snippet and many more like it remind of why I sometimes bristle when reading British publications. It's a cheap joke to fall back on 'the Americans are dim-wits' schtick in one's writing.

Apparently, not only do we not carry passports, and, therefore, are likely to confuse Austria with Australia, but we are also terribly gullible to the point that a pubescent boy living somewhere in America still believes in Santa. I was thirteen once, and, let me tell you, I knew things well beyond whether or not Father Christmas existed. If at the age of 13 this kid still believes in Santa, then his problem isn't the fact that he's American. Maybe this thirteen-year-old-going-on-three might be suffering from some form of '-ism'. (At this point I would concede that we are an 'over diagnosed' society.) Or, more to the point, he might be suffering from parents who infantilise him. That, of course, could happen anywhere.

Lost earring

2011-12-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

An English woman of post-retirement age wearing a slightly shabby, full-length suede coat with fuzzy collar came in to the shop tonight looking for silver polish. As I approached I could see that pinned to her lapel was a rather large, gold brooch of some indeterminate design. Her middle and ring fingers bore brightly-colored gem stone rings of blue sapphire and aquamarine. In her left earlobe she wore a dangle-y earring that appeared to be made up of a cluster of small pearls. In her right ear hung nothing.

We got to talking about silver polish versus silver cloth and about how no one seemed to possess silverware anymore (and wasn't that a shame). Her make-up, probably finely applied earlier in the day, now appeared unfocused and smudged around her eyes. She smelled vaguely of wine. As we spoke, I put my right hand to my right ear and said, "you're missing an earring." She stopped talking, immediately brought her fingers to her ear and said very loudly, "oh, shit!"

"These are Sandra's earrings! They were given to me by her husband...ex-husband. I wore them today as it's her birthday. We were just down at the pub. Oh, no. Well, let me buy this silver cloth and then I'll go back to the pub. The earring must have come out as I was putting on my coat. It started to rain as I left, so I put my coat on."

As she she paid, she told me that Sandra, her best friend, had died only 18 months ago, and she had decided to wear the earrings today as a tribute to Sandra. Before leaving the shop, I had asked her to take the coat off just to make sure that the earring wasn't caught somewhere in the collar, or had fallen down the back and gotten stuck in the lining. The earring wasn't in the coat. I took a quick glance around the store's floor and directly out front along the pavement in the off-chance that she'd managed to lose the earring only as she made her way into the shop. It wasn't there. Before retracing her steps back to the pub, I'd asked her if she wouldn't want to take off the remaining earring and pop it into her handbag for safe keeping. She did as I asked and left.

Not ten minutes later as I was tidying up the back stock area, I heard a voice coming from the front of the store. "It's only me," she said. I came out from the kitchen to see the woman with the suede coat. She was smiling. "I found it. I just wanted to tell you that I found the earring." She smiled and came up to the counter. Her eyes were wet, yet she looked happy.

"Sandra was my best friend, you know. -diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She was gone in six weeks." The woman started to cry. I stood at the counter and watched her. She dabbed her eyes with her fingers. "Thank you," she said. I took her outstretched hand in mine and held it a minute. She cried a bit more and I fetched her a tissue from the bathroom. She continued, "Sandra was so elegant. She was always so put together, you know." I asked how old Sandra would have been today. "Oh, seventy-something. A lady never tells her age" she said with a slight smile. "We traveled together. Oh, it was lovely! We traveled down the Nile!" She cried a fresh burst of tears. I offered her a cup of tea, but she refused. The presence of another customer entering the store seemed to cause her to leave. She bade me farewell and moved on.

The woman who'd come in, holding a Christmas tree wrapped in mesh and standing by the entrance asked, "is she crying about her dog?" It turned out that this was the neighborhood dog walker and the woman who had left lost her dog about a week ago.

Fanny pack? Bum bag?

2011-12-06T16:31:00.000-08:00

Let's call the whole thing off!

I've been living in LDN now for eight months and I'm no closer to thoroughly understanding what the English say to me than when I landed. I think it all comes down to word choice. We say 'wrench', they say 'spanner', and that really puts a spanner into the mix, as some might say. I feel like I've filled up my Brit Vocab Bag reasonably well and I now say with confidence things like, 'you could do...' as a response to many questions directed at me, and 'go on then' when offered another biscuit/pour of wine/most things edible.

I'm fairly sure that I haven't fucked it all up and said, 'thanks for the ride' when stepping out of someone's car, and, if I did, you know I didn't mean it that way. Speaking of all things sexual, I may have inadvertently referred to the big, refillable jug at Whole Foods as a 'growler'. Yes, I did actually know that that word is slang for vagina here in the UK, but, in the moment of my sampling good beer (which may or may not be synonymous with 'real ale'), forgot and said it. The beer dude at Whole Foods kept a straight face. As well he should have cuz if he's such an authority on beer that he gets to wear the badge and pour the brews, then, well, he should just know that a big-ass jug with a thumb-hold is a growler in No. America.

Most challenges I usually deal with well even if they do take more time to figure out than normal. Just the other day, some woman of indeterminate middle-age came into the shop where I work and asked if I had an 'egg lifter'. Mind you, I visualised some tong-like device one might use to pull a boiled egg out of a pot, so I asked her if she were needing something for boiled eggs. She looked at me as if I were speaking Martian, yet I wasn't the one who'd just asked for an 'egg lifter'. She tried again while I asked her pointed questions as to how the eggs in question where to be prepared. 'I'm looking for something for fried eggs, you know.' Oh, I thought, you need a spatula! I ventured forth with something not terribly crushing that highlighted my being from somewhere else, so that she shouldn't think that asking for a 'lifter' was completely lame even though it was.

Eight months have gone in a second and I'm about to celebrate my first Christmas in England. What I need to get straight is understanding the differences between Christmas Cake and Christmas Pudding, and why, in general, pudding here isn't like this:

I've eaten (see link above) already more than anyone's reasonable share of Xmas Cake and won't need to refill until 2014. And, to use the British expression, if I'm honest, if the pudding here is anything like the cake, then I'll pass, thanks very much.

A trip out

2011-12-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

Our very friendly and outgoing house guest left yesterday after a week of work and play in LDN. As a send-off of sorts, we were invited to lunch by a friend of our guest who lives down in Tooting Bec. It was to be the final 'hurrah' before House Guest jetted back to parts continental. American-style chili was on the menu. It was suggested that we bring drink and dessert, so we stopped at the Sainsbury's en route and bought some vino and a chocolate cake.

Tooting Bec, a stop on the Northern Line, is a rather suburban-looking patch of London south of the river. I had been there once before in 2008 in order to visit a person with whom I had had a rather brief and intense relationship. Until yesterday, I had not been back since.

As we three exited the station I can't say that I recalled exactly the high street with its not-too-great shops bearing slightly makeshift signs. However, knowing I had been precisely there before, I tried to find familiarity in the red brick facades along the main drag. I couldn't. We were to make our way down the street 'with the Sainsbury's on it', passing the Common, and, at some point, making a right just beyond a sports center. I should have remembered at least some of that stretch of road as we traversed it. I remembered not one bit.

As instructed by House Guest, who'd been down to Tooting a few times before, we crossed the street at the Common in order to turn right at the sports center which would take us down the path leading to the neighborhood in which his friend resided. House Guest had luggage in tow as he would leave the luncheon for the airport sometime around five o'clock. Hubs carried the bag with vino. I carried the chocolate cake.

As we neared our destination, I noticed a hurriedly-walking man approaching from the opposite direction on the path parallel to ours some 20 feet away. I looked in his direction. It was the man with whom I'd had a prolonged liaison those few years before and whom I had neither seen nor spoken to since 2009. I held my cake and stared. Perhaps sensing my hard gaze, he glanced my way before quickly turning his eyes back to the path. I can't be sure that he recognized me, but I felt certainly that he must have. I turned momentarily to watch him walk toward town before turning back and, passing the building in which I'd spent a week of my life in March, 2008, continued on to our lunch date.

Childhood re-visited via YouTu...erm...Google Videos!

2011-11-25T16:20:00.000-08:00

From Laurel and Hardy quotes to a Zappa-like, cantina song, Hardware Wars never fails to make me feel nostalgic for home. And, it's a real laugh-riot, too.

Thanks, YouTube!

(22 January 2012) Wow! 'Not thanks', Youtube! This video is now no longer available. Argggggggh!

A link to our film via Google Vids: Hardware Wars

Christmas Cake

2011-11-25T04:20:00.000-08:00

So, I was out and about yesterday running errands and meeting folk and had fuck-all time to grab a proper bite to eat before work. My 1pm appt. at the tutoring center that was to initially have been scheduled for 1.30 ("Holborn is sooo close to here, don't worry about being late for work"), but I pushed it back a bit, wound up lasting until 2pm, so I had to rush to get to The People's Supermarket for my 2.30 start time. Lame.

I caught the tube at King's Cross and made good time in getting to Bloomsbury, but still had only ten minutes to spare before my shift began. In that time I had hoped to stuff my face with something cheap and quick, so that I wouldn't be doing prep. work in the kitchen while drooling over whatever it was that I'd be cutting, dicing, mincing, or slicing that day. There were slabs of individually wrapped breads that, sort of, looked like carrot cake, or something, with raisins lodged in them for sale and on display on the counter of the kitchen in which I'd be working. The wrapper read "eternity", but I couldn't tell you what in the hell that meant. Undaunted and super hungry, I unwrapped one, putting the wrapper with bar code label into my pocket, so that I could pay for it after my shift, and stuffed the thing quickly into my mouth.

Christophe, the French dude that usually heads the kitchen on Mondays, was out with a bad back, so I wasn't even sure if I'd be working in the kitchen this shift. If I weren't in the kitchen, then I'd be out on the floor restocking shelves, and, while I wouldn't mind doing it, wasn't keen on the idea. Fortunately, I was able to locate the morning shift guy, John, and ask what was to be done during the afternoon shift. "You'll be icing cakes", he said. Okay, I thought, at least I'll be in the kitchen, if, however, not prepping for our usual evening meal.

Geraldine, another member who works occasionally, had been called in to replace Christophe and help me with our cake project. In a few minutes' time, another woman, Aki, also came to lend a hand. Three people, as it turned out, were just barely enough to meet the needs of what was to come.

Before leaving for Swedish class, John, with the help of Geraldine, brought up around ten, large pans of cake to be, as it turned out, both 'marzipaned' and iced. After nearly four hours of feeding, slicing, rolling and draping, we never got to the icing stage.

Our task was broken down into three parts: Geraldine was to roll out the already made marizpan, Aki was to cut off any hard bits of cake around the edges and put them on a plate for members' consumption, then 'feed' the remaining cake brandy after having scored the tops of all of them with a skewer, my job was to cut the slabs of cake into more manageable chunks, then apply the 'glue' (apricot jam mixed with a bit of water ) to the tops and sides of cakes, and, finally, fashion the slabs of marzipan around them. -sounds not too terribly challenging, right? Fortunately, or not, we were sustained in our work by eating bites of the burnt bits of cake that Aki had piled high on three separate chargers. My routine was this: glue and drape a cake with marzipan, have a bite of burnt-bit-cake, wash and dry hands, and start again. This carried on for a good hour, or so, until I felt slightly ill.

After three-and-a-half hours we were mostly done with 'marzipaning' the cakes. We hadn't even begun making icing for them, however. Now, it was time for clean-up and figuring out where to store our brood. There were a few cakes baked in loaf tins that Geraldine thought we should slice, wrap and sell for two pounds a piece. Aki and I were in charge of this effort. As Aki sliced and bagged, I tagged and sealed. Not knowing what to write on the labels--it hadn't occurred to me to ask what the cake was called--I asked Geraldine how I should label them. She said, "just write 'eternity' on it. They last forever!"

Ugh. The stomachache growing in my belly after eating more than my share of cake-ends felt as if it would last forever, too.

Kugelhopf and other delights

2011-11-16T18:54:00.000-08:00

I'm a huge fan of Alsace. What intrigues me about E. France is its linked history with Germany. The Fachwerkhaeuser, the blending of cuisine, and the allemanic dialect spoken by (mostly older) native Alsatians make this part of Europe an intriguing hodgepodge of culture. Strasbourg, just over the river from Kehl, Germany, is one of my favorite places to visit in Alsace. While there, I usually engage in the same few 'tried and true' activities. They can be broken down, quite neatly, as follows:
*Strassburger Muenster
*Christian Patisserie
*tourist shops near the river that sell traditional pottery.

Instead of the usual oh-this-looks-nice-but-I-don't-think-I'll-buy-it trip, I decided to purchase a lovely and large bit of ceramic bake ware while doing the usual trek around town. As fortune would have it, the Kugelhopf form made it through security and requisite flight back to London without much of a hitch, so that I was able to bake the below treat sans raisins with the recipe that came with the form.

Kugelhopf d'Alsace

Not content with just baking one Kugelhopf this week, the hubs and I fiddled with another recipe found online, and made this lil' beaut of a marble Kugelhopf.

Marmor Kugelhopf

Next time I'm in Strasbourg, and buoyed by my Kugelhopf baking successes, I might be tempted to schlepp back a Baeckeoffe pot and make this:

Baeckoffe, baby!

Now, if I could only get my hands on some lye, then I'd be in business to bake Brezeln!

Well-meaning words, but what comes of them?

2011-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help." Yeah, you can start by doing instead of asking what you could do for the bereaved, and not wait for that person to tell you. Who feels comfortable asking a friend to cook dinner for them, run errands, or clean the frickin' bathroom when he or she isn't grieving a loved one? This is all very easy for me to say as I sit thousands of miles away typing fitfully into my laptop. What am I doing to lend a hand? Nada.

I have one really bad-ass friend who, when very incapacitated a few years back, was able to reach out to her friends and say, "Look, I need help with keeping my apartment tidy, I'd also really love for prepared food items to be brought over to my place, and I may need help in getting to appointments now again." I really respect that she was able to ask for what she needed. She is exceptional that way. The rest of us, when confronted with trauma, would probably tend to fold into ourselves, and not ask for help at all. May we all be proactive in helping those in need of a little extra support!

American Food

2011-10-24T02:54:00.000-07:00

As a study-abroad-student in Tuebingen back in the 90s, I had the pleasure of living in a German dormitory. My floor, save for me, two French students, and an angry Turk who'd grown up in Germany, was entirely German. We shared a rather large kitchen. Most of us used the kitchen almost every night to cook meals. Occasionally, we'd cook a shared meal, but, more often than not, we cooked solitary meals to be consumed near one another at the table.

I was enamored of the market that set up each Wednesday in the town square and took to buying fresh fruit and veg on a weekly basis. I didn't know it initially, but by buying fresh produce and cooking it for dinner in our dorm kitchen I'd managed to break down a rather large stereotype the Germans held about Americans. That is, of course, that we ate heavily processed foods at every meal, and didn't really cook so much as eat McDonald's (they had said this to me) or pour goop out of cans to heat up.

Am Markt

I am a child of the 70s and, sure, we'd eaten our fair share of canned and frozen veggies, but we had also had the pleasure of growing our own produce in the back yard as well as buying it fresh at our local market.

My grandparents and great-grandparents hailed from Scandinavia, England and Ireland. I have relatives from Mexico and China, too. So, what does an American eat?

Chilaquiles? Flank steak over rice with soy sauce? Pickled herring on brown bread? Mac-n-cheese? Avocado and shrimp over lettuce?

We are a country made up of a many different ethnic groups. We are a lumpy stew, if you like. So, too, is our food.

American food is the food you grew up eating.

It is not burgers, fries and a milkshake. My parents never cooked us french fries, nor did they blend us milkshakes for dessert. Never once was uttered, "Just one more bite of double cheeseburger, Leslie, then you're excused from the table."

In addition to the above mentioned fare, here is a sampling of the food we ate:

boiled garlic sausages with cabbage, carrots, and potatoes (cooked in a pressure cooker) served on a plate with spicy mustard on the side.

artichokes from the garden with mayonnaise, and some sort of casserole.

dad's homemade cioppino with shellfish that he had caught himself. I'd write 'we', but I can't say any of us kids really helped much outside of baiting the crab traps.

lasagna-dad's recipe-with some green vegetable accompaniment.

stir-fried tofu with veggies--this was the 70s in California, folks!

Limburger cheese sandwiches--dad was the only one who ate them, actually.

meatloaf!

a lot of broccoli, lima beans and brussel sprouts. <--I had a hard time with these three.

baked chicken with rosemary and garlic.

Fridge staples: pickled herring in wine sauce, stinky cheese, Parmesan cheese, mayo, mustard, ketchup, butter pickles, dill pickles, butter, milk, yogurt and orange juice.

If we did have burgers a la fast food, then it was an occasional 'treat' and not at all a daily occurrence. McDonald's wasn't the end-all-be-all either. A & W Rootbeer was our fast food place of choice.

Good eats.

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of chatting with a lovely woman at the shop where I work. I couldn't tell where she was from by her accent, but it was full of heavy consonants and flat vowels. Her English, however, was fluent. She was buying a housewarming gift for a friend. We chatted about mini Le Creuset cups, milk pitchers with floral prints, and what we would like to receive as housewarming gifts ourselves. As usual, I found a way to slip in the fact that I was from the States. "Me, too!" the woman with the Eastern European accent exclaimed. -turns out she was "from" Philly. I love Philly and told her so. We each took turns talking about the things we liked best about her city. This woman, although differently accented and living abroad already 7 years, is as American as I am.

Lumpy stew are we.

Little America

2011-10-06T16:53:00.000-07:00

Hey, all you ex-pats from the US! Are ya homesick? If so, then come on down to Greenwich and be among your own kind.

On most days at the shop where I work at least one American comes in looking for a mixing bowl, cake tin, spatula, or what have you. Maybe they seem to be frequenting the shop because they're all missing home and stuffing those feelings with some nice, home-baked cake! Well, whatever the reason for their pronounced presence, it's fair to say that many-an American lives in Greenwich.

Yesterday, I met a lovely woman from my home state of California. Not only was she from CA., but she was from a part of CA. that I know fairly well as it was the vacation spot of my youth. Grass Valley, in the NE part of Gold Rush Country, was where the family would go on its annual camping trip for two weeks each Summer. We'd actually camp just outside town at a place called Scots Flat Lake, but come into town for sundries, a night out which usually meant going to the local bowling alley, and, maybe, just a walk around downtown. It was like a vacation from the vacation, really.


Scots Flat Lake, Nevada County

Of the Americans coming in to buy cupcake cases and silicone spatulas I'd say all but one has introduced themselves to me. "What's your name? I'm Nina-Anne-Patty-Joy. Nice to meet you!" And then they leave with a "see you later!" hanging in the air.

The Brits never introduce themselves. Although I have had the odd Welshman sing me a Welsh ditty (read: not in English) before buying a Nicholas Mosse milk jug for his mother-in-law.


"Barnyard" Motif

Missing food from back home? There are some third-rate Mexican and Tex Mex places in the village center for one's eating, ahem, pleasure. English village=beans and rice and fajitas, I guess. Who knew? Who wanted it? Where's my baked beans on toast?

Ye Olde Tex-Mexican King's Head

Although I'm able to have chips and salsa washed down by a margarita whenever I want, I do feel like I'm far from California here in Greenwich, and, aside from missing home a bit, it's a good thing. When I am feeling homesick I can count on other Americans living locally to come into the shop where I work, buy a pan, and, inadvertently, cheer me up.

A unicorn wearing a garland of four-leaf clovers...

2011-09-23T16:50:00.000-07:00

would have been more easily spotted than my ex attending a wedding. He had such a phobia of weddings that, in our (I think) two-ish years dating, he dodged every invite he could. It was fine if he wanted to disappoint and flake on his own friends, but the shit hit the fan when he decided that he couldn't--as if it were a fuckin' medical issue--"I'm lacto-ovo-nuptial-gluten-soya intolerant!"--attend my dear, old, college friend's wedding. Boo hoo. Here's a hankie.

I remember saying to him, "dude, it's not like WE'RE getting married. It's just an opportunity to dress up, eat, drink, and be merry with some of my good friends." It were as if he thought he'd catch "wedding cooties" of off 'em, or something, and just couldn't bring himself to be my +1.

Shortly thereafter, I was -1, if you catch my drift.

Flash-forward about a year, and, unbelievably, we're "friends". He'd met someone with whom he was "head-over-heels". I was happy for him, if, however, feeling wee pangs of "why wasn't it me?" Around the time of finding his lady love, his friends began to get hitched. So, now, instead of agonizing over why he couldn't go to weddings, he was agonizing over what gift to buy, when to buy it, what to wear to the wedding, and so on. I bore the brunt of much of his wedding angst, and tried to be as helpful as I could. I wondered if his new girlfriend was getting any of this shit. I seriously doubted it.

Six years and many different types of social media outlets later, I find myself attempting to wade into the Google+ pool. For the fuck of it, I thought I'd see if the ex were, too, trolling those waters. He is.

The Unknown Groomsmen.

Not only has he been a guest at weddings, but, lo these many years later, I see that he's actually been IN a wedding. He's come along way, baby. -wonder if he brought his girlfriend. -least she didn't have to pick out something for him to wear.

7 Things

2011-09-18T03:34:00.000-07:00

1)     Your most beautiful moment: I don't have a most "beautiful" moment, but I do have a few really ugly ones (see #4).  The early posts were mostly about how I hated living in NYC.  Two from this period that I like, although they are a bit harsh, are: the short one  and  the "h8" one. 

2)    A post that didn't get the  attention you thought it deserved: If I thought any of my posts "deserved" attention, then I should quit writing this blog right now.  I certainly do hope that people will want to read my posts, but I can't be caught up in wondering if they do, and, if so, then how many.  That, for me, would be a crazy-making exercise.

3)    Your most popular blog post: as of right now, the most viewed post would seem to be one I wrote about the film Bridesmaids (super funny film) and my own experience as a bridesmaid--the one and only time, might I add--when I was in my early 20s.  After reading the post, an old high school friend emailed me her recollections of having been a bridesmaid.  It feels good to stimulate other folks' memories on a given topic.  And, in case you couldn't guess it, I love reading about other people's lives and experiences.

4)    Your most controversial blog post is called : ...or is it an adulterer and a musician?  In this post I talk major shit about my husband's ex-wife.  Nuff said.

5)    Your most helpful post: Well, if anyone reading my blog is also an ex-pat living in London, then I'd say that these posts may be "most helpful":Word To The Foreign, English English and Flats to let.

6)     A post whose success surprised me: no "success" here, but on this entry someone anonymously commented, "cool story bro."  This reminds me of another time that I was mistaken for a man by a liquor store clerk.  He had called me "sir", and I responded with, "I'm a woman."  "Oh, sorry, lady."  Wah-waaaaah.  

7) The post I had the most fun writing* is: Why I'm here, the guest post. I'm glad to have an "origin story", as it were.

*I changed the language from proud of to fun writing. I can't say I'm proud, really, of any of them, but I can read previous entries and think, that's a fun read!

Feininger

2011-09-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I spent my day in Hampstead.

I tried to convince the chick working in the Oxfam shop just off the high street that she could sell a tea pot from the GDR (it had a maker's mark) for more than 3.99. She actually couldn't understand what I was saying (excuse me? what do you mean?) because English wasn't her first language, and, if one weren't asking her "how much...?" then it was a wash. I busted out some ancient-old high school Spanish that equally tanked: Um, como se dice...? El Pais...no mas existe. (Que lame.)

Then I found a photograph bearing the name of Eleonore "Lore" Feininger, daughter of Lyonel Feininger, on its matting. The picture was either signed by Lore, who indeed was a photographer, or it was a portrait of Lore by someone whose name remains unknown. The image shows a happy, smiling, young woman with large, light-colored eyes. She's wearing a slim wedding ring and has her hair in a bob. I'd date the picture from the 20s. The matting and frame were not top quality, but they seemed period; the picture was compelling, but, without knowing if Lore is the subject or the photographer (or both) it's hard to know what the 5 x7 portrait is worth. As a fan of Lyonel Feininger's art, the picture is of value because it in some way has a connection to him. Apparently, no one at Oxfam had 'googled' Lore Feininger, and only priced the portrait at 8.99. At the time, I neither bought the picture nor tried to talk the English-challenged shop worker into putting the portrait aside and contacting an auction house. Perhaps I'll pop back in the shop today and see if the photo is still in house.

Well, it's now the day after I wrote the above bit, and, today, I went back up to Hampstead and bought the photo. The internet searches that the hubs and I have engaged in continue to turn up nothing. On line, there are only a handful of pictures with Lore Feininger's name attached, and, of them, only two viewable. Apparently, she'd photographed other photographers of renown--T. Lux Feininger, her brother, and Erich Salomon, and those pictures have sold quite well at auction. What did she look like? Who took her photo? My plan is to write to the Bauhaus Archive in Berlin, send a copy of the photo from the Oxfam shop, and see what they can tell me about its provenance. Given that both Lore's dad and brother were instructors at Bauhaus, I'd imagine the archive could shed a little light on the subject.

Gelmeroda by L. Feininger

Ownership

2011-09-05T12:44:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how people live as citizens/subjects/permanent residents/short-term visa holders in a given place.

Barring any unforeseen changes, I will be living in London for the next four-and-a-half years. I want to feel as if this is my home. With feeling comes action. I should act like this is my home.

As I was running through the local park yesterday I saw a child being let through some fencing by its mother. The fencing had been erected to prevent folk from trampling on a bit of patchy earth that had been recently re-seeded. I said under my breath, "there's a reason for that fencing," as I jogged along. Would I have said anything ALOUD if I were a subject of this country? No, probably I wouldn't have. And, neither would most British people.

I remember once when I was visiting SW Germany during a break from college with a friend an elderly woman berated me for having thrown away a bit food. Never mind that the food in question was a soggy bit of bread with herring that had fallen apart in my hand and was now neither appealing nor easy to eat. This was in 1994; she looked to be in her mid-to-late 80s. I think now of what she must have lived through: two world wars, massive inflation and deprivation, and, ultimately, the division of her country. How thoughtless must I have appeared to her for throwing decent food in the garbage?

I see things that don't gibe with me here all the time. Would I really ever say anything to the people who litter in the park, bottles and food waste left on the grass after they get up to leave? Would I tell that guy who, crowded bus or no, puts his shoe up on the seat next to him as he rides into town to keep his feet planted firmly on the floor? Did I "police" where I lived back home? I didn't really, no. Well, if you count continually making my presence known to the marginally aggressive, homeless woman who camped in our back garden from time to time, then yes. She couldn't take my nosing around her territory, and, thankfully, she eventually moved a few blocks away. However, that wasn't fixing the problem so much as displacing it. I think of the man who died during the recent attacks here in London. He was attempting to put out a fire set in a bin by some youths, and, while doing so, gave those brats a piece of his mind. It was his neighborhood they were messing with and he didn't like it. They responded by beating him into a coma. He died shortly thereafter.

This horrible tragedy reminds me of the story a friend of mine here has recounted to me on numerous occasions. I've heard it enough times to wonder if it's not an Urban Legend. It's a cautionary tale of how another man stood up for what was right, and, for his trouble, was knifed in the process. This man and his girlfriend were riding a bus somewhere in London when some young men began throwing bits of either candy or crisps at the girlfriend. Valiantly, the man attempted to get the youths to stop, and was rewarded with a knife wound. I can't help but wonder how things would have gone down on the bus that day had everyone (assuming there were lots of riders) had, in unison, chanted those effers into submission with something like, "Put the crisps down!" or "Leave her alone!" I know that that sounds cheeky, but I'm being serious. Maybe the bullies would have been bullied into stopping?

There is certainly something to be said for standing by one's beliefs. However, if voicing them can have potentially devastating results, then, sadly, it may just be best to keep one's mouth shut, or to merely voice discontent under one's breath.

Fence-sitting

2011-08-30T04:37:00.000-07:00

Not all bisexuals will leave you for a member of the opposite sex. Now, I know that you, dear reader, know this, but, after having pho with a new acquaintance the other week, I'm not sure that everyone out there in TV Land knows this.

Let me start by saying that last week's dinner date is pushing 40 and she's been living in this fair city for over ten years. -ten years in one of the most cosmopolitan places in the world with all manner of folk tucked away in it. That means gay, straight, bi, and what-not are all living side-by-side, and, ideally, befriending those of other persuasions. And, hopefully, through these friendships, one is reminded that an individual is either faithful, or adulterous, but NOT a whole group of people that are aligned by sexual orientation.

I swear it was an early 90s flashback when out of her mouth popped, "I'd never date a bisexual because I'd be afraid that she'd leave me for a man." Um, how 'bout she might just leave you for another woman, or, in her eyes, because, you've proven yourself to be a narrow-minded twit?

Well, she may have a decade's worth of experience living in London, but she only has less than a year's worth of experience living as an out lesbian. She's forty going on thirteen. Perhaps that would explain her somewhat infantile attitude toward relationships and sex. Or, maybe it doesn't explain a thing. I wonder now how she was in relationships with men. Did she worry that her male partners would leave her for other women?

After I and our other dinner companion patiently explained that "people are people" and fidelity is an individual matter, we settled into talking of more banal subjects. All was well as we slurped our rice noodles, washing them down with ca phe sua da. Well, things were fine until our bisexual-fearing buddy looked in the direction of the street, pointed and said, "Ugh. She's too fat. I couldn't date someone who was so fat!"

An Idiot in a Strange Land

2011-08-23T11:18:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been feeling like most things I say are totally ridiculous, bordering on the stupid. I think that my problem might simply be constantly worrying about how I'm being interpreted, culturally speaking. Am I too "American"? Am I, like Goldilock's porridge, "just right"?

Speaking of porridge, I found out the hard way that the English seem to get by in the kitchen without the help of a double boiler, or porridger. Or, as they also say here, bain marie. Oui mais non. Why have the term--in two effin languages--yet not the product? Comment dit-on "lame"? I gave up almost all of my cooking gear before packing up for parts unknown thinking that I could easily replenish my kitchen stock here in London. I've succeeded in finding most pots and pans, but, for the life of me, not a double boiler.

Last week, or so, I popped into a neighborhood cookery shop, as they say here, to inquire after a sales position advertised in the shop window. (And, no, they don't carry porridgers.) I've been working, and, therefore, applying for jobs for the past twenty years. I have, actually, figured out what potential employers want to hear. However, in the cookery shop that day I said something totally foolish.

It was this: is one allowed to bring a book in?

What the fuck was that? The genie was already out of the bottle, so I let it hang in the air knowing that I'd probably just fucked it all up. The owner was quick to go on at length about how there's much to do what with dusting products, unpacking deliveries, and the like. Ugh. I had failed this very mini test.

The next day, resolved to reversing my fortune, I went into the shop to apologize for saying such a daft thing. I said something to the effect of this: I just want to apologize for a comment I made yesterday about book reading. I want you to know that I'm not a laze-about book reader. I'm here to work!

My apology went over well and I got the job. Today, I went in to train with the other woman who works at the shop. As I entered the store, she looked up from her book and gave me a warm greeting.

Family tree

2011-08-22T01:07:00.000-07:00


Wendell Road.

Today, I went to see the house where my great-great-grandparents lived in Hammersmith, London around the turn of the last century. The hubs has been poking around an internet genealogy site of late, and the address of this place is one of the nuggets he's uncovered.

The family lore I've always heard was that great-grandma Bea, having been born in Hobart, Tasmania, came over from the east coast of England to San Francisco on her own, and that she'd sent for her siblings later. This is, thanks to the hubs's digging, largely incorrect. While the Ceiley family does hail from Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, they had lived both in Australia and London before moving as a family to California. This lovely stretch of road in a relatively nice part of West London was where they hung their collective hats for a spell before moving far, far away to the western part of the States.

The documents found on the internet lists Henry Ceiley's profession as 'carpenter' in England, Australia, and California. I wonder if he were attracted to building booms that may have been happening in both Tasmania and California just over a hundred years ago. He certainly must have been in demand after the resulting fires of the 1906 earthquake destroyed many homes and businesses in San Francisco.

I know, too, from my dad and uncles that Robert Ceiley, son of Henry, was a San Francisco firefighter. And, in fact, it was his name that my uncle, an SF firefighter himself, some 50 years later used to pen charged letters-to-the-editor about the then current state of the SFFD. What happened to the five other siblings of great-grandma Bea is not known. Great-great-grandfather Henry, at some point, left his wife, Louisa, in San Francisco and moved back to Australia where he died in Bankstown, New South Wales, in 1940.

Deutsche Lehnwoerter im Englischen

2011-08-16T18:46:00.000-07:00

After thinking about all the words from French that have seeped into English over hundreds of years, I thought I'd think about words from another language that I like better, German, having entered into English in, relatively, more recent years.

Big, Beautiful Compound Nouns
German nouns most especially have a certain solidity and all-encompassing feeling that one doesn't necessarily obtain from English nouns. This is especially so when thinking of suitable equivalents to words like, "Weltanschauung" and "Zeitgeist". To use the English translations of these two concepts, "world view" and "spirit of the times", just don't cut it, somehow.
"Now that little Haley is five, she'll be going to the 'garden of children' around the corner from here." That sentence has hues of Bud Cort from Children of the Corn. And, no, I'll not be sending my child there, thank you, but instead to a Kindergarten.
More goodies:
Schadenfreude, Wanderlust, Wunderkind

Food!
Pretzels (Brezeln)
Bratwurst
Sauerkraut
Delicatessen (Delikatessen)-where to find the food!

Psychology
Angst (Thanks, Freud!)

Literature
Bildungsroman
Sturm und Drang

War
Blitzkrieg

Word du Jour (well, it was...)
uber-with or without the umlaut

Profanity
Scheisse

If any of you have more vocabulary words originating from German that you'd like to contribute, then, bitte, send them to me!

It's now well past my bedtime, so Gesundheit and Goodnight!

Shuttered and, a bit, shattered.

2011-08-10T15:53:00.000-07:00

August 8th

It's well before dark here (sun sets at 8.30-9.00) and the grocery stores have shut exactly at 6 o'clock. It's nothing to do with a religious holiday, or a royal function. No, that might actually be fun. It's to do with looters. Looters, for the past three days, have damaged already disadvantaged areas across London, and, now, sadly, other cities in England. -their goal? Well, it's to grab as much loot as possible and destroy property in the process.

Until yesterday, both PM Cameron and London Mayor Johnson were on holiday. It took them a day, or so, to figure out that they should probably get the fuck back the capital and sort shit out. Johnson, for what it is worth, gave an informal speech to residents in Clapham Junction. He was met with both derision and brooms:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2011/aug/09/boris-johnson-clapham-junction-london-riots

Brooms not Bombs!

The complaint is that there has not been enough police support in areas most affected by the looters. People whom I've spoken with have said that they'd like to see more drastic tactics like water cannons and rubber bullets being used. I mean, heck, the cops engage in nasty tactics like kettling on student protestors. Why don't they use such means on folk intent to do real harm?

In Kingsland Road, Dalston, up to the Stoke Newington High Street, Kurdish-Turkish shopkeepers, their friends and family members stood along the pavement and in the streets in front of their businesses in order to ward off potential looters.

It's a family affair.

In Croydon, a city south of here, a 144-year-old furniture business, House of Reeves, was burnt to the ground by arsonists. The 80-year-old owner, Maurice Reeves, had this to say: http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/video/2011/aug/09/london-riots-croydon-reeves-video

This man has more dignity and composure than I'm sure I'll ever have, never mind that I'll not be standing in front of almost 150 years of my family history burnt to a crisp to be interviewed for the Guardian on how I feel about such things ever in my life.

August 9th

Looting has spread to the cities of Birmingham and Manchester, to name a couple. Last night, in Birmingham, three young men, NOT looters, were mowed down by a vehicle purposely targeting them. Their crime was trying to protect the neighborhood in which they lived from being damaged by punk-thugs. Today on the news, the father of one of the young men called for peace, but is it enough? The men happened to be Muslim. This whole mess of trouble began with the shooting death of Mark Duggan, a known drug dealer, who was Black. Will violence begin to fall along racial lines? Will it shift from nicking flat-screen TVs and trainers to mobbing those who don't share one's skin color?

Today, the local supermarkets resumed normal business hours. I went down to the Cooperative Supermarket where I shop in order to fill the empty fridge at home. While waiting to pay for groceries, I asked the clerk how late they'd be open tonight. "10 o'clock", she said. Then I asked at what time they'd closed the prior day. "We had to stay open until five," she told me none to happily. "The other Cooperative was robbed down the road. And we didn't want to come in at all, but they just don't care about us."

"They just don't care about us" could be the general refrain of people living in hard hit areas. Where were the police on the first night of violence? Why were shopkeepers having to defend the their own property, vigilante-style, or risk being attacked and robbed?

August 10th

Everything seems to be back to "normal". Which means that those who feel it's their right to steal from shops still feel that way, they've now no chance to be a part of a coordinated effort to act on said feelings. There's no chance, that is, until something else happens to trigger unrest, aggression, and wanton looting.

Bridesmaids

2011-08-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

-a film for women? Nope.
-a film written by women and starring, mostly, women? Yup.
-a blisteringly funny, poignant, disturbing film that would even make Christopher Hitchens laugh? http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2007/01/hitchens200701 I should fucking think so.

Unlike The Hangover, I actually didn't find this film to be totally wacked-out humor that, mostly, really humiliated its cast, used a baby's endangerment for cheap laughs, and showcased known nutter and spouse-abuser, Mike Tyson, as someone to respect.
Well, let me back up a bit and say that the humor was mostly wacked-out, and, sometimes, pretty crass, but that wasn't all there was to it. (Props to both K. Wiig and her writing partner, Annie Mumolo.)

The central theme of Bridesmaids is relationships. And, primarily it's about how friendships between women change as they mature, find mates, and do or do not settle down. Second to that, are the women's non-platonic lives, (I mean, duh, the film is about a bunch of bridesmaid and a bride!) and how, in the main, they are found to be not %100 fulfilling as perhaps initially thought.

I hadn't realized that Jill Clayburgh, an actress who was all over the movie screens back in the 70s and who I absolutely adored, played Kristen Wiig's mom in this film before, sadly, succumbing to cancer. To see her in this film was truly the icing on the cake for me.

70s Jill

I was a bridesmaid once...just once. And, honestly, some of the shit we went through wasn't far off from some of the antics shown in Wiig's movie.

When my best friend from the teen years, K., decided to marry, I was asked to be her maid of honor. Though I was very touched that she would ask, I felt that I couldn't commit to such an important role as I wasn't sure I'd even be in the country at the time of her wedding. (Wishful thinking on my part as I wasn't able to make a prolonged trip to Ireland grow into anything more permanent.) So, the MOH gig went to another high school friend, um, I've actually just blocked her name out...oh yeah, K2. At 24-25 years of age, the same age as the rest of us, she was the single mother of a four-year-old, smoked like a chimney, and had various suitors in tow.

The lot of us packed up and relocated out of state for the wedding. We girls were bunking together, from what I can remember, in a little motel near to the where the wedding would be held. The next morning after our arrival, K2, whispering god-knows-what and making kissing noises on the phone with her boyfriend, couldn't be bothered to pay any attention her child. The kid, not taking to being ignored, started "acting out". The target of her upset was me, or, more specifically, my wrist watch. K2's spawn had jammed my watch somewhere deep into the motel's cheap sofa cushions and wouldn't retrieve it for me when asked. She giggled while keeping herself well positioned over the cushions. Like an idiot, I kept trying to reason with her. "So-and-so? Would you please give me my watch now?" "No!" This exchange went on for a few minutes until it must've intruded onto the K2's love-call and pissed her off. In an instant, she'd gathered the long, curly tresses of her daughter into her fist and yanked down, so that the child was bent over backward on the sofa wailing in both fear and, I suspect, pain. "Give her her fucking watch back, so-and-so!!" said K2. Sniffling, little k2 dug into the cushions of the sofa and, timidly, offered me my watch. Silent with shock, I took it.

Later that day, I recall our going to the local mall together just to cool off from the oppressively hot, hot heat that was Spring in the desert. K2 brought her child along, of course, as we had no child care. K2's little off-spring hadn't fallen far from the tree, and, as we went from store to store, the little one lifted anything she could, dropping the ill-gotten gains into the pockets of her dress. I was horrified; her mom remained seemingly unaware. We were en route back to the car when baby k2 pulled out a string of beads from her dress pocket and dangled them in the air, giggling. Mama K2 gave her a firm swat on the backside, prompting a crying fit, and then yelled at her for taking something without paying. Did Mama K2 march back into the store, return the item and show lil' k2 how taking things without asking is wrong? Nope.

Later that same evening, after the rehearsal dinner and attendant drink-fest, all of us save K2 made it back to the motel. The next day, the bride was in a fit as her "right-hand woman" was no where to be found. Apparently, K2 had shacked-up with the best man (so cliched) and was sleeping off a mammoth hangover in his room. K2's kid, upset and whining, was with us. Joy.

Although the bride was none too happy that her MOH ditched her for the BM, we two bridesmaids happily stepped in to apply make-up and curl hair for the bride on her "big day".

The ceremony was lovely. The bride was lovely. The venue was lovely. What wasn't lovely: K2 being included so many "family" shots with the bride, groom, and attending parents. Did she do anything to deserve that coveted spot? Well, if you call fucking some guy you don't know, letting your kid steal from the mall, and racking up a motel phone bill (pre-cell phone, yo!) that you then didn't pay for, then, yeah, I guess she deserved it.

My only consolation came after the wedding at the restaurant where we'd all gathered. Having ditched her kid, who was racing up and down the restaurant oblivious to both waiters and guests alike, K2 was well on her way to getting smashed. At one point, I saw her saunter out of the ladies' toilet, having just tucked her dress into the top of her pantyhose, ass out for all the world to see. If only a shot of that could have been included in the wedding photos!

Therapy

2011-08-06T05:15:00.000-07:00

P., the therapist, seemed like a decent enough person during our initial session together. She listened, made some notes, and responded well to whatever it was I'd blathered on about.

"So far, so good," I'd thought to myself as I left the heavily secured building where P's office is located.

Our next session was less reassuring. After the initial greetings and what-not, we got down to business. I can't remember exactly what I'd said, it may have been about my lack of work and social life at present. That triggered her to ask, "What's going on with the not wanting to come out and drink wine with the neighbors?" This question was posed as if I should want to drink some vino with the neighbors, but can't bring myself to do so. My face twisted into a small knot of confusion. In our intake session I'd a) never mentioned drinking wine with neighbors, and b) never mentioned drinking wine with neighbors. What was she on about?

I'd seen her write some notes on what I was saying during the intake session. They totaled, in all, about a half a page. Not much, really, for the (short) story of my life as it's unfolded here so far since April. Not once did I mention neighbors, or, for that matter, wine. I did, however, mention having worked as a bartender here in some shit resto for three weeks before running away screaming at that horror of it all. Even then I had only ever talked about cocktail-making. Hmmm.

"I've never drank wine with my neighbors. In fact, I'm not sure what you're referring to." (I've sat in the back garden and drank wine alone, but I didn't tell P. that.) I was trying to be polite. I should have just told her that she was, unfortunately, mistaken. And, that I'd never said anything about neighbors, or wine. She responded by saying, "You might have a head for faces, but I have a head for what people tell me." I should hope so, given her job. However, this time she was off-base. I felt I had to defend my position by saying, "Look. I've never really met the neighbors. I sort of know what they look like, but that's about it." (Meanwhile she's still looking somewhat unconvinced.) So, then I said, "There are no front gardens on the block where I live, so there's no physical space to hang out with folk at the front of the house and drink wine, or, for that matter, do anything." Now, it was her turn to look confused. She then asked, "Don't you live in blah-blah-blah Street?" I responded that I did. She looked over at the half page of notes that is my London life, and then said, "Ah, sorry. I'm having a senior moment. Sorry." Why she couldn't have looked a bit sooner at her "cheat sheet" I don't know. It would have spared us that awkward moment.

So, there must be someone else who's in therapy with P. that lives on my street. I'm a bit jealous as her neighbors seem to want to hang out and drink with her! I've got two women on one side who I've never really seen except through the front window when they're on their way in or out, and a small family on the other that never seem to be home. The kid of that family, a ten year old, made sure to tell us when we moved in that our house isn't a Victorian, if we didn't already know, but a Georgian. Thanks, boy wonder! Where's the wine?

We'll see what next week brings. Maybe I'll get to hear, by virtue of another senior moment of P's, another interesting escapade her other client is on the fence about participating in. Heck, I'll trade ya!

Let's blame the Spanish.

2011-08-01T05:47:00.000-07:00

Back home, in the land of 'milk and honey', there are bakeries. Many of them produce some very lovely French baked goods. Chief among these goodies is the croissant (or, as we say, kruh-sahnt). <--Hey, at least we still don't say 'crescent roll'.

At the bread and cheese shop just around the corner from my house, I tried ordering a croissant, and was met with a bit of confusion. The poor girl hadn't understood my (apparently shoddy) accent! I hadn't known to say croissant (kwah-sah). As I'm not in Strassbourg, I wouldn't have said it italicized anyway.

The first time I'd heard penchant spoken in a way that made me go, 'huh?' in the direction of the radio was just a few weeks back while ironing the hub's shirts. The Beeb was broadcasting some such thing and this bit o' French popped out over the radio. 'Pen-effin-chant?!' I could hear my dad's voice say in my head, 'Oh, reeeeeaaallly?' in that overly-comically-dramatic way that I think he'd nicked from the Jack Benny radio show of his youth.

I know the word, penchant. We, too, have it in our version of English only we say it as: pen-shint. Classy, ain't it? We also have the words: original, royal, restaurant, cinema, and many more from Le Francais. None of these words are pronounced avec une accent, if you catch my drift. They've been a part of English so long, that they're, well, now just simply English. So why the 'fancification' of penchant et croissant on this side of the world?

Well, it all started way back in the 11th century when the Normans invaded both England and its language. After a few hundred years, English regained its primacy, but not without having been fundamentally changed by its French infusion. Between now and then, I should think, that any trace of French-sounding words would have disappeared. So, again, if the above French-derived words in bold aren't accented, then why are there a few that are? (Is it perhaps because they entered the English language at a later date?)

I asked an acquaintance of mine, an Etonian, why he thought some borrowed words from French were pronounced en francais and some were not. His answer was, in essence, this: because we, the English, have the ability to pronounce them so. Hmmm.

Okay smarty-pants (this is my response to him in my head), if that were the case, then why can't a whole legion of people pronounce the word paella? Hint: it don't rhyme with a cappella. Or, for that matter, tortilla?
Or, even easier to say, taco?

"Taco" rhymes with "Paco"!

Can't remember Spanish vowels? Just memorize this little ditty: A-E-I-O-U, mi burro sabe mas que tu!

The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!

If the Spanish had invaded rather than the French, then, I suppose, we'd all have gotten the hang of the "ll" and "aeiou" sounds long ago. Of course, we also might be ordering cafe con leche with our crescent rolls, too.

In London wird Deutsch gesprochen...

2011-07-22T06:25:00.000-07:00

und zwar sehr gut!

I attended my first German Meetup the other day at a pub in Hammersmith. It took well over an hour to get there on two different forms of public transport from Greenwich, but, really, it was worth the travel time.

I went in to the pub and headed straight for beer taps. As usual, besides the Amstel and Guiness, I didn't recognize the other draught beers. So I asked the 'tender by way of saying, "I don't know your beers well here" what's the (fill in random English lager here)? She responded, "I don't know them either!" It turned out that the sweet, young gal behind the bar is from Tennessee. Well, shoot!

Tiffany from Tennessee is here doing an internship, and, as such, is able to work, too. She told me that she's at the pub most nights and interning during the day. Not a bad gig, really! Chris from Caledonia came up and ordered a certain lager, and, upon his suggestion, I did, too. We were all just chumming around with one another when a huge group of drunken misfits came up to order their umpteenth round. This was my cue to leave the Tiffany and Chris and go in search of the German geeks.

The group was housed in the upstairs portion of the bar, and, for the whole night, we had this space all to ourselves. The Meetup was billed as a group for "students of German", but I thought it was a very advanced group when compared to like-leveled groups I had attended back home. All were fairly conversant, and it seemed that we all had a good amount of both speaking and listening time.
The only 'bummer' was that, due to table constraints, we were broken down into three sitting groups. I tried to circulate amongst them all, but found myself stuck to one group in particular with only a foray, or two into the neighboring group. The folk sitting farthest from me didn't get any attention apart from a cursory 'hallo'.

After about two hours, or so, the organizer decided it was time to put on the German movie he'd brought. Not good timing on his part, really. I was tired, but trying to rally the strength to sit through a two-hour movie. Fortunately, for me, I'd seen the film before, hadn't liked it much, so felt no compunction at all about calling it quits and making the hour plus journey home.

If you're wondering, the movie was this: Die Edukators I had hoped it would be this: Goodbye Lenin!
Daniel Bruehl stars in both films, and he's a good actor, but the former could be skipped entirely.

I'm hopeful that subsequent Meetups will be equally rewarding, if, however, a little bit closer to home.

NYC vs. LDN

2011-07-19T05:40:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a chat I had with friends over tea for my birthday last week, I'm setting out to write about the differences between and similarities of the city I recently moved from and the city I now live in.

Which city is "better" to live in? Which has the amenities that I most enjoy and regard as essential for city living?

Below I'll list what I consider essential city elements for me in order to feel content, and the city that fulfills that need.

*Green spaces/public parks: LDN

*Extensive public transport: LDN

*Access to river ways: LDN and NYC

*Amazing architecture: LDN and NYC

*Integrated ethnic mix of folk: LDN and, to a lesser extent, NYC

*Stellar cuisine: LDN and NYC

*Good beer, wine, coffee and tea: LDN and NYC

*Performing Arts: LDN and NYC

*Museums: LDN and NYC

*Local amenities such as grocers, dry cleaners, stationers, theaters...: it does depend on where one lives, to a degree, but, I'd say, both LDN and NYC. Although it would seem that in both cities one would usually have to take a train or bus to both the theater and cinema.

*Farmers' Markets: LDN and NYC, though, sometimes, I felt that the variety of produce to be found at the NYC FMs was a bit lacking. Let's just say that both these towns aren't in California.

*More temperate climate: LDN
http://weather.uk.msn.com/monthly_averages.aspx?&q=London%2c+England&setunit=F

The above link shows the yearly temperature averages for London. The chart's graph resembles a very slight frown ranging from the 40s to the 70s.
Of course, there will be days when the temp. will dip into the 30s and there will be days when the temp. reaches up into the 80s, but, thankfully, those days aren't the norm. New York City, by comparison, will be much colder in Winter and much hotter, and, usually, more humid in the Summer. Ick.

Well, the "reds" beat the "blues", I'd have to say. I'm glad to be living here, fo' so'!

And, in case anyone cares, these are worth mentioning, but non-essential to me as a city dweller:

*Pan-Latin cuisine: NYC
*Home delivery, speedy-quick, of just about anything one can think of: NYC
*Subway open past midnight: NYC
*Being in the city, but having it feel a bit like the country: LDN
*Mounted police: NYC and LDN--I love the sight of 'em!

I invite folk to disagree with me on any and all points above. I've not lived here long, and I certainly didn't live in NYC long, so, really, what do YOU think?

Hitting the pavement

2011-07-13T10:57:00.000-07:00

After three 50 hour work weeks at a physically stressful job, I'm back to being unemployed. I'm excited at the prospect of again being able to take trips around town, lounge at home, and, in general, keep both myself and my house tidy.

First, I have to kick this nasty, little lingering head cold compliments of said stressful job. Boo.

Although I'm feeling poorly and using that as an excuse not to jog, I am going out and about around town for coffees, people-watching, book-reading, and such.

Yesterday, I went here:

Brixton Village Market

If I'd have believed the old English guy who works in this neighborhood, and with whom I'd had a tryst a few years ago, then I never would have visited this part of town. Never mind that how he'd painted Brixton was almost in EXACTLY the same color palette as the area I had lived in in Berkeley, CA for a DECADE, before moving to NYC. I recall his saying, "Brixton is fine to go around in during the day. If you were to stand around looking lost, however, then you'd be a target for unsavory people. I wouldn't really recommend going around down there on your own." I wanted to say to him, "Fool! Did you not spend time in my 'hood at University and San Pablo Aves.?" I mean, really, my apt. was across from a shoddy-looking 99cent store and around the corner from a scuzzy liquor store that sold little bottles of booze tucked neatly into brown paper bags ALL day long. The check-cashing joint down the block always had a line. Um, hello?! Bueller? Anyone? Heck, I even had a homeless lady put up shop in my back garden where she cursed loudly and at all hours, drank hootch, milled through the trash bins, and, although I can't prove it, pooped in my bed of lettuces.

Suffice it to say, I am already used to all things unsavory and I consider myself to be somewhat 'street smart'. I just think that ole whatshisname wasn't keen on bumping into me down there on his lunch break, or something.

While in Brixton Village Market I had the pleasure of drinking a flat white here:

Federation Coffee Dudes

I'm sorry, but not at any point in time did I feel threatened while down Brixton in any way. The Federation Coffee chick that made my bevvie did not look like she was going to shank me the minute I turned my back.

What area will next be on the agenda? The wiles of Ealing? The mostly uncharted territory of Barnet? In case of any trouble, I'll have my swiss army knife/key ring at the ready!

A meal fit for whom?

2011-07-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

"Deep-fried haloumi? No way! That's just disgusting; I sent an email to M. H. telling him so. So, as of today, it's off the menu." This was the lead-in by the GM, T., to the last staff briefing that I attended before my last day on Saturday.

So, boys and girls, can you tell me what was stuck to the "staff meal" pasta we were served that very same day? Can you spell it? I think you can. H-A-L-O-U-M-I. That's rights, boys and girls, haloumi. Deep-fried, that is.

Unadulterated haloumi

Later in the day, after I had forced the pasta with chewy-rubbery haloumi glued to it down my gullet, T. planted herself in front of me at the bar and ate, off of the menu, a delicious salmon salad with flat bread and sparkling water. After she'd had a few bites, I made sure to tell her just what our the staff "trough" had in it today. Upon hearing that the hated deep-fried Cypriot cheese was included, she did her usual "bob and weave" and began to talk about how she'd succesfully managed to have it removed from the menu. I thought, "yeah, T., but look where it wound up!" Um, not-thank you.

The above is a small incident, really, but underscores all that is wrong with H. There seems to be a tremendous emphasis on customer satisfaction with very little attention being paid to those who deliver said satisfaction. I must present with efficiency and attractively all manner of both hot and cold drinks to the floor, but, heaven forbid, I should be allowed to have an espresso. Ten hours of work without caffeine? Thank god for the staff Tetley, or I'd lose my mind. I also have no problem drinking tap water here in LDN. It tastes good, and, given that the product behind the bar is too costly for staff consumption, I'm happy to drink it. Oh, I forgot to mention, there are liters of staff Coca-Cola in the fridge for our drinking, ahem, pleasure. I've a better idea. How 'bout staff mineral water?

Coca-cola and its ilk were banned from our house when I was a child. And, I remember an experiment conducted in our Kindergarten class that didn't leave me craving soda anyway. Mrs. Brooks, our teacher, took a child's tooth and dropped it into a glass of coke. The tooth-in-coke remained in our classroom throughout the week. By the end of the week, the tooth was retrieved and shown to all of us kids. To our shock, the soda had discolored and eaten away at the little tooth; it was ravaged-looking. Mrs. Brooks said that that was what would happen to our teeth if we were to drink coke. A solidly good display it was. I didn't drink coke for years. And, it was only when I became a dippy teen did I chug soda in mass quantities. As an adult, I think it, yet again, a horrible product.

I suppose it really doesn't matter if we're fed left-overs and menu discards to be washed down with sugar water. We've really no where to go and eat it anyway. The dept. store cantina, where the rest of the store employees go (buy their food or brown bag it) and eat is five floors up and accessed only via stair-well. God knows the last thing I want to do after working on my feet for hours at a time is march a plate of rank food up five floors on dog tired feet and eat it with the rest of Selfridge's finest.

P.S.: I went online to, hopefully, find a picture of Mrs. Brooks for this piece, and, sadly, stumbled upon her obituary in a local paper. She passed away last month. -so glad to have been in her class.

Mrs. Patricia Brooks, 1932-2011

The few, the proud....

2011-07-01T02:29:00.000-07:00

the North Americans working at Selfridge's in Oxford Street are a unique bunch. (Selfridge's, btw, was founded by American businessman, Harry Gordon Selfridge, in 1909.) There were a few of us in the induction room yesterday. The Americans were, by far, the most talkative, sort of, "go-getters" of the lot. USers=chatty Kathies

The induction was more of an indoctrination, and for almost 7 hours we were treated to information on how Selfridge's Co. became the money-making monolith it is today and how to keep it that way. It sure fosters my commitment to the "team" to know that I, at six quid an hour, am helping to ensure Selfridge's earns somewhere in the range of one billion pounds this financial year. Ick.

Interestingly, the induction leader failed to mention that HG Selfridge died, after having lost his fortunes from both the crash of '29 and his free-spending ways, in dire straits in 1947.

Harry Gordon "There's no fun like work." Selfridge

During induction, I was fortunate enough to sit next to a lovely man from Manchester who had recently spent three years in Salt Lake City, Utah before moving to London for a job. He and his partner intend to move back to SLC as soon as they are able. Coming from CA, I would think that being gay in SLC would not work too well. The Mancunian thinks that Mormons are "very accepting" people. Who knew?! And, it should be noted, that there are scads of gay Mormons dotting the landscape of UT.

Walking down to the employee locker rooms (where I don't have yet a permanent locker-the wait for one is some where in the range of four months) after the "show" in a herd of other employees, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a few nattily dressed young men (presumably from the men's finery dept., or whatever it's called). One was telling the others of a particularly thick-headed custie that he had been dealing with during his shift. The employee telling the story slipped into an accent that could pass for American. Then, by way of making an excuse for the customer's denseness, he went on to say that the guy was an American. (Yes, that explains it all doesn't it?)

I like to think that I did ole Harry Gordon proud when I reached out, tapped this employee on the shoulder and said in my California best, "Nice American accent!" His friends fell out laughing while he mumbled something to the effect of, "Oh, the shame."

Tuckered out

2011-06-28T04:08:00.000-07:00

Having found full-time employment in a fancy-shmancy resto a couple of weeks back, I now find myself pressed for time to do the smallest things around the house. The dish rack is always full; the fridge is mostly empty with only a few rotting leeks and old block of cheese lying about. Dirty clothes clog the hallway leading to our bedroom and clean clothes hang over every wall heater in the house save one. With the house in such disarray, it's hard to even think of setting aside any "me time".

I have today off of work, but, really, can't even visualize leaving the house. I'd rather be holed up in bed alternately reading and dozing the day away. Well, I suppose that I can do that right after I've put away the clean dishes, washed a load of laundry, ironed some shirts, and tossed out moldy bits of food.
If I do leave the house, then it's off to the grocery store and to the framer's. I don't really see the "me time" in running errands, either. Boo. I'd LIKE to have the energy to go for a run, then go up to Old Street and have a coffee at FIX, or Look Mum No Hands and read a magazine featuring subjects no tougher than who's wearing what this year in the more fashionable parts of town.

I'm grateful to have found work, but am I grateful that I don't have time to see the sights of London? Never mind my finding time to walk through the local park, cook dinner, or keep the house tidy. I didn't come here to work myself into the ground. Full-time service industry work is a soul-killer. Full-time service industry work in a culture that doesn't, in general, observe leaving much of a gratuity is even more brutal. And, paying at just under six quid an hour, the job may not be worth it.

A huge PS: if you're wondering why service in London, in the main, sucks, then know that many establishments are under-staffed, the FOH is working 9-10 hour shifts, and, in my case, there is no break room to relax in during time off the floor. I call "bullshit" on the whole lot of it!

Strong Flour!

2011-06-10T15:29:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I don't want any of that weak shit. -no flaccid baguettes, here, I tell ya!

Honestly, I had no idea what "strong" could refer to within the realm of baking, when we bought a package of it in order to bake baguettes.

The other day in the supermarket, I pestered Eric, naturally shy, to ask another shopper if she could explain what "strong", when pertaining to flour, meant. She turned around and in her best American East Coast accent said, "I don't know. I'm not from here." #fail

Recently, the bf sussed it out without the aid of Wikipedia, might I add. This is it: strong=more gluten/protein=lighter, airier bread.

This ain't no "sissy" flour.

The bf and I have made two separate batches of some no-too-bad baguettes with our strong flour. All have been fairly tasty, if not, however, the best baguettes ever baked. The problem is that they lack the many air bubbles that make baguettes light and airy. Our last round saw, maybe, the best two baguettes yet. They had slightly more air bubbles than the rest and seemed to be less "doughy". -not that the others were raw, but these seemed better baked somehow. (You can tell I'm not a baker, probably, huh?)

Our next step is to take the sourdough starter we've been cultivating in our upstairs bedroom for the past three days and use it to make some bitchin' sourdough a la Greenwich. It may not compare with Boudin's or, the now defunct Parisian brand, but it could have its merits. We will peel off the crusty, outer-layer tomorrow, and, with our strong flour, make some bad-ass, muscled-up sourdough, English-style! Or, we'll utterly fail, and try again.


This is the brand we grew up eating back in the 70s. -sad loss for Bay Area folk.

Apparently, Parisian supplied the fancy, veggie restaurant, Greens http://www.greensrestaurant.com/, with sourdough until its closing in 2005. Who does now? Colombo? Boudin's? Some new(ish) whipper-snapper like Acme, or Arizmendi?

"Magnited We Stand"

2011-06-10T04:39:00.000-07:00

http://cf.drafthouse.com/she_texted_we_kicked_her_out2.html

If I were in TX right now, then I'd go up and kiss Alamo Drafthouse Cinema CEO, Tim League, smack-dab on the cheek as it was he who decided to use the obnoxious rant of a disgruntled customer as a PSA trailer in front of all R-rated films. The tirade this "86ed" customer made is filled with expletives, and, sadly, can't be shown before all films.

As far back as 1997, Alamo Drafthouse Cinema adopted a NO TALKING policy that would now seem to include all manner of fiddling with ones electronic gadgets, too. This particular "charmer" had been found to repeatedly disregard that rule and text on her cell phone during films. She didn't stop; they gave her the boot.

Remember....(no talking/using cell phones in) the Alamo!

Two sides of the same, tired coin: DIY/Bespoke

2011-06-01T03:46:00.000-07:00

If I had a penny for every time that I ran across either of these terms emblazoned across a storefront, headline, photo caption, and, heck, bus shelter ad, then I'd have a fuck-load of worthless coins and an overly stuffed wallet and an even more sour attitude than I usually have.

I don't remember hand-built furniture being referred to as "bespoke", but now it's being termed as such:
http://www.thesofaandchair.co.uk/bespoke?n=n&linkfrom=bespoke_furniture&gclid=CNfJxqHdkqkCFUEb4QodPGjjkg
If those are an example of "bespoke" living room pieces, then, um, no thanks.

Would that then mean oil paintings really are just bespoke pictures, and stand-up comedy is just bespoke language?

Time was when the term "bespoke" only referred to tailored clothing. And, if I'm correct, it really only referred to fancy, men's suits and such. Back in the 70s, I don't think that I could get away with saying our mom made us kids "bespoke" clothing. We'd needed something decent and yet affordable to wear to elementary school, and that was that.

I remember my older sister, June, had Mom make her a pair of wide-legged red pants with the Coca-Cola logo recurring all over them. They were ridiculous. But, hey kids of the 8th grade, don't laugh, those pants are bespoke!

Bespoke coffee

Bespoke mustache

Bespoke gin

And, as for DIY, don't use this term if you can't back it up. I've noticed a lot of hardware/electrical supply stores here have "DIY" written across their awnings. Well, stuff like that works to get me into the store as I have some lamps from back home that I'd like to re-wire.

Lured by the storefront, I recently went into a one-off hardware and appliance shop to inquire if they had electrical cords, plugs and such for re-wiring foreign lamps. "No, we don't have anything like that. Check B&Q (UK's Home Depot)." Okay, I guess I'll help you run yourself out business. Or, here's a better idea, stock items that actually pertain to the DIY bit on your signage. And, no, light bulbs don't count. -neither do screws or nails.

When my Dad changed the oil on his car, was that DIY? No, it was a guy changing the oil on his car, as most people did back when I was a kid.

Don't let's label what was and, for many of us, still is standard behavior as something more than it is, and realize that most of what we pay someone else to do for us we used to do for ourselves!

DIY fruit and veg

DIY Hairsalon

DIY lunch

Bird watching...

2011-05-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

in London, and I don't mean checking out the ladies! Although that may occasionally happen, too.

Since moving into a place with a garden and having Greenwich Park almost at our doorstep, we've had a wonderful "eye load" of bird watching. The bf received a groovy, little bird book for his birthday mid-May, and, since then, we've supplemented that mini-tome with another one that includes raptors.

Bold Robin chilling in our garden.

One of the most common birds to be spotted here in our Greenwich garden is the Robin. Unlike an American Robin, the English Robin is sparrow-sized, and, as you can see, has orange covering his face and upper chest. When I first saw the Robin, I thought of it wearing a little, orange ski-mask and imagined him breaking into bird houses looking for grub to steal. This particular Robin is a "regular" to our garden having been fed by the kids who used to live here. We see him daily, and, as he's so familiar, were able to shoot this picture of him with great ease before he flitted off over the back fence.

Another bird of note, and I did mean that pun, is the Black Bird. The male, replete with large yellow-orange beak and yellow-ringed eyes has a bit of a whacked-out look to him. He's more the size of an American Robin, and has the most amazing song consisting of a variety of notes sung loud and long. The female is all brown. There was a female Black Bird in the garden today, and I felt like telling her, "you're supposed to be black!"

Say it loud! She's brown and she's proud!

Tits, I told you we're not talking about the ladies, are another feature of English garden life. The most viewed Tit is the (well, we think) Coal Tit. Both males and females boast black 'caps' with white cheeks. They don't seem to be particularly fond of being in the garden when we're out there. We usually spy them from the kitchen window hopping about the soil looking for things to eat.

Tit on a Wire

One of the most startling features of the English garden is the occasional appearance of the Wood Pigeon. In contrast to the Common Pigeon that also inhabits this area, the Wood Pigeon is a fairly dignified-looking sort. Full-figured, gray-breasted with a white collar and yellow eyes, this tidy-looking bird is a rather attractive addition to Greenwich Park and the surrounding environs. However, when one alights on your back garden area to eat the seed that you've laid out for the Tits and Robins, then, well, it's a rather disconcerting sight to behold. I'm glad, at least, it's not a bum-legged, scurvy-looking, mongrel pigeon that comes to scrounge food, but I still want it to fly away back to whatever park it came from.

Wood Pigeon

We're hoping to install a bird bath, some feeders, and, maybe, replace the crusty, old, rotted-out bird house that's been lodged seemingly for years behind a bush along the back fence with a new one. Our garden could well become the vacation spot for local birds around town. -so long as no pigeons or, maybe, even, more importantly, no crows show up to gate crash, then I'm happy to welcome them.

English English

2011-05-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

I know it's been done before, but I think that it bears repeating. (There may be a joke about bears eating unsavory campers in here somewhere...)

Anywho, I'm always keen to hear a word that I'm not too familiar with, or in a context that seems 'off' being spoken by someone from the UK. I'd have to say being spoken by someone from England, in particular, given that I'm here, in England, and most people I come into contact with are either English, or have come here from somewhere else and have adopted English English as the English to speak, if you know what I mean.

Here's a short list of words that I hear, but don't yet have the chutzpah to use:

punter: a paying customer, often used in association with hookers. (I visualize men kicking...)

knackered: tired, although I seem to think that it more often would be used for "very tired".

gobsmacked: shocked, astounded. (gob: mouth)

jack-the-lad: bad boy

gutted: saddened, upset (sounds too much like eviscerated, so, until I get over that, I don't think I'll be using it)

caf: slang for 'cafe'

telly: television (makes me think of 'telephone' when I hear it)

Words I hear and do use:

quid: used like the American term 'bucks' with respect to money.

salad: lettuce, tomato and the like that would go on a sandwich being made for you at a deli.

kilo: it's not just for coke anymore! (this would include any metric measurement)

Words that I thought I'd never hear here:

cheerio: I think that we all know what this means by now, right?

half-caste: this word was used by a fifty-year-old man to describe a person of mixed parentage. This term is certainly offensive back home. Is it not here, too?

Going shoppin'

2011-05-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

Things that are hard to find in stores here:

*chocolate chips for baking
*white vinegar (malt vinegar they've got to the nth degree, however)
*double boilers, or, as I hear they're called here, "bain maries"
*beeswax wood conditioner
*bulk foods
*good, affordable wine from the West Coast of the USA

Things that are so very easy to find here:

*marmalade, chutneys, preserves and mustard
*spreadable butter
*clotted cream
*drying clothes rack
*good, affordable wine from the Continent

Don't get me wrong, I love the "easy to find" list. I could OD on clotted cream, really. I would just like to be able to buy chocolate chips, melt them in a double boiler and make with the gooey outcome a chocolate tofu pie.

The recipe is from my old place of work: http://thejuicebar.org/

Tofu of the Gods

*The filling: 12oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
                      1 tub of Silken tofu, or two smaller tubs
                      A dash of vanilla extract
                      1 tablespoon of honey (optional)

*The crust: 1 packet of graham crackers
                   A handful of almonds (or any kind of nut that suits your fancy)
                   A tablespoon or two of butter, or margarine (enough so that the mix adheres together)

After having made many of these lil' beauties for work, I can make this pie in my sleep. It's my party pie, as it were, and it's how I win friends and influence people. ;) If I can't make the chocolate tofu pie in England, then, party-wise, I might be sunk. (Although a heaping bowl of fresh guacamole with some thick, corn chips might be a fine replacement.)

*I'm too lazy to write out the preparations for this pie. If you're inclined to want to know, then send me a note, and I'll mail you the info.

Word to the Foreign

2011-05-18T01:03:00.000-07:00

1. Window cleaners in the UK often wear non-descript clothes and drive unadorned vehicles. This does not mean that they are casing your block for a future break-in. It just means that they're working CLEANING WINDOWS.

2. Most plumbers, electricians, and the like will already have a key to your flat (given to them by the landlord), and, on the appointed day, will simply let themselves in in order to start doing work. If you'd prefer that they don't just come in while you're in the shower, or otherwise indisposed, then put your key in the bolt lock and lock it from the inside, so that no one may enter first before you've had a chance to put your trousers on.

3. Always offer those who are checking your boiler, smoke alarms, etc... a cup of tea for their troubles. It's the polite thing to do. And, he/she will both accept and drink it (even if you live in an area where the water needs to be strained for its heavy mineral content). :S

4. Questions regarding trash collection and recycling are to be directed to your local council. Collection may vary not only from block to block, but from house to house. If you've moved into a flat/house with no actual front space, then you're to put out sacks (recycling and compost sacks are council provided) weekly on the front pavement. Your neighbor with the front garden need only drop his trash into the bins provided him while you must drag your sacks from the back garden through the house to the front on a weekly basis. -can't wait for the rain!

A Sikh in Yuba City.

2011-05-16T06:35:00.000-07:00

If I didn't know any better, then I'd say that Greenwich is, indeed, the "Mayberry" of London.

For those of you under 30, "Mayberry" is the fictitious town in which all the wonderfully friendly characters of "The Andy Griffith Show" resided in. There was Opie (Richie Cunningham/director of "Cocoon"and so on...), Aunt Bee, the dopey Don Knotts character, Barney Fife, and, of course, Andy himself in the title role as the sheriff. When on the job, Andy always seemed to have time to stop for a chat at the barber's place, visit with the gas station attendants*, and shoot the breeze with deputy Fife. Like Andy, most people in Mayberry always seemed game for a friendly tete-a-tete where ever they went. Amazing. -not so in NYC. And, one would have thought, not so in London.

*aka "Gomer Pyle"

Perhaps things really are different here south of the river. I had always heard from folk living in No. London that So. London was really "not where it's at". "You know, it's so 'South London'", they'd tell me. That last bit is always said as if it were actually enough to clue me in to what was meant and what was really going on down here. Apparently, nothing is supposed to be going on down here, so, if you like that sort of thing, then fine.

Well, I like being chatted to by Bill the plumber about his almost taking a motorbike ride through Arizona, and where one could go in town for a good draught beer as he's checking that the boiler in our new home works correctly. I also like David the framer chatting about the local history of Greenwich, and his trip over to Manhattan with his wife years ago as he helps me choose an appropriate frame for my painting. These transactions really should have taken less time, but with the lovely added bits of small talk my interactions took on more of a hue of friendly banter.

My last unexpectedly friendly and chatty interaction happened yesterday at the local post office/sundry store. This joint is run by a Sikh family and watched over by a tired yet, I'm sure, still feisty shar-pei called, "Molly". I'd gone in to the shop intending to finally buy postcards to send folk back home in California. What I got, in addition to postcards of the Cutty Sark and the Royal Observatory, was very nice small talk from the man at the front of the store minding the sundries till, and, really interestingly, inquisitive yet nice chit-chat from another man at the back postal counter. I mean, come on now, when was the last time you had a really nice interaction with someone at your local post office?

Postal Sikh made sure to give me choices with regard to what sort of stamps I'd like there to be on my postcards. He offered me the most "attractive" ones instead, he said, "boring" ones. Nice job. He also asked where in the states I was from, then proceeded to tell me that he'd been to San Jose, San Francisco, and, get this, Yuba City. Now the first two cities mentioned, well, not really SJ, but, anyway, the first two cities I could see his having visited. San Jose, with 1 million inhabitants, does have an international airport and people from all over the globe living there, so it's conceivable that he has relatives there as well. San Fran, for fairly obvious reasons, I could certainly see his having been to. Yuba City, on the other hand, most people in No. Cal have probably never even heard of let alone visited. In grade school, Californian pupils are taught our states history, and, with that, we learn about the Gold Rush. Coupled with that and the fact that my family annually vacationed in this area when I was a child, I know about Yuba City, Ca. But how, I wondered, had the postal clerk saw fit to make his way there, too? So, I asked him.


Yuba City Victorian ca. 1899

Factoids about Yuba City and its environs:

Yuba City is approx. 40 miles north of Sacramento, California's capital.

The area in and around Yuba City is part of former "Gold Rush" country, and, as such, began experiencing waves of int'l settlers beginning in the mid-1850s.

Sikhs have been living in NE California for over one hundred years, and Yuba City, in particular, is home to a sizable Sikh community.

The friendly postal clerk's grandfather lives in Yuba City.

Flats to let...

2011-05-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

or, as we say back home, "apartments for rent." However you slice it, it's still a tough piece of cake to get your fork into. Letting agents are plentiful and flats slip through one's grasp fairly quickly. I've recorded numerous places from various websites, and called on them only to find that they've been let. The letting agent then makes sure to "register" you, so that he or she may then contact you when other like properties become available. Given the high demand for flats in the capital, it would seem a challenge to get anyone to phone back. Especially if one's initial contact with an estate agent is simply over the phone. I can't imagine that my having an American accent would endear them to me. Perhaps it would be quite the opposite. An American friend of mine living in London for the past 15 years said to me recently, "Everyone thinks that Americans living here are rich." So, I suppose that these commissioned-based estate agents see piles of cash when we walk into their places of business.

The only bit that I do like about the whole estate agent-handled-letting is that the agents themselves will chauffeur you, the potential renter, around town to various properties you're to see in their company car. It's a great way to see the city, but not have to pay a cab driver's fee.

One of the, ahem, "cabbies" called James took the bf and I around Shoreditch in a scruffy-looking VW Polo. You'd have thought he was Steve McQueen in "Bullitt" what with all the speeding around sharp corners and zooming inches away from parked cars and pedestrians as he took us to different rental properties. The best was when his phone rang--as it did numerous times throughout our car ride--and he said, "Oh, it's the office, I've got to take this..." and answered the call. From my vantage point in the back seat, I could see the face of his iPhone. The caller ID from "work" came up as "Super Spurm". Um, yeah, charming workmates, bro.

After seeing flats in Clapton, Shoreditch, Greenwich, and Highbury, we've put in an offer (you'd think we were attempting to buy a house!!) and, had it accepted, on a place in Greenwich, a lovely area just south of the Thames. What with all the Bank Holidays and Royal Wedding shenanigans we've hardly had a decent work week to work within in this country since we've landed, so, hopefully, today we'll find out if our vetting has yielded positive results. Can you believe that one needs both a solid reference from former landlords and friends alike? Finding a friend to say that I'm a decent sort with no obvious problems would be a easy. Our NYC landlord, to whom we'd given a month's notice, and who charged us for the entire month of April although we had flown to LN on the 20th of that month, whose apartment we then did not clean in its entirety, might not be the go-to person for a good reference.

Anyway, fingers crossed that all goes according to plan, and we'll be ensconced down in the Village of Green soon!

Update as of May 6th: the letting jackass, um, agent, who, BTW, is like the "Dougie effin Howser" of letting agents, has been jerking our chain for the past week, and we didn't even know it. I feel a bit of a fool, really, but I just couldn't believe that some little, rosy-cheeked, pip squeak in an ill-fitting suit would be so deceitful.

At the end of April, we saw the Greenwich flat and quickly put in an offer. We were told by the letting agent that the landlord would prefer a long-term lease. THREE years long was the story. Balking, but feeling like we didn't want this place to slip through our fingers, we said, 'yes, but with a get-out clause at 24 mos.' Then we heard nothing for a few days. Jonathan, our young man at the agency, came back with the 'green light' and the bf and I began filling out paperwork. This was two days back. The next day, yesterday, we were informed that the landlord wanted only a one-year contract, that he'd 'changed his mind'. That he thought that that 'was best for him'. Fully perplexed at this point, we could only assume that the landlord was inexperienced at his post, and we weren't sure that we wanted to deal with him any more. Then the letting agent told us that "the landlord just doesn't want to do it anymore. -maybe he has another offer..." The deal was off. The bf, thoroughly fed up at this point, then asked for our very hefty deposit back. Supposedly, the transfer of money took place yesterday, but the funds have yet to show up in bf's account.

To all who think they'll be renting in the UK: estate agents are a, somewhat, necessary evil. Don't trust 'em as far as you can throw 'em. If you're keen on trying the non-agent route, then might I suggest this site: http://www.gumtree.com/

More drag, less queen

2011-04-30T14:37:00.000-07:00

Will's edible parents

Today, the 29th of April, Will and Kate were married. By "Will and Kate" I mean Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton (of party supplies).

Today was also the day of the Republican Street Party held in London by this organization: http://www.republic.org.uk/

These anti-Royals came from all over the UK to protest what they see as an outmoded system that must be dismantled. "Citizen not Subject" was just one of a handful of bumper-sticker phrases I saw emblazoned on t-shirts, mugs, and fliers available at the info. tables set up amid musicians, face-painters, and food stands. "If I had a quid for every time someone said that to me..." was what M., one of the organizers of the party, told me. I had said to her seconds earlier, "Yeah, but how could the monarchy be dismantled?"

Not yer queen's tea mug!

By the end of the day, I didn't have the answer to my question. I did, however, get to see many people come together for a day of relaxed, good fun.

Here are some pictures:


Spiderman in the making

Baby's shirt reads: Stuff the Royal Wedding

This shot gives the expression "Young Republicans" a whole new meaning, thankfully.

Baywatch

2011-04-19T06:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, as we were talking to Chatty Mover, we found out that he hails from the Jersey Shore. And, I actually did not think of that reality show filled with overly tanned men and women whom people think are a joke, but, now, garner quite a lot of money selling products and for speaking engagements around the country. I did, however, think of Summer, family outings, and carnival games. When I told him that I was from California, he said, "Oh, California! What part? I got a buddy who's stationed in San Diego. I hear it's really nice there. The weather is like always 75 degrees there." When my partner said he had grown up in Colorado the response, less enthusiastic, was, "Uh-huh."

Does it really help to explain where you're from? People, based on whatever input they've received about your home, will think what they like and go from there.

I remember when I was a study abroad student in SW Germany. There were many of us from the CSU (Cal State University) system along with those students from across the US studying at the Universitaet. It was always interesting to note the German students' reactions when us foreign students said where we were from.

"I'm from Wisconsin." = tepid response/non-response

"I'm from Florida." = enthusiastic response of some sort, so this may have been before the spate of car-jackings on German tourists by Floridian thugs.

"I'm from South Dakota." = same response as the dude from WI

"I'm from California." = "Ah, Baywatch!" "Ah, LA!" "Ah, Disneyland!"

Mind you, these three typical responses touch, in no way, my experience of life in CA. The weather is not conducive to rescuing drowning victims in the ocean while looking hot in a one-piece. LA is, like, a seven hour drive south from where I'm from. -sorta like a "double decaf non-fat latte" order. You what I'm saying? It was not until the death of my father, when I was 32 years old, that I thought I'd finally go check out what all the fuss was about Disneyland. Let's just say that the signs posted at entryways for most of the rides should read "If you're over this height, then you'll be bored outta yer fuckin' mind if you get on this thing."

Seasons in Pacifica or This is not San Diego

Summertime, for me, meant overcast days spent at Linda Mar Beach in a turtle neck eating sand-sandwiches cuz it was usually so darn windy out. Venturing out to Coyote Point in San Mateo was much the same experience with just a bit more wind and sand.


Overcast Fog Fest

Early-Fall often ushered in slightly warmer temps. The fog would have normally burned off by early afternoon, and, as it was called, we'd have a couple of weeks of Indian Summer. Pacifica's annual "Fog Fest", held at the end of Sept., was hardly ever foggy. -guess the organizers should move the event to anytime between June and early-August for a grayer experience, but, I'd imagine, that they don't want folk not to show up.

Late-Fall meant crisper, cooler air with a certain scent that, sadly, these many years later I could only recall if I were to smell it.

Early-Winter was usually sharp and dry with short days and cold air-chapped cheeks.

Late-Winter was marked by colder, wetter weather that could carry on for days.

Spring seemed to be a solid precursor to Summer, but, perhaps, without as much fog.

All year round seemed to be bad for my hair. Misty weather takes the "oomph" out of feathers.

Turtleneck weather

Suffice it to say that no time during the year was the right time to put on a red one-piece bathing suit and bounce down the beach, sun in ones hair and warm surf hitting ones ankles. Pam Anderson would have frozen her derriere off if she'd tried to pull that shit at Linda Mar.

Thank you

2011-04-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

As I make my way to parts abroad I'd like to thank those here who've truly made my stay in NYC memorable.

A huge Italian-American "grazie" to my old boss, Mr. Phil, who once told me that I could stick a roll of quarters up my ass for all he cared. This was the response to my having asked him if he'd wanted to "buy" the roll as he often needed to go out and feed the meter.

A bold-faced "THANKS" to J. Christopher W., salon owner and bitch-cunt queen extraordinaire who, although he works taking care of the public all day, couldn't be less interested in behaving himself in another person's place of business. Decide that you must sit at "bar 10", the stool on the end, over where your "husband" would like to sit, and see how far that gets you amongst the regulars who already have a low opinion of you. The hubs, who had no place to sit, walked away in a huff; the rest of us averted our gaze and silently wished you'd get up and leave, too.

A big, fake Irish-inflected "tanks" to A.M. (don't call me 'bunny') Morgan for being a drain both financially and emotionally on my partner for almost a decade (it would have been ten years on St. Patty's day--that really warms the cockles of my heart, me boy-o!). Let's hope you do get "more than this" and find something truly "worthwhile".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyqkQMm3LIU
Here's a tip to makin' it last: quit being a mooch.

"Gracias" to the various kitchen staffs that have alternately referred to me as "baby", "mami", "mamita", "borachita", "guapa", y "ella". It's been both a pleasure (when the food came out on time) and a pain (when you were in a bad mood, not talking, cranking up the ranchero music, so no one could hear anyone else at the service window). Hasta, Guapos Grandes!

"Thanks, jack!" The 79 crosstown bus driver who, when I first came to town and couldn't figure out how to put the darn metro card in the bus card slot, just ripped it out of my hand and did it for me without saying a word. Me<---felt like an idiot child. Also, I don't learn by having things done for me, so "not thanks"!

A "gee thanks" to all who approached the box office where I worked thinking that it must instead be an a) NYC information booth; b) fortune teller's box; c) bad attitude dumping ground; d) a place for you to feel smarter, better, stronger, faster!

Super "thanks" to most of the baristas at Joe's for being head and shoulders less snotty than yer West Coast equals at places like Blue Bottle, Ritual, and Four Barrel. You take the order, and you make the drink (usually) sans guff.

Tiny-tot "thanks" to the Brownstone School for filling the sidewalk of W. 80th with your "stroller brigade" every day from 8-9am and 11am-12pm. It's been great having little tykes in buggies and on scooters sharing the already super narrow walkway with me. And to just think that I've been run into by future CEOs and university presidents!

Really a huge "thanks" to Jonathan, a NY "lifer" for showing me who I don't want to be. J. says things like, "I moved here right before 9/11 and, right afterward, I knew I was a New Yorker." Or, he tells me, "every time I get on a train to see my folks, I think, 'what am I doing?' 'Do I really want to leave the city?'" Dude, you're from NJ. It's not like you're visiting the home turf from a galaxy far, far away.

"Oi vey!" and "thanks" to all the Zabar's customers who can't get enough of saying "Excuse me! Excuse me!" repeatedly even though, trapped at the smoked fish counter, I've got no where to go and can't just, with smoked trout in hand, magically, hop out of your way.

Connie, co-owner/lame waitress from 44SW: a tepid "grazie" for responding so poorly when I handed you my nicely written two-week notice and the resume of someone whom I thought would be a good fit to replace me. Connie stuffs my notice and friend's CV roughly into her shoulder bag and says, "Oh, great! Now we have to hire another bartender." Aw, Connie, it's been nice working with you, too.

TD Bank: I give you the "raspberries" and a mild "thanks" for, only when I closed my acct., being professional, courteous, and well-spoken. "TD Bank. The nation's most populated with ill-mannered rubes bank."

Thank you, NYC Farmers' Markets for mostly consisting of four apple stands and a bread booth.

Landlords, Al and Anna: an Archie Bunker style "aw, geez, thanks, eh?!" for almost bleeding us dry to live here, and, at the same time, for giving us a cheap-o, fake-leather coin purse and some super stinky lavender bath salts from the discount store around the corner for Xmas the first year we moved in.

THANK YOU: 1 out of 3 movers from the Jersey shore who's friendly and chatty. This helps reduce the nervousness around having things like my great grandma Bea's 1920s tile-top side table only wrapped in what looks like thinly lined butcher paper.

Icky-gross "thanks" to the mover who just farted in the space beneath the loft area where I'm sitting. "Did someone just rip some packing tape in here, or what?!"

"Sold"

2011-04-14T09:22:00.000-07:00

He said, "slap a sold sticker on that thing 'cuz it's mine!" That was over a month ago. Over the past two weeks, I've been trying to get in touch with him, so that we could make the money/goods exchange. As promised, I delivered the goods to our mutual place of work two Saturdays ago, before, incidentally, I gave notice. I went in over this past weekend to a) see if T. was working, and b) see if the fancy kitchen product that was so "sold" a month ago was still in house. It was, but T. wasn't.

As I careen toward my last day in the States, I really don't want to be bothered with folk who say one thing, but do another. Shit, right now, is stressful enough without having to wonder if said kitchen product will actually be both picked up and paid for. I feel like a lame-o, too, because I don't want my now former boss to think that I treat his place of work as my personal dumping grounds for items that I no longer want or need.

Next, I'll be bringing my rather large stack of German Rolling Stone magazines in for everyone's perusal. Never mind that no one on staff speaks German. The pictures are cool, right?

Besides much of the "German" used in the magazine is, actually, borrowed words from English. So, according to German Rolling Stone, Elvis might have been known on its front cover as "Der King des Rock-n-Rolls". Figuring out what that means, for English speakers, is not too tricky, is it? "Das neue Album von so-and-so!" "Der Musikjournalist so-and-so..." English, at least in the realm of music, is "echt cool".

Actually, English, in conjunction with selling products, is cool.

"Reduziert!"

"Top-preise!"

If one were to actually use, so called, "reines Deutsch" instead of these wacky "Germlisch" equivalents, then one would write on sales signs: "Ermaessigung!" "Beste-preise!" or "Niedrigste-preise!" Oh, and "sale" ain't German either.

I now know what to do. I'll go on down to my old job, Sharpie in hand, and scrawl across the box that contains my costly kitchen tool, "Top-preise!" and see if that inspires ole whats-his-name to cough up the dough he owes.

Guest blog a moi!

2011-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

GoofyGirl, over at http://thereisgrandeur.blogspot.com/ has graciously asked for submissions about why we, who are here, began blogging in the first place. She'll be posting replies from various blog folk in her fold as the weeks go by. It should be an interesting read to find out what people's stories are. I'm excited! Are you?

OCD

2011-04-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

Nail-biting in public is gross. Nail-biting and spitting out your chewed-up nail bits on the floor by your bar stool as you sit in front of me is even grosser. To make matters worse, this man who was "eating" his hand wasn't even a customer. He was waiting for the owner's son--who was late, as usual,--and only drinking water, lots of water. Looking at him chew and spit and slurp, I saw dollar signs going down the drain as I was sure no one would want to sit next to him for a nibble and a libation, if I actually were to have anyone sit at the bar on such an already slow night. Much to my chagrin, "chewie" took up three bar stools: one for his person, one for his backpack, and one for his coat. As I hadn't had many customers up to this point, I had ample time to focus in on the dude's slurping as he emptied his pint of H2O again and again. Alternating between hand in mouth and glass of water at his mouth, the part of me who fancies herself an armchair psychologist thought that homey had some sort of oral fixation. On his left hand he wore a thin, gold, wedding band, so, I figured, he wasn't always as bad as he seemed to me now. Or, really, his spouse was just as effed up as he was.

After about 20 minutes of listening to the uncomfortable sounds of biting and slurping that even Tony Bennet and Frank Sinatra couldn't cover up, Carlo, the owner's son, arrived and took his place next to Oral Man. There was a shuffling of papers, and a signature or two, before the "meeting" was over. Then, fortunately, both Carlo and "chewie" were gone in a flash and I was back to looking out the window, waiting for some action at the phone stand.

Return trip

2011-04-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I touched down at SFO and thus began my first trip back home since leaving in Dec. of 2009. Over the past 20 years, I have used SFO for many-a trip to points far beyond the boundaries of CA. I know how to navigate the airport. I don't stop, stumble, or stare around hopelessly trying to find exits, entrances, boarding gates, or public transport. Well, I don't do any of things except for yesterday. Yesterday, I couldn't find BART.

BART, opened in 1977, has carried me around the Bay Area since I was of single-digit age. My mom and I used to ride the trains to sight-see, not off-board, and then return home. It was cheap, good fun.

After the divorce, BART took me, with the help of a drop-off or bus ride, from dad's house in Pacifica to mom's house in Hayward (or the other way 'round, depending upon which parent I was living with at the time). As a bratty 12 year old, I would almost always chose to sit in the last car because it was usually empty. It was there where I would smoke a roach or drink a smuggled in beer. As with all end-of-the-line trains, the back end of the train would become the front end in order to make its return journey. The conductor, now sitting in the "caboose," had to make his way from the end car to the front car before we'd be on our way. One time, as the conductor came through the car I was in, he made sure to tell me, in a friendly but firm voice, that it wasn't a good idea for me to passenger in an empty car as things could happen. He didn't really elaborate, but I knew what he'd meant. That conductor did me a huge favor. Never mind my own personal safety, I had only thought of being alone, breaking the law, and sulking on my ride home from a weekend spent at dad's house.

In later years, I was one of the many commuters who took BART from the East Bay to school, and, then, to work. I'm BART savvy, so how come I couldn't find the darn train yesterday?

Well, if one doesn't fly in from far-flung foreign places where American English is a mere babble in films and on TV, then SFO-BART is a trek to get to. After hiking around the domestic terminal for some minutes, I lucked out and found an info. booth that was actually staffed. (Well, by "staffed" I mean replete with volunteer, but, after carrying around heavy bags for minutes on end, I wasn't going to get picky.) The volunteer, it turned out, was not only friendly, but knew the layout of the airport and was able to tell me where I was to find the in-house BART station with a very pleasant smile on her face. I mean I knew where it was (int'l terminal), I just couldn't figure out how to walk there from where I was. I sort of felt like a Bay Area failure. It was a weird experience. Up until the age of 40, I had lived in the Bay Area, and, now, I couldn't find my way out of the proverbial paper bag. Fortunately, the rest of my return trip has not been marked with the type of "WTF?" anxiety I briefly experienced at SFO. It's good to be home.

God told him to...

2011-03-27T15:46:00.000-07:00

When I first started my current bar job two months back there were some glaring omissions to the bar set-up. There was no simple syrup; there was no fresh citrus of any kind. I made simple syrup in the kitchen and put it in an old break bottle with a partially torn off label. Citrus, easy pickin' in the walk-in, was brought up from the basement at the start of my shifts. After hearing from the owner that my s.s. should be in a different container, so as not to rankle the inspection folk, I brought in a label-free bottle that used to house incredibly fine scotch that the husband and I recently polished off, and poured the sugar water into it. For about a month, this arrangement worked well.

Yesterday, I came into work, and found, to my dismay, that the simple syrup bottle I use to make yummy drinks with like this one:

was gone. I looked around a bit before I started to squawk about it to my co-workers.

"The Monday night bartender took it home," said the busser, David. "He did what?!?!" I said louder than was absolutely necessary. David was like, "I didn't know. I thought maybe he had talked to you, and you told him it was okay to take it." After hearing from David, I phoned Edmond, my sticky-fingered co-worker, and left a WTF? message on his machine. He returned my call and left a message that was some tripe about "well, I heard you quit, and no one uses the simple syrup, and I liked the bottle, so I took it." I guess he lives in a world where no one gives two weeks' notice, or any notice, for that matter. Jerk.

Edmond, around my age, and seemingly decent-looking in appearance, had worked at the restaurant full-time as a bartender up until November. Edmond was also the guy who, having come back on a "fill in" basis, trained me. He'd quit, he said, because he wanted to focus on some "at home" job that I was only vaguely interested in hearing about at that time.

As I became settled in to my new digs, I began hearing about the real reason Ed didn't work at the restaurant anymore. Flashback to November: Edmond, having found god seven years' prior in a really serious way, was told by god to "stop serving people alcoholic beverages." This bit of info. can be substantiated by a handful of people at the restaurant. God told him to stop, so he quit tending bar. (Although he's now back two days weekly serving drinks to those in need, so did he have to ask god for permission first in order to do so?) Oh, and, did god tell him to steal my bottle, too? I should ask him that tomorrow when I go into the restaurant to retrieve my stolen goodie. Like I really give a fig about the bottle, but hey, it's the principle of the matter.

A Golden Rule, of sorts, for Edmond, the Man Who Listens To God: don't take other people's shit, and, if you do and get caught, then bring it back, fucker.

Go, Van, Go!

2011-03-20T17:18:00.000-07:00

I've been perusing through a few different books that will, hopefully, help with the transition from living in the US to living in the UK. Having already been to London numerous times over the past decade, I am content in the knowledge that I do know some things of value already. However, I expect to make some horrible gaffs along the way. I only hope that folk will find them funny, and not offensive.

From Gaff to Goff:

The artist who painted these lovely branches is, to us, Van "Go". However, to those in the UK, he is Van "Goff". I don't know how many times old Van Gogh will come up in conversation, but I'll be ready.

Some newly learned and already known knowledge:

People from the UK, in general, are not to be called "Brits." That would be the equivalent of all us in the US being referred to as "Yanks." And, no, the Republic of Ireland is not a part of the British Isles. If you want to piss of a chick from Co. Dublin, then tell her that.

"Panties" are only for girls, and not the kind you'd find taking such things off for money at clubs with names like "Lace," "Gold Club," and "Lusty Lady." Women wear "knickers" in the UK, but, really, when I hear "knickers" I think of the girls on Little House on the Prairie. I'll probably just stick to wearing underpants.

<---"Half-pint" goes full.

Being made "redundant" means that you've lost your job. Buildings, too, can lose their job, as it were, and, all over the country, one can hoist a pint in a former House of the Lord. Say two "Hail Marys" and drink a Whitby Ale!

When I last visited Douglas, granddad (not grandpa) to a friend's child, he asked me how life was in "Barkley". Knowing that he meant "Berkeley" made answering fairly easy. Up until now, I had thought that his was a particularly So. London pronunciation, given that that's where he's from. However, having recently checked the book "Rules, Britannia" on English/Scottish/Welsh pronunciations of place names, I now understand that when most folk over yonder say any word with "erk" in it, then it sounds like "ark". Although I'm still not too sure how to say "Berkshire". "Barkshu"? "Barksha"?

Jacko, Macca, and Madge

I much prefer the way musical celebs are named by UK press. Michael Jackson goes from "MJ" to "Jacko" abroad. "Jacko" sounds like "wacko" and, when I think of MJ dangling his baby over the balcony of a German hotel, this British moniker fits.

"Macca", actually, seems the least inspired nickname given that I'd recently read it's common for those with a surname beginning with "Mc/Mac" to be called "Macca". Maybe Paul McCartney should be called "Sir Macca" in order for him to stand out just a bit.

Madonna, a one-named music making machine on the scene for much of the last 25 years, is taken down a notch, and made, somehow, accessible to the "little people" by being called "Madge" in the press. I guess it's meant to be, sort of, a term of endearment bestowed upon her by enamored Britons. Whenever I hear the name, "Madge", I think of the national dish soap commercial from the 70s that had manicurists talking about "Palmolive", I think it was. The tag-line was something like, "Madge, you're soaking in it!" Ha. I'd like to see Madonna give someone a mani/pedi.

"My kingdom for some coke!"

2011-03-17T08:04:00.000-07:00

I was walking down A'dam Ave. to work the other day, and, at around 68th St., I saw an enfeebled-looking Stacy Keach coming toward me. Stiff-legged and slightly bent forward wearing a beret, dark sunglasses and slip-on shoes, this was not the man who donned the fedora and wrinkled suit as Mike Hammer to battle crime and sleep with sexy, mysterious women in NYC back in the mid-80s. Remington Steele he wasn't. His allure was all 'tough guy' charm.

Interestingly, one of my mom's oldest friends recalls "discovering" S. Keach performing at the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon back in 1963. This was after he'd graduated from UC Berkeley, I'd imagine. <---I really don't know why I know this little factoid, but I suspect it has something to do with why I know that the actor Barry Bostwick (Brad from Rocky Horror) is from San Mateo and that Tom Hanks went to San Jose State University. I'm from the Bay Area of California. If anyone who's from there/lived there then goes off to become someone, news of their connection to the home turf is dug up and gets passed around.

After seeing my main man, "Mike", dodder down the street, I was reminded of his career's derailment due to repeated cocaine abuse throughout the 80s. Wasn't he busted for trying to smuggle the drug either into or out of the UK? Since then, he's done the odd TV spot, and a lot of NY theater. As a relative newcomer to NY, I've missed out on any and all of his East Coast performances.

If he's not yet performed the title role in King Lear, then I'd surely like to see him do so. Maybe the UK will forgive him his drug smuggling past, and I'll have the pleasure of watching Stacy perform in the West End once I've moved over there?

Marriage, Manhattan-style

2011-03-13T17:58:00.000-07:00

On Friday, March 11, my partner and I went to the City Clerk's Office in Manhattan to get hitched. Well, we went to the East Chapel, to be precise. For thirty-five bucks one gets what one expects. Inside the chapel there was a salmon-colored sofa with blackish stains all over the seat. The walls were a shade of blue that was reminiscent of a Motel 6 six I stayed in many moons ago. Behind a Plexiglas shield were displayed very large and stately wedding registries dating from around the turn of the last century. The lighting came from a massive, octopus-like chandelier in the middle of the room. The whole place was, sort of, cheerful, yet impersonal, and a little bit unkempt.

My cousin, my good friend, my groom-to-be, and I were fooling around laughing and pointing out the slight tackiness of the chapel when the officiator came into the room. "Hi, guys!" was all it took from him to make me feel like I was just about to order a Big Mac and fries from some polyester-clad dude instead of get hitched from some polyester-clad dude.

Below is a cleaner, greener version of what's housed in the East Chapel. Note the stain-free sofa. The open door on the right side of picture shows a bit of our chapel. The West Chapel, logically, is to the left of the stain-free sofa.

From somewhere beyond our wedding room, "Dream Weaver" was playing through a meager-sounding hi-fi system. As far as wedding songs go, "Dream Weaver" has got to be one of the more dated, and, dare I say, ridiculous choices one could make. I couldn't tell if the "easy listening" soundtrack was complements of Manhattan's City Clerk's Office, or, better yet, of the kooky-looking Eastern Europeans getting hitched in the Western Chapel who then began taking pictures on and around the green sofa in the middle waiting area. Let's hope that they didn't make any stains!

NYC-2011

2011-03-08T07:26:00.000-08:00

What do you think of when you think of modern-day Manhattan? Aspiring actors trying to catch a break? Times Square with all its neon lights? The Statue of Liberty (actually in New Jersey waters)? Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big? Well, whatever it is you do think of, I'm certain that it's not of homophobes and people speaking in racial terms circa the 1950s.

Last week, in the span of a few hours, I had two people expose themselves to be narrow-minded disappointments.

1) A co-worker told me that she really likes San Francisco, but there are all these "gay people in the downtown area". It was just too much for her. And, that she could see living there, but not raising children there because she doesn't want her kids around "all these gay people". Of course, don't get her wrong because she has "best friends who are gay." This from a 33 year old woman living in NYC and working in Hell's Kitchen for the past ten years, one of the gayest areas in town.

2) A customer at the bar in his late-forties who is the father of two teen-age children, a(self-described)Jew, and, seemingly, intelligent guy, tells me about the new apartment building he's just moved into in Hell's Kitchen. It's really multi-ethnic, he mentions, as there are all sorts of people always in the elevator on his way in and out of the building. He's going down the litany of folk when I hear him say, "Orientals." If one isn't talking about a rug or a vase, then this term doesn't apply.

I suppose referring to Asians as Orientals may not be construed by some people as offensive as talking about how "gays" will pollute a young child's mind, but it turned me off to the customer who said it in a really big way. If he says that, then what other sort of bullshit, outdated terminology does he reserve for people of other ethnic backgrounds? Oh, and I know he's Jewish because he made some horrible joke of feeling the need to flee once I and another German-speaking patron began chatting auf Deutsch. Hahaha....no.

Surname...

2011-03-03T22:58:00.000-08:00

My great-grandma Beatrice, for whom I am named, came over from England at the turn of the last century, on her own, at the age of 17. Family lore has it that she arrived at the port of Oakland, and, upon setting foot ashore, remarked at how San Francisco wasn't as grand as she thought it would be. (Whenever I think of grandma Bea's supposed response to Oak-town, I am reminded of Gertrude Stein's (in)famous quote, "There's no there there.")

Bea died, in her 90s, in 1975. I have no recollection of her, sadly. I do, however, have a pink baby blanket that she knitted for me when I was born. Also in possession is a wall mirror given to her from prominent, local attorney Melvin Belli for whom she had once worked, and a beautiful, wooden, side table topped with colorful tile dating back to So. California circa 1920s.

Here is a "cousin" table image I found online:

Among the heirlooms passed down from Bea are bits of language that our family used when I was growing up. It was not until I was out on my own, that I realized most other American folk didn't share these words. Chief among them is "surname."

Today, at HSBC, EMM and I filled out paperwork enabling us to open up a checking/savings acct. in London. Our "wealth adviser", or whatever his title was, graciously explained how to fill out said forms the correct way for the UK branch to process them. "Surname", we were told, meant "last name." I resisted the urge to blurt out, "I know!" "'DD/MM/YYYY' is how it's written in the UK," he further explained. I know that, too, I whispered in my head.

Having forgotten to bring both our passports and a bill with our names and address on the envelope, we're set to return tomorrow for more form-filling "cheerio pip-pip" sort of fun.

Orchids and Onions

2011-02-28T11:33:00.000-08:00

Lest you think I'm really that clever, I should tell you that the name of this blog was lifted directly from my junior high yearbook list that chronicled all that was good and bad about whatever it was that was happening during any given school year.
I have really vague memories about what we Rancho Arroyans found to be both tolerable and intolerable during my one-year stint at the school, but I remember the format of the page.

It looked a bit like this:

Orchids to...
Onions to...
Orchids to...
Onions to...

It was repetitive, but did the trick. Today, after having experienced an "up" moment, I spoke with my mom, and received unsettling news. So, in Rancho Arroyo junior high fashion, I'll share the information here.

Orchids to...going down to City Hall and obtaining a marriage license.

Onions to...finding out that my mom's house is in the process of being foreclosed upon.

For a bit of comic relief, below is a picture of me from junior high. I'm at my best friend's house. Note the pictures of rock-n-rollers taken from the pages of Cream and Circus magazines that were taped up on her bedroom wall behind me.

The Phone Zone

2011-02-25T15:42:00.000-08:00

From my perch at the bar where I now work, I have an almost unobstructed view of 44th St. @ 9th Ave. And, almost every shift I work, through the floor to ceiling windows, I am treated with a free show.

Yesterday was no exception. The double phone stand (I'd write "booth" but the phones aren't enclosed) directly across from my bar top has so much action going on, and, seemingly, none of it phone-related. At around 4.30, a man in his 60s with white hair and casual clothes, stopped at the phone stand, and, making a show of rummaging through his front pockets for change, made a motion toward picking up the phone receiver. After quickly looking over both his left and right shoulders he then took out a lighter and lit up some sort of pipe. His back was mostly to me, so I could only imagine his drug of choice. He took two or three successive hits before putting the drug accouterments back into his backpack and going on his merry way. I came out from behind the bar, so that I could have a better look at the guy. And, strangely, he never blew any smoke out of his mouth as he scooted on down the street. Weird. Was he not smoking pot? Maybe crackheads don't exhale.

A couple of weeks ago, at about the same time of day, (don't these fools want to wait until cover of night?) some well-to-do, banker-looking dude decided that he just couldn't wait until the next bar/going home/what-not until urinating. The phone stand became his personal urinal. I don't know why, but I was more offended by the pisser than the smoker, and, instead of just gawking, I threw a pen at the glass directly behind him as he relieved himself. He turned around to see a wall of glass and the entire (there were very few of us) restaurant staff studiously contemplating the ceiling tiles.

Das Deutsche

2011-02-22T11:36:00.000-08:00

Als ich etwa 20 war, fange ich mit der deutschen Sprache an. Waehrend der folgenden Jahren habe ich ab und zu jede Menge Deutsch beide studiert und gelernt aber auch, leider, verlernt. Vor einem Monat hat mein Freund mir gesagt, dass es eine Moeglichkeit gaebe, dass er eine Stelle in Zuerich bekommen koenne. Die Nachrichten hat mich so sehr gefreut, weil so 'was sicher bis jetzt nie vorstellbar waere. Traeume von einem neuen Leben auf Deutsch

werden entwickelt. Eine Chance meinem Freund SW Deutschland zu zeigen wuerde frueher als spaeter kommen. Ich sah alles ganz klar: wir beiden in der Tuebinger Altstadt, Einkaufsbummlen in der Koenigsstrasse in Stuttgart, neben dem Fluss in Esslingen, und, aller Wichtigen, bei Freunden zum Kaffee und Kuchen in Wurmlingen.

Klar wollte ich auch mein Deutsch verbessern und der Freund wollte ueberhaupt einiges lernen. Wichtiger vielleicht waere, dass zur Zeit ich nicht mehr in den Staaten wohnen moechte.
NYC ist, mehr oder weniger, gar nicht schlecht, aber immer noch ein Raetsel, wenn ich mich daran denke. Wir beherrschen dieselbe Sprache, benutzen auch dasselbe Geld, aber irgendwie sind wir doch verschiedene Menschen. Daran liegt genau das Problem. Wir sollten doch mehr aehnlich sein, oder? Ein Staat, verschiedene Menschen sei das Motto Amerikas.
Einfacher waere, wenn ich doch in einem anderen Land mit einer anderen Sprache, mit anderem Bargeld, u.s.w. wohnen wuerde. Wenn es dann irgendeine kulturelle Misverstaendnisse gaebe, koennte ich ja sagen, "Ach! Ich bin doch Auslaenderin und deswegen...!" So eine Ausrede habe ich hier in der City nicht. Das macht mich einigermassen frustriert. Wie die im Sudwesten sagen, "So issch das Leben, ebe!"

London calling...

2011-02-21T06:53:00.000-08:00

"It's February, anything can happen," said Lynn, a member and regular film-goer at the theater where I work. She was referring to the weather. Over the course of a few days last week, NYers experienced 40-60-30 degree weather. I'd gone from wearing a thick coat, to wearing short sleeves to wearing a thick coat, scarf, gloves and surly attitude.

Great change can come in all forms in Feb., I have recently found out. And, in a matter of months, say two-ish, I'll be leaving the "Big Apple" behind for a new life in the UK.

There's much to do. -much to donate, sell, toss out, and agonize over taking. I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of such a big life change, but, thankfully, I have my recent uprooting from CA to serve as guide. I'll still feel at times that I don't know what in the heck it is I'm doing with my life, but, maybe, I'll feel better this time around about not knowing.

Because of my impending departure, my love-hate relationship with NY city is quickly becoming a relationship of intrigue. There's suddenly now much to see and do before I go.

Here's a short list that I compiled last night in my head:

Eat at the Russian Samovar
Really, really visit the Bronx Zoo
Walk or bike across the Brooklyn Bridge
Take a "circle" ferry around the Hudson and East Rivers

And, silly as it may seem, here's a list of things that I still don't want to do:

Visit Ground Zero
Go to the top of the Empire State Building
Eat a pretzel from a street vendor
See the musical "Spiderman"
Take a carriage ride through Central Park

"Spa-TAHN" and other jazz.

2011-02-13T17:11:00.000-08:00

I went with a dear work pal out tonight for dinner in the 'hood. Having an abundance of food choices around the UWS, we weren't quite sure where to go. After a few rounds of emails, we decided on a place that was in the vicinity and boasted a nice-looking website.

Snotty, balding, concierge-like, older host and his younger, thin chiquita-minion who could have really benefited from a breath mint (not eating all day just gives you shit breath and a crap complexion, sister) were not the least of the restaurant's shortcomings.

Our well-meaning yet clueless waiter named, um, "Sirilliam" told me when I asked after their tap beer selection of a great new German beer they had called, "Spa-TAHN" (apparently it rhymes with 'baton'). Excuse me? "Spa-TAHN"? I asked if this exotic beer were spelled, "S-P-A-T-E-N." He nodded. Then I asked if I could correct him on the pronunciation. It's "SPAH-ten" I said. (I could have gone further to include the actual German way of saying any word beginning with an "sp" is "schp," but I didn't want the dude's head to explode.) I then asked him what kind of Spaten--lighter or darker. "Oh, no. We don't have any light beers. It's a darker beer." Having already lost trust in his ability to know beer in the slightest, I decided to give up on ordering anything dark/light/foreign/domestic at all.

Our food came in good time. I ate with gusto my beet salad and sucked down tasty yet small mussels. My pal didn't really like her "Aged" burger, and, at 18 bucks a pop, she really should have. Boo on you, Aged. The service, slow but well-meaning, could have used a shot in the arm. And, as you'll read, better training not only in how to pronounce product names, but also how to open said product!

The real fun came during the end of our stay when the table next to us ordered a bottle of red wine. I happened to look their way as our waiter extraordinaire was managing to strangle the bottle open with a choke hold that would have killed a cat in mere minutes. The bottle's label was facing away from the customers as old what's-his-name was jerking the wine key back and forth as a way of forcing the cork out. Never mind that he actually had a two-hinged wine key that, had he known how to use properly, would have done most of the "heavy lifting" for him. Not wanting to prolong the agony, I looked away before he'd finished extracting the cork, only to hear my seat-mate say, "Oooh, he's spilled wine on the customer!"

Going back to...

2011-02-10T11:05:00.000-08:00

I didn't get more than three hours of sleep last. And, having just gotten off of work from the movie house with my bar gig to go to this evening, I should

be asleep. Or, actually, I should be resting my eyes because that's probably all I could manage at this time of the afternoon.

For some reason, I am currently reminded of what people here on the East Coast affectionately call my home state. Mind you, I had no knowledge of this particular pet name until leaving CA and landing in NYC. For those of you who don't know, and, really, I suspect that I may be the only CA transplant who doesn't, let me give you a hint: LL Cool J. (Thanks, LL, you douche.)

If I had a nickel for every time I've heard from someone say, "Oh, you're from Cali?" I'd be able to buy a lot of Kit-kat bars right about now. It's like I'm from some Southeast Asian island nation with a population of just under 200,000. Where the eff is Cali? Is that just next to Nevadi and below Oregoni?

I'm mean, it's like finding out someone is from Shreveport, LA and responding with, "Oh, you're from Weeziana?" WTF? Why abbreviate a state's name like that?

So as not to offend NYers more than I already have since relocating here just a little over one year ago, I don't say anything when people call it "Cali" unless, of course, I think that they might be interested in knowing what natives actually call their state. If not, then I keep my lip buttoned. -don't want to be known as that "bitch from Cali".

Broadway Brats

2011-02-04T07:39:00.000-08:00

At first, I was grateful for the full presence at my new bar job last night. All night, I had small groups, solos, and duos with which to occupy my time. Small talk was made; laughs were had. Until, that is, the Broadway folk showed up. Let me be clear: one out of six was a sweetheart who, before her posse of five began to trickle in, was chatting amiably and comfortably with both other customers and me for the better part of twenty minutes. She was to meet a B'way producer to talk "shop." I had an inkling of who it might be, and was none too delighted when the man in question showed up. "Boy-Toy" is a hard drinking, very sharp-tongued, and fairly catty straight man who is a "regular" at my current bar gig. He suffers no fools; you know when you've made that list, let me tell you. Fortunately, he had his "work meeting" to contend with, so not much attention was directed my way, at least, for the first hour of his stay. After that, he found it funny to call me "lesbian" instead of using my name. The name, in fact, he greeted me with on his way in that night. Is it my short hair? Is it because I don't fawn over him like his young starlet-types? Does he really think that adolescent crap like that is funny?

Sadly, none of his crew batted an eye (the "nice one" was lost in talk with another in the group, and didn't notice, I should like to think) as he referred to my alleged sexuality, but made sure to note that, hey, he'd "go down on me." That was the icing on the shit cake, for sure.

Terrier in a fox fur

2011-02-03T11:05:00.000-08:00

I've been tending bar for the past 10 years, and can safely say that I've almost seen it all. There were the group of Tongans who tried to play "pass the ID" thinking that I wouldn't realize that the guy offering up his driving license was standing next to the guy whose card it actually was. How do you say in Tongan, "you don't all look alike, bros"? Then there were the two young men smelling of weed, in baggy pants, stiff baseball caps, and mouths full of gold-looking caps who decided to bypass the bar altogether and slip into the back room for heaven knows. My jaunt to the back room's entry was quicker than theirs, so, upon meeting them there, they proceeded to curse me out for having the gall to ask for ID. (Nothing says "I hate you" more than being called a "white bitch.") As it turned out, one was of age, and one wasn't. At the younger one's request to go ahead and "call the mother@#$kin' cops", I did just that. Given our litigious society, it was suggested by the arriving officer that I make clear the of age brat was welcomed to stay, but his friend had to leave. Of course, they both left.

Apart from ID games, there are always those who, when having drunk too much, get randy. The ubiquitous couple joined at the mouth while barely sipping their drinks at the bar is a real crowd-pleaser. "Get a room!" always pops into my head at that point. Honestly, I didn't come to work to see two (usually unappealing) jerks get it on. I have, at times, said to various offending couples, "you're in a public place." That usually just serves to make them mad. -kinda like hitting a hive with a stick. Then there was the gal who was giving a guy a hand job in one of the darkened booths as I came by to pick up their glassware. For that one, I came back to the table with a cup of ice, slammed it down in front of them, and loudly said, "cool off, hot stuff! There aren't enough condoms to go around!" Humiliation usually kills the sex vibe.

Having gone through zany bar adventures that would make most people not want to show up to work the next day, I didn't think that working in a box office would make me feel exactly that way. It may not be about under-aged drinkers trying to pull a fast one, or drunk couples coupling, but it's about the never-ending curve balls that people throw you that really make the head spin.

Two days into our last film series, Dance On Camera, I worked a not-very-busy box shift. Many dancers, students of dance, and teachers of dance came to see the films. All of them seemed to be entitled to some sort of discounted ticket or another. There are different price types, and different codes to key into the system, but it's the same pain in the ass.

At one point during my shift, a young female comes to the window and asks for a student ticket to see whatever was playing at that point. I asked to please see her ID, as some of the dance company kids are entitled to two-for-one deals, and that sort of thing is best said to those who are actually entitled, so as not to piss off those who aren't. She said this: "Um, I'm home-schooled, so I don't have a student ID." Well, knock me over with a feather, sister! I hadn't noticed just how young she was. I guess home-schooled kids can be poised beyond their years, if not always socialized necessarily all that well. She got her discount, to be sure.

The next customer who came to my window was an older woman in heavy make-up wearing a floor-length fur coat and carrying a small terrier. The terrier, a tired-looking Toto wannabe, was shaking all over. I had heard that some smaller breeds shake, so this shouldn't have been so surprising except for the fact that the pooch was also wearing a fur coat! The tailor-made piece had a lovely, wide collar and was beautifully fit. At that point, I thought two things: the coat probably cost more than any of my adult-sized, non-fur coats, and I will never be in a position that affords me to wear a tailor-made fur coat.

Outrageously dressed...

2011-01-24T09:25:00.000-08:00

movie and TV people who, seemingly, do not want to be recognized while walking down the streets of Manhattan really are a head-scratcher. Cynthia Nixon, looking every bit the part in her "Nanook of the North" get up, was slushing her way to the corner bodega the other afternoon as I walked by her. I wouldn't have thought to look at all in her direction except that she was wearing what looked like twenty pounds' worth of pelts and hides. Imagine a little white head poking up through the top of an all-encasing, suede-n-fur contraption. Of course the head, too, was topped with a thick, knit, ear-flap cap replete with puff-ball on the top. She was a Winter Wonder, I tell ya. How could I not gawk? She caught my stare with a tight-lipped smile. Perhaps, she thought I was (we are in Manhattan, after all) star-struck at having seen one of the "Sex and the City" girls in the flesh at 78th and A'dam. But, really, I was preoccupied with the thought of how many cute, furry animals had to die in order for her to warmly hit up the corner store for a carton of milk in mid-January.

Let's make nicey-nice!

2011-01-17T11:23:00.000-08:00

-three women, much misdirected anger and upset. I don't know exactly what the reason is behind one woman crying at the box office, another woman raising her arm and clawing her fingers up toward the ceiling in a weird mafioso-like gesture, and, yet, another woman fixing her green eyes on me and, through clenched teeth, demanding that I tell her what films are sold out. Well, I partly know. These are people who expect to be spoon-fed their information without having to participate in the conversation as equal partners. What they are hoping is this: that I do my work and I do theirs, too.

The New York Jewish Film Festival brings out a lot of complicated emotions for folk. Given the history of many of the films' attendees, I can understand why. Really, I can. But, please, it's not fair for any of these customers to dump on me or my co-workers because they are feeling put out, misunderstood, or not quickly enough served. We're all here now in 2011 trying to get along.

Here's a small list of questions that I really don't have any answers to, but get asked repeatedly: when did this film sell out? How many people will be in the stand-by line for tickets? How many tickets will be released to sell to the public right before the start of (insert name of sold-out show here)?

If we're all such trying people to talk to at the box office, then I suggest that you call: 212-875-5600, then press 1, in order to hear a recorded voice name the list of sold-out shows. And, if you do feel that you could handle a nice communication with us, then, please, provide us with the following information: the day, time, and name of the performance in question. To ask, "what shows are sold out?" just doesn't really help me help you. Come prepared, and we will, too.

Keep it to yourself....

2011-01-07T11:36:00.000-08:00

really.

So, I've been knocked out by a really horrible cold for the past two days. Today, I've finally found enough energy to shower, get dressed, and go the local supermarket to buy some much needed food. Not that doing any of this has been easy. Just the act of putting on clothes and blow-drying my hair made the back of my neck sweat. And, it doesn't help that we're on some sort of "blizzard alert" today. It's been snowing for the past five hours, and I'm waiting for cars to "go missing" under piles of white.

Armed with shopping bag, wallet, and, in case I get lost in the snow, cell phone, I make my way to the nearest, but certainly not best, store. When I moved here last December, I couldn't pronounce the name of this place. It's spelled, G-R-I-S-T-E-D-E-S, and I thought it was called, "Gristeeds." I soon learned, as any local will tell you, that people here call it, "Gris-tee-dees." Three syllables that are synonymous with overpriced product and crap service. Not just crap service, like you find at many other markets, but, like, workers-being-extremely-thoughtless service. Maybe it's just another NY thing that I don't understand.

After using all of my still sick energy going up and down all the aisles trying to find fixings for chicken noodle soup--since I hate shopping here and try to come as infrequently as possible, I never remember where shit is--and some other food staples, I make my way to one of two checkers open. I soon see and hear that they are having what should be a private conversation with each other above the heads of the customers whom they're helping. Their talk is loud and off-putting. The chick who's scanning my food, at one point, picks up the sausages that I'd remembered to buy for the boyfriend and says to her co-worker across the aisle, "Uhhhh, don't these look like intestines? Gross!" I'm thinking, "That's my food, bitch." But, wanting not to cause a small scene by saying anything, I keep a thin smile on my face as I pay for the food and get the hell out of there. Sometimes, I find, it's best to keep one's mouth shut and just get on with it, and, really, the checkers at Gristedes should do the same.

Smoking Bag

2011-01-03T12:11:00.000-08:00

Susan Sarandon came to the theater today and watched a matinee. She was barely recognizable in her all black garb: high-top sneakers, tight leggings, a waist-length cape, and floofy knit cap that covered her hair. As she was leaving, I was standing by the back of the house waiting for the lights to go up. We made eye contact as she passed and said to her Tim Robbins look-a-like possible beau, "My bag is smoking." Why was her bag smoking? Did she forget to extinguish a partially smoked joint before exiting the theater? Did she mean that her bag was hot to the touch because she'd been using it as a cushion through the long foreign film that we'd screened that afternoon? I'll never know.
I was in the lobby as she and her man made their way outside. I noticed that his pants weren't pulled all the way up in that annoyingly "hip" sort of way usually associated with boys the age of Susan's own sons. Why, I thought, would she be sleeping with some dude that can't properly cover his buttocks with denim? Dammit, Janet, please get a clue!

White Dec. 26th

2010-12-26T19:59:00.000-08:00

NYC has finally succumbed to the elements. There have been heaps of snow, wind, and, in general, bummer weather the entire day-after-Christmas. The gentle flurries of last week were fun to watch through the front room window, and they didn't prevent me from planning my daily activities. However, snarls of snowfall being blown by high winds as the color of the outside world goes white, freaks me out. I don't want to be in snow; I want the temperate weather of the Bay Area.

My one foray outside today involved a trip to the store two blocks away. The bf and I wanted to make chicken soup, and were lacking all ingredients but the water for stock. The rubber boots that I bought for this Winter's wet came in handy, but, never having worn them outside of the shoe shop, I didn't realize that my socks would somehow be pulled down with each step taken. By the time I got to the store, my socks were "under foot". It was an uncomfortable sensation. -kinda like when I'm out for a jog with the loosest skivvies on, and they begin to slide down my bum. At least, in that instance, I can, sort of, pull them up through my jog pants as I go. There's no way to pull up socks that have become lodged under one's heel in a boot.

I guess my snow anxiety isn't shared by the neighbors as the store was packed with shoppers jostling for position in front of the fish counter, prepared foods section, and baked goods area.

We bought our soup ingredients plus a few other staples, so that we'd not have to make a second trip outside anytime soon, and trudged our way back home. The soup turned out well, and we ate it for dinner hours ago. Now, at bedtime, it's still snowing.

French Canadian Christmas

2010-12-24T23:20:00.000-08:00

The Quebecois are back hawking their fir trees on the corner, so it must be Xmas in the City again. And, as opposed to last year, December 2010 in New York has been kind. We've had a string of blue-skied, non-windy days, and, even at 30 degrees, I'm not feeling like a sad, human popsicle when I walk down the street. I guess that that will be in January, when Winter really starts to kick up its heels.

Channa Masala

2010-12-20T12:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when I'm lucky, I'll find the most delectable recipes published in the NY Times Sunday Magazine. The latest find was this: Chickpea Masala.
Although the recipe calls for a heap of spices that I didn't currently have in my cabinet, and, seemingly, a lot of prep. steps, Channa Masala is remarkably easy to make.

Ingredients:

45oz. chickpeas cooked/1.5 cup dry
2 blk cardamom pods
1/3 cup neutral oil*
1 med. Spanish onion**
21/2 tbsp. tomato paste
6 cloves garlic
9 dried dates
4 tsp. ground cumin
2 tsp. kosher salt
1 tsp. pepper
1 tsp. cayenne
2 whole star anise

Preparation:

Crack cardamom pods, remove seeds, then crush and set aside.
Chop dates and set aside.
Chop onions and garlic and set aside.
In a medium pot heat oil until it shimmers. (Shimmers?)
Add onions to oil, stirring until they are brown (7-8 min).
Add garlic and let cook for about a minute before adding tomato paste then reduce heat.
Add cardamom and all the remaining ingredients--minus the chickpeas--and saute for a couple of minutes.
Add chickpeas and a half a cup of water-enough to make the contents "wet".
Heat mixture, stirring occasionally to incorporate all the flavors.***
Keep warm until serving.
Serves 6.

*we used canola oil.
**we used a regular yellow onion.
***we found that the longer the mixture simmered, the better the flavor of the dish, so, if you have the patience, then let it "stew" for, at least, 30-45 minutes.

Spanish Cinema Now!

2010-12-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

This series should be subtitled, "Proper Manners Later."

Yes, I'm slow; I'm still learning an all-around difficult and laborious system. Please, refrain from telling me how cold you are in the voice of a small child while I'm trying to have your film tickets printed. (Lapel button: from 60 years of age to five years in a few seconds.) Also, don't assume because I've not yet printed out your order in the timeliest of fashions, that I'm stalling because I don't know how to count change. Keep your snot-nosed assumptions to yourself, woman in the full-length fur coat.
As my old boss at the diner would say, "it's just eggs." Whelp, it's just a movie ticket. Ya'll are not in line to receive a new liver. Calm it the eff down.

The 'baby' I bought....

2010-09-23T13:40:00.000-07:00

for myself cost a pretty penny, but, overall, cost less than a college education, so I'm satisfied with my purchase. There was a bit of 'buyer's remorse' the first couple of weeks afterward, so I hid my 'baby' in the china hutch, until I could face wearing it out of the house.

Psst! If you're interested in dropping way too much money on some jewelry, then check out "Reinstein/Ross-Goldsmiths" on the Upper East Side.

...or is it an adulterer and a musician?

2010-09-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

In a city of, what, eight million, what are the odds of running into someone whom you don't want to see? Well, I guess I hit the jackpot with this one...

Should I feel miffed, flattered, or anything at all because the bf's ex-wife blocked me on FB? What's the point, really? With privacy settings being what they are, it's not like I could see her photos, read her thoughts, or peruse interactions between her and FB buddies. Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe the block isn't to prevent me from peeping her pictures so much as it is a way for her to not see any of my pictures, read my thoughts, or have a glimpse at my interactions between me and my FB folk. In any case, we really don't know anyone in common, so it's not very likely that we'd encounter each other anywhere on The Book of Faces. I suppose, however, that this was her way of a preemptive strike. To that I say, "whatevs."

For those who are a wee bit curious, here is a snippet of who she considers herself to be:

Religious Views:

Love love and more love

Bio

I am an open soul with a heart that drives me and a head that sometimes brings me back to convention. I have forged a path my entire life that brings me experience in the most intense forms. I love to love, I have a huge heart and can't help but see and feel empathetically the essence of others.

My biggest draw in life is human connection and love.

If the above were actually true, then I'd imagine she wouldn't have pounced on us (she said, "cutting out any awkwardness") as we unwittingly sat sipping wine at a bar, nor would she have then angrily walked away when she didn't get the response that she had wanted from the bf. I'm sorry, but hearing your ex-wife's voice looming behind you after two years of (purposely) no direct communication is actually an awkward situation for all involved. Is it any wonder that she was met with less than enthusiasm from the bf? (Oh, and thanks for trying to give him the "sad eyes" or whatever the fuck that was right in front of me. Smooth move.) Although I do have to say that watching her face crumple into an unappealing expression of dismay while cocking her head before marching back to her table of waiting back-patters was kind of a hoot.

Black beetles

2010-08-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

During my run today there was a spot along the path that smelled of crushed beetles. That bitter-like smell brought me back, if however briefly, to childhood. There are a few other smells that evoke the same feeling, but, right now, I can't name them. It's sort of like I know 'em when I smell 'em. You know?
What smells bring you--for better or worse--back to your youth?

Thirty minutes

2010-08-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

I've been out of the exercise loop for what seems like two months. Maybe it's really only been one month, but, when I look down at my thighs, I see a long time of disuse.
Today, I finally went out again for the usual run around the Jackie O. Reservoir. It was between downpours, but, rain jacket around waist, I was ready to get wet.
I can't say that I ran like a gazelle, but, at one point, I over took a weezing 25 year old (he probably smokes), and that made me feel like a winner.

Bus invitation

2010-08-18T21:27:00.000-07:00

As I was coming home from work today on the M11, a man with a strange glint in his eye invited me to a party this Sunday at a church downtown. He was sure that I'd get along with so-and-so, and so I must come. I gave the requisite polite eye-contact while, largely, letting him speak at length about this must-be-attended soiree. When there was a break in his monologue, I whispered a "thank you" and averted my eyes. I had survived the uncomfortable bus talk that can sometimes happen when loonies are sitting next to you and want to unload. Well, had I really survived? I few blocks later, he began an even greater oration directed at all the back-of-the-bus passengers about the church party, and, incidentally(?), about his former life in showbiz and subsequent downward spiral into drug use and general nuttiness. One block later I was off the "short bus" and walking, unmolested, toward my building.

Hummus

2010-04-20T10:00:00.001-07:00

Thank you, "Oriental Pastry and Grocery" shop at 170 Atlantic Ave. in Brooklyn for offering a great selection of spices and dried goods without which I would find gathering together the ingredients for hummus an arduous task.

Ingredients for making hummus*:
2 cups garbanzo beans
1-2 tablespoons of tahini
garlic to taste-I use two cloves
lemon juice-tablespoon, or so
salt to taste
tablespoon of cumin
olive oil-drizzle in sparingly as you blend hummus. The more the oil, the more fluid the mixture.

Preparation with a food processor:
add garlic first and chop
add chickpeas and all the rest second
add more olive oil, or a bit of water to aid in mixing, if chickpeas won't easily blend together

Serve hummus in a bowl, or on a plate. Then make a small depression in the center of hummus and add a bit of olive oil. Finish by sprinkling paprika (the image shows parsley as well) over the hummus and voila!

*This recipe, adapted from the JBC's yummy recipe, isn't etched in stone. Play with the measurements as you see fit!

Thank you, R. Brautigan

2010-04-16T10:17:00.000-07:00

Job Hunting In New York

2010-04-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

For a couple hundred bucks I could have my name changed to "Job Hunting in New York."
That might garner the right kind of attention from those with a job or two to spare.
Of course, it might also earn me a trip to the loony-bin. At least there I'll be on a schedule.

Hey, buddy. Could ya spare a...

2010-04-16T08:47:00.000-07:00

Tenor?

Last night I saw one of the best stage shows I've ever seen: Stanley Tucci's "Lend Me A Tenor."

Most of the principal players I was familiar with: Brooke Adams (the gal who played opposite Donald Sutherland in the remake of "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers"), Justin Bartha (the guy who, for most of the movie, was passed out and sunburned on the roof of the hotel in "The Hangover"), Tony Shahloub (Monk, the seemingly stoned one in "Galaxy Quest"), Anthony LaPaglia (kooky Scottish dude in "Frasier," tough detective in "Cold Case").

Those whom I didn't know were well matched with those mentioned above. The dialogue and physical comedy were both rigorous and well-timed. It was almost like a Mamet play, in terms of language tempo. One false beat and the lines would've fallen flat as a pancake.

The play, set in the early 1930s, had a Mussolini joke and "whatsamattayou" type language which only added to the fun, really. The theater goers, save maybe those members just out of college, rippled with laughter throughout the show.

-a farce, a romp, a damn fine good time.

Garrison Keillor

2010-04-09T12:45:00.000-07:00

While ambling along the streets of the city I often find myself face to face with celebs both minor and major. Most look how they do on the big and small screens. Some look better in person (Linus Roache from Law and Order), some look just as great (Kerry Washington) and, sadly, some look worse (should I really submit a name here?).

Now most radio personalities, because of their radio cloak, have looks that aren't known. Thanks to the film, "A Prairie Home Companion," I know what ole Prairie Home Dude looks like.

I'd like to say, if anyone has ever wondered, that Mr. Keillor is an oak of a man. He is not only Minnesota "nice," but Minnesota "tall."

Tiny tiles

2010-04-09T12:40:00.000-07:00

I wanted to let any and all who view this that the "tiny tile" jewelry shown here is a delight not only to look at, but wear. Your ears will feel regal, I tell ya.
Check out Cori Crooks' work on Etsy, or just google her name and see what comes up!

With over 800 friends on Facebook...

2010-03-17T07:42:00.001-07:00

Was it wrong to try and "reach out" to the ex-gf of my partner? She seems fun, friendly, and "befriend-able" what with all of her 800 plus FB "friends."

I figured that I could be no. eighthundredandblahblahblah. -guess not.

I sent her a short, yet fairly flattering message about how I thought that she was neat what with all of her kooky group hang-outs--with pants or without--around town.
-said that if she were ever inclined to want to meet up/include me in the masses of pants-free people/do what-not, then drop me a line. No line was dropped.

-guess I'll have to jello wrestle alone.

What the rain doesn't wash away...

2010-03-13T14:44:00.001-08:00

A short list:

1. Many, many cigarette butts.
2. Hair extensions.
3. Chicken bones.
4. Bent umbrellas.
5. Mate-less gloves and mittens.
6. A pigeon leg sans pigeon.

Anne Bancroft's sister

2010-03-09T19:01:00.001-08:00

I'm so thrilled that the Walter Reade Theater exists. However, I wish it were more heavily visited and/or known about. Could it be that those businesses off of Broadway along East/West roadways are really very less frequented? I'm beginning to think so, because there was a retrospective of Anne Bancroft's work that played in March at the WRT and it was woefully under-visited. It's frickin' Anne Bancroft, people! Why hadn't more people attended the film series? Where are all the film geeks to populate the theater when you need them?

Here's just a short list of some of the many great performances Ms. Bancroft has done:

1)Mrs. Robinson in "The Graduate."
2)Annie Sullivan in "The Miracle Worker."
3)Emma Jacklin in "The Turning Point."

Okay, so I didn't see so many people in the audience of her film showings, but, amazingly, I did see her sister* at almost all of the screenings I ushered. How cool is that?

*A name-dropping patron let me know who she was.

I H8 NY

2010-02-19T15:04:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but it's true. This place sucks. Cases in point: men blowing snot out of their noses, spitting, or urinating while I'm walking past them; dogs relieving themselves in piles of discolored snow; untethered children walking willy-nilly back and forth across the narrow sidewalk as I'm trying to avoid bumping into them; and that one random chick who's hauling ass as we're both walking to the train and then moves in front of me while slowing down. I almost tripped over her, and, given how tiny she was, it was lucky for her that I didn't. Then there are the people who sell magazines quoting me the price as "$6.00" when the price on the magazine clearly reads frickin' "$5.99." I know it's just a penny, but it's the principle of the matter.
And, my all time fave, walking down the sidewalk only to have a lit cigarette butt whiz by my head and land on the ground in front of me. It's raining smokes in this town!

Perhaps Spring will wash away the snot, spit, urine and all else that bugs me about being here. Maybe I'll find joy amongst the blossoms, birds, and, if there are any left, bees. I don't know, but I'd like for the season to hurry up and change already so I can find out!

New York Cares

2010-01-30T08:26:00.000-08:00

I can't say that New Yorkers, as a group, seem to really much care. But, the volunteer organization, New York Cares, cares! And, FYI, so do I. So, last week, I signed up to volunteer in various different capacities around town.

Today, I participated in serving food to elderly residents of a care facility in the neighborhood. We were to distribute food according to a colored ticket system. That meant that some folk at a given table were served before others. This, I can tell you, did not really go down well. Seniors, just like anyone else waiting for lunch, can get crabby! I had women "eh-ehhing" me and jabbing at me with their fingers to have some food brought their way. Why does doing something good have to feel kinda bad?

After all were served, manners returned to normal. And, indeed, many were grateful for the service. I was grateful to have helped.

I don't think we're in Pine Valley anymore, Toto.

2010-01-22T12:43:00.000-08:00

I'm not one who goes ga-ga over seeing Hollywood movie stars, or, for that matter, washed-up comedians from Seinfeld who took a wrong turn at an LA comedy club some years back and now find themselves jobless wandering around the UWS just like me!

I do, however, have a soft spot in my heart for those who, as my grandma called them, are on "My Stories." For a huge portion of my adolescence I watched soap operas. I watched, at 11am, one soap on NBC, and then, for the rest of the afternoon, watched the entire ABC soap line-up. There are the powerful and power hungry women: Dorian Lord and Erika Kane; there are the wealthy families with unscrupulous patriarchs: the Quartermaine clan and the Buchanan family; and then there are the lovers: Luke had Laura and Tad had Dixie. Now, we all know that Tad "the cad" has had his fair share of Pine Valley's finest, but I'd like to focus on that sweet, southern, red-headed belle, Dixie. She was my favorite. I believed in her character so truly. Well, I didn't really think that Dixie was from "way down south in Dixie", but she's always seemed so good, and sweet, and pure. Ahh.

Now, if I ever need my fix of "Dix" then I can just look up at one of the many TVs on at the gym and see her on All My Children, or I can just look to my left or to my right and REALLY see her. Spoiler alert: the red-hued hair is a dye job, and she probably is of Yankee rather than Confederate extraction. Still, it's pretty cool to be sweatin' along side one of my favorite soap stars.

Would you drink there?

2010-01-19T10:31:00.001-08:00

Not carding customers who look like they're the age of Harry Potter and his cohorts in the second to last HP movie? Scooping up ice directly into a pint glass? Pouring well gin into a cocktail that calls for Plymouth gin? Finding that the OJ in the gun is thick, brown, sickly-sweet smelling fluid that one isn't fit to smell let alone drink? Having to use an orange, moth-eaten looking shammy with which to wipe down the bar? I wouldn't even wax my mags with that old thing.

Drink there? I wouldn't even work there.

I had the, ahem, pleasure of training at such a bar yesterday evening. It was like one of my anxiety work dreams where all the product is out, the garnish is skanky and/or wrong, and the manager is a bit of a tyrant.

I called up the owner today and told him what for. He seemed to get it, but, at the same time, was struggling to try and make changes over the phone with me. I'm not a salmon, and I ain't gonna swim up the stream of that place. *If it really were a stream, it'd be strewn with old beer cans, busted doll parts, and worn-out tires.

So, so long, and "lykke til"!

Head Shots

2010-01-12T06:49:00.000-08:00

I suppose that I wouldn't want some one-eyed, snout-nosed, horse-toothed chump serving me a drink as it might put me off my ale, but, in the main, such folk just aren't going to be behind a bar. Would requiring prospective employees to send pictures via email, often being referred to as "head shots" as if one were going out on an audition for a part in a Broadway production, to the hiring managers prevent such a disaster? Or, really, are most people palatable enough, so that all who come through the door with resume in hand be given a fair shake based on EXPERIENCE and PERSONALITY and not based on whether or not they are, ahem, "hump-able"?
I'm sorry, but if the neon lights are on, and nobody's home, then I ain't stayin' for a second draught!
P.S. Just like Dudley Moore once did, I think Susan Anton is hot.

Personal Space

2009-12-30T13:12:00.000-08:00

As someone who's lived abroad in a relatively small country (think: Montana-sized) with over 80 million people crammed into it, I've had my share of shoulder, elbow, hip, and leg bumping with strangers while walking down the street, standing in line at any store, and navigating my way around public transport--buses, trams, subways, ferries-yes, ferries. I'm used to non-Americans taking up more space around me than I'm comfortable with. They're foreign, that's what they do here and in their home countries. What I'm not yet used to are the scores of NYC folk who do the same thing, and expect me to take it. "Get offa me!" is what I say inside my head when the pushy single mom drags her kid literally almost across my lap to the seat next to me on the subway. "Come on! Come on! Sit down here!" mommy demands. Yeah, not "drape yourself over this unsuspecting recent transplant's lap." Grr.
Poor kid has probably been bumped up against strangers her whole life, and doesn't realize that it's not okay. She was actually leaning into me a bit for the few stops that we both shared the subway seat. Maybe that was supposed to have been my cue to stand up and let momma have a seat on our somewhat crowded train. Ooops! Too bad.

Joyeux Noel

2009-12-28T19:53:00.000-08:00

I'm convinced that the French (or, given our close proximity to Canada, maybe the Quebecois) have a stronghold on all things Christmas in this town. The Xmas Market at Columbus Circle had a dread locked, French-speaking dude selling candles or jewelry or what-not (point being that he was an alleged Frenchie); the chicks at the woolen mittens and hat stand around the corner from 'Le Hippie' all sounded like Amelie, La Femme Nikita, fill-in your own French film experience here: _______; and the tree lot up at the end of this block had a big sign out on display that read "Joyeux Noel" and that wasn't just because the tree sellers were trying to sound worldly. The diminutive woman who sold us our $25 petite tree told us to put tap water and a tsp. of sugar into the bowl-like tree stand to prolong the life of our little fir. Chiquita then made a reference to the musical, "Mary Poppins," and our fine femme amie did not get the reference. A-ha!

Filene's Basement

2009-12-28T13:51:00.001-08:00

If you think that you can't afford to clothe yourself in the pricey world of the UWS, well, think again. Just don't expect to be greeted warmly by most of the sales clerks, or anyone who's standing in line behind you waiting to pay. (There was a seemingly impatient woman/tourette's sufferer who, right after the cashier said it, kept blurting out, "Next!" while waiting in line directly behind me. It was like hearing an unpleasant echo.) Of course, I'm not going there for any "feel good" moments, just a deal on wool socks. Filene's can be found on Broadway at 79th Street.
**Sketch drawn by Chiquita.

Ugg(ly) Boots

2009-12-28T13:17:00.000-08:00

The Ugg Boot store on Columbus Ave. has had a line snaking down the block in front of it since Dec. 24th (barring Dec. 25th, of course). What gives? My friend Chiquita and I were asking each other this question as we walked by yesterday afternoon. Chiquita's answer to the query was, "Maybe they're giving away free blow jobs in there." Heck, I'd stand in line for that.
**Note: Uggs apparently aren't $200.00 as drawn, but somewhere around $140.00. -still not buyin'.

D Train

2009-12-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

Props to the conductor who so nicely and clearly mentioned all upcoming stops, connecting trains, and reminders that sexual assault and soliciting were not welcome on any MTA train.
With regard to soliciting he said something like, "instead of responding to someone's request for money on the train, donate to your favorite charity instead." Well, Merry Christmas Mr. D Train driver!