San Francisco is not a place to celebrate Independence Day. This, after all, is a city that prefers its American flags extra-crispy. But we had no choice. We were stuck in Moscow on the Bay for the Fourth, so we had to make the best of it. There were going to be fireworks over Fisherman’s Wharf; we figured we’d head on down to the docks, get ourselves a nice dinner, and enjoy the sight of thousands of pounds of weapons-grade explosives detonating over the water.
The wharf was a couple blocks away from our hotel, so we decided to take the bus. Count that as the most useless bus ride in the history of mankind. We went two blocks before the driver stopped the bus and waved us off. Apparently, the police had closed down all the streets close to the waterfront. We had paid $2.50 for a three block ride. I suppose it wasn’t all a waste. By riding a public transportation, we had helped save the environment. If we had walked those three blocks, we might have accidentally stepped on a snail or something.
Our plan involved dinner at Ghirardelli Square. What fools we were! The square was more crowded than a Boston hospital the day after St. Patrick’s. Both restaurants had lines that stretched through the lobby, out the door, up the stairs, across the square, and, as far as I knew, all the way back to Los Angeles. The chances of the ten of us getting a table anywhere were none to less than none. It didn’t bother me, though. I was already too upset too care. I had hoped that Ghirardelli Square would be a tacky chocolate paradise like the M&M store in Times Square. Instead, I found it to be tasteful and low-key. Shameful!
We ended up at a little Vietnamese place across the street. The server told us to expect a twenty minute wait. We agreed; after all, the fireworks wouldn’t start for another hour and a half. Flash forward forty-five minutes. We’re still standing outside the restaurant, slumped, spirits broken, getting in the way of passing cyclists. The restaurant had only one table big enough to seat all of us. That table was currently occupied by a group of older folk, still chatting, even though their check had arrived half an hour ago. I glared at them through the plate glass window. Never have I had such a desire to strangle a bunch of complete strangers.
Eventually the left. I’d like to think my angry glaring played a part. We were seated, with profuse apologies from management. We had to eat quickly; thirty minutes until the bombs started going off over the bay. This meal, by the way, marked my first encounter with sushi. I had never tried the stuff before. I worried I would eat some poorly prepared fugu and die a horrible death, kicking my life away on the floor of some cheap sushi joint. No…when I go I want to go with dignity. And explosions.
But I summoned by courage and ordered some shrimp tempura sushi. I even went for a double order; if I’m going to die, why not do it with gusto? Five minutes later, I faced down my fears: twelve squat bundles of rice, seaweed and shrimp. I grabbed my chopsticks and went to work. Five minutes later, I had yet to taste sushi. Using chopsticks is even harder than it looks. I nearly stabbed one of my tablemates through the throat. At long last, though, I got a grip one on of the sushi pieces. I squeezed it with the sticks; it promptly burst into a little confetti-like pile of rice and fried crustacean.
“Forget this,” I said to myself, and quite possibly out loud as well. I grabbed a piece and popped it my mouth. Not bad…a little sea-weedy, but the sticky, bland rice went well with the vinegarish taste. I tried another. Then a third, and a fourth, a fifth and sixth and seventh and so on and on. The sushi proved defenseless against my onslaught. I had conquered another culinary phobia. Next up: fried cow’s brains. That will have to wait until later, though, until I find a good brasserie. (No, not a brassiere, a brasserie)
Only five minutes to fireworks! We rushed out of the restaurant, stopping only to (grudgingly) pay our bill. Down to the docks, where a couple hundred other spectators stood. Before we reached the water we heard the unmistakable CRACK-KABOOM of pyrotechnic patriotism. You know how you can tell a good firework? If you can feel it in your sternum. If your ribs rattle in your chest, you’ve come to the right place.
The fireworks were shooting up from Alcatraz, the forlorn prison island in the middle of the bay. We could see another celebration from across the water. The fireworks in the distance echoed the ones exploding overhead. Each burst brought Oohs and aahs from the crowd and some intense flag-waving from the interns. We had brought along an American flag, and we put it to good use. I held it aloft for ten minutes before my joints started to scream. I handed it off to another intern who, being of hardier constitution, kept it up all night (no sexual pun intended). Apparently, he even held high the flag on the bus ride back to the hotel.
Another year gone by in the life of America, free of major earthquakes, terrorist attacks, and invasions from Canada. Not bad, all things considered. Next time, though, I’ll remember to pick up a gift in time. I’m thinking a nice Starbucks gift certificate ought to do the trick. Let’s see…300 million people…at maybe $4 a cup…$1.2 billion should just about cover it.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tha Jimmy Carter III
So Jay-Z is America and The Game is Iraq, eh? But what does that make Kanye? If you ask him, I'm sure he'd say "a cross between America, the Soviet Union, the British Empire, Rome and the M**********NG SUN!"
Getting Whaled On
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Whale Watchers International. Today on the agenda: whale watching! If you'll look to port, you'll see a truly magnificent example of the rare fin whale. I'll steer the boat closer so that you can get a better look..."
THUD
"Uh, and if you will look very quickly to starboard, you'll see some seagulls! Yes, keep an eye on those seagulls! No reason at all to look to port...heh heh...oh man, I'm gonna get so much crap for this."
THUD
"Uh, and if you will look very quickly to starboard, you'll see some seagulls! Yes, keep an eye on those seagulls! No reason at all to look to port...heh heh...oh man, I'm gonna get so much crap for this."
Mocha is Just an Anagram For Chemo
Hmmm...I guess that's why, in the wake of Free Pastry Day, Starbucks is offering Free Colorectal Cancer Screening Day. You get one free with the purchase of any beverage!
Killer Kamels
I'm back! I know it's been quite a while since I posted one of these short numbers. In an effort to balance out my earlier, multi-thousand-word epic posts, I'll make this one as brief as possible. In fact, I'll do it NY Post headline style:
JOE NO! AUSSIES GET OK TO CULL CAMELS
JOE NO! AUSSIES GET OK TO CULL CAMELS
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Viva Castro!
Onward to the Castro! Ground zero for the homosexual community’s never-ending war against mom, apple pie and everything good about America. As a conservative, I was entering occupied territory. I was a little worried; would they sniff me out as a Republican? Would they pick up the telltale scent of a McCain voter? Ultimately, I decided that my life-long appreciation for musical theater would protect me.
Castro was…not quite as gay as I imagined, actually. I know that I’m horribly bigoted for saying that. It’s true, though; it looked like a quaint little neighborhood, unusual only for the number of rainbow flags lining the street. Of course, every now and then you would pass a guy wearing fishnet stockings and a miniskirt, in case you forgot where you were. I do have one complaint, though. The restaurant prices are situated somewhere between “absurd” and “ludicrous.” Our hardy band of interns wandered for twenty minutes in search of a reasonably-priced place to eat. Finally, we came to Escape from New York Pizza, where you could get a large NYC-style slice for a mere $25.00. Pepperoni cost an extra $12.00. It was the best deal we could find.
Like any neighborhood, big or small, Castro had its own little flourishes to add personality. In some neighborhoods, “personality” comes from the crazy guy down the street who yells at passing cars while dressed only in his underwear, or from a particularly nasty pothole that claims thousands of hubcaps each year. Castro, thankfully, has a milder—and much quirkier—kind of personality. I admired the Castro Theater, which boasts perhaps the world’s last marquee. You don’t see those kind of things at your local Raleigh mega-cineplex. The theater was showing Joan Crawford’s “The Woman,” not, I assume, for any artistic reason, but because it had Joan Crawford.
We passed through a little street festival supporting…some cause. A guy tried to force a flier into my hand, but I, jaded city dweller that I am, waved him off. An old-time brass band, complete with straw hats, sat smack-dab in the middle of the road. Traffic had stopped; people gathered ‘round to watch. The bandleader announced that they were going to play an old minstrel number called “Dem Golden Slippers,” or something similar. He said it was a precursor to modern musical theater. They launched into the song with a good deal of oom-pah-pah-ing. I liked it; I could close my eyes and imagine I was in Bavaria listening to the local Kapelle play old German beer-drinking and Jew-hating songs. We didn’t stay long, though, as we were in a hurry. Hurrying where, I didn’t know, but young people are always on the move.
A taxi ride brought us to Twin Peaks. It was quite thrilling, actually. It took two taxis to carry all of us, so for the first time in my life I was able to tell a cabdriver to “Follow that car!” It was a scene right out of Mission: Impossible, if someone had taken the screenplay and dulled it up twenty notches. After a thrilling slow-speed pursit through the streets of San Francisco we arrived at our destination, a pair of hilltops overlooking the city. One rises a little higher than the other. Most tourists cluster on the lower one, which has a couple stone overlooks, a few coin-operated binoculars, and the world’s most hateful bathroom (more on that one later). Braver souls can climb the long and winding path to the top of the upper hill where, in exchange for skin-blistering winds, they can enjoy an even more panoramic panorama of the city. I am not a brave soul.
I don’t think I missed too much, though, because the view was excellent nonetheless. Below, I could see the zig-zagging road we had just driven up. Beneath that came row upon row of houses, most painted pastel yellow or pink in the San Francisco style. Then, still further down, the whole city spread out glistening and gleaming. The skyscrapers of downtown jutted upward in the distance; beyond them, out in the bay, I could see Alcatraz. The Golden Gate bride was obscured by fog, by distance, and by an obnoxious little finger of land. Some large hills humped up in the middle of the city—they looked like gargantuan green whales breaching the waves. I stood admiring the scene for more than a few minutes. Then, of course, out came the camera, followed by an orgy of picture-snapping.
Then there was the bathroom. What a nightmarish thing. Not that it was disgusting; indeed, that was exactly the problem. The sign on the outside bragged that it was a “self-cleaning bathroom”; after every visitor, the walls sprayed a stream of water over the floor, sanitizing it for the next occupant. Good in theory, horrible in practice. Each cleaning session lasted a minute. So someone would step out and the next person would have to stand there, waiting, while the bathroom went through its meticulous cleaning process like a janitor with OCD. I stood in life for fifteen minutes. When I finally got inside, I expected to have the best damn bathroom experience of my life. For a wait like that I wanted nothing less than soft, plush towels, soothing bathroom Muzak, and a soda dispenser. Instead, all I got was a damp floor and a sink that didn’t work. Sometimes I think the Luddites got a few things right.
Our little excursion ended with a jaunt through Haight-Ashbury. Say Haight-Ashbury to most people and they’ll look confused. Say it to a hippie and…well, hippies always look confused, but you’ll see some happiness mixed in with his blissed-out bewilderment. Haight-Ashbury is Hippie Central. In the late 1960s it was Ground Zero for the Summer of Love, during which thousands of hippies, drawn together by the irresistible gravitational pull of their own stupidity, descended on San Francisco. The Grateful Dead had lived in Haight-Ashbury; so had the Jefferson airplane. So had countless other crappy psychedelic bands whose names are, thankfully, lost to history. Remember, this was a genre that tried to introduce the sitar and bongos to rock n’ roll. Bongos are to music as horseradish is to food; it ruins everything it touches.
Even today, a few hippies cluster in Haight-Ashbury, waiting, I assume, for the second coming of Jerry Garcia. They squat on street corners, looking very depressed for a bunch of people who are all about peace n’ love. Of course, these are all neo-hippies. None of them are older than twenty-five. The real hippies, the ones who got stoned while watching Moby Grabe play at the Fillmore in ’67 (it was aaaawesome, man), all got fat, went bald, and opened boutiques on Haight Street. There, they make money selling off heirlooms from the short-lived hippie kingdom. You can buy tie-dye shirts, “Impeach Nixon” buttons, and “the authentic Jimi Hendrix Line of t-shirts.” You can also buy a lot of bongs. One store had an otherworldly collection of bongs that looked like it had been assembled by a hippie Indiana Jones.
I had to stop at a record store. It was Haight-Ashbury; I felt obligated. I found a place way down at the end of Haight Street, a dusty little shop with vinyl in front and CDs in the back. I passed right by the vinyl. I had spent enough time struggling with records as a DJ at WXDU. Never again would I subject myself to that absurdity. I browsed for fifteen minutes, while the other interns grew more and more bored. Eventually they just sat down on the floor, while I, oblivious, flipped through rack after rack of albums. There was music playing softly in the background. Right before I left, a bizarre spoken word piece started up. As I approached the counter, new Oingo Boingo album in hand, I asked the clerk, “Is that Allen Ginsberg?” Er, no, it wasn’t. So much for being Mr. Music Buff.
Next: Fourth of July, only two weeks late!
Castro was…not quite as gay as I imagined, actually. I know that I’m horribly bigoted for saying that. It’s true, though; it looked like a quaint little neighborhood, unusual only for the number of rainbow flags lining the street. Of course, every now and then you would pass a guy wearing fishnet stockings and a miniskirt, in case you forgot where you were. I do have one complaint, though. The restaurant prices are situated somewhere between “absurd” and “ludicrous.” Our hardy band of interns wandered for twenty minutes in search of a reasonably-priced place to eat. Finally, we came to Escape from New York Pizza, where you could get a large NYC-style slice for a mere $25.00. Pepperoni cost an extra $12.00. It was the best deal we could find.
Like any neighborhood, big or small, Castro had its own little flourishes to add personality. In some neighborhoods, “personality” comes from the crazy guy down the street who yells at passing cars while dressed only in his underwear, or from a particularly nasty pothole that claims thousands of hubcaps each year. Castro, thankfully, has a milder—and much quirkier—kind of personality. I admired the Castro Theater, which boasts perhaps the world’s last marquee. You don’t see those kind of things at your local Raleigh mega-cineplex. The theater was showing Joan Crawford’s “The Woman,” not, I assume, for any artistic reason, but because it had Joan Crawford.
We passed through a little street festival supporting…some cause. A guy tried to force a flier into my hand, but I, jaded city dweller that I am, waved him off. An old-time brass band, complete with straw hats, sat smack-dab in the middle of the road. Traffic had stopped; people gathered ‘round to watch. The bandleader announced that they were going to play an old minstrel number called “Dem Golden Slippers,” or something similar. He said it was a precursor to modern musical theater. They launched into the song with a good deal of oom-pah-pah-ing. I liked it; I could close my eyes and imagine I was in Bavaria listening to the local Kapelle play old German beer-drinking and Jew-hating songs. We didn’t stay long, though, as we were in a hurry. Hurrying where, I didn’t know, but young people are always on the move.
A taxi ride brought us to Twin Peaks. It was quite thrilling, actually. It took two taxis to carry all of us, so for the first time in my life I was able to tell a cabdriver to “Follow that car!” It was a scene right out of Mission: Impossible, if someone had taken the screenplay and dulled it up twenty notches. After a thrilling slow-speed pursit through the streets of San Francisco we arrived at our destination, a pair of hilltops overlooking the city. One rises a little higher than the other. Most tourists cluster on the lower one, which has a couple stone overlooks, a few coin-operated binoculars, and the world’s most hateful bathroom (more on that one later). Braver souls can climb the long and winding path to the top of the upper hill where, in exchange for skin-blistering winds, they can enjoy an even more panoramic panorama of the city. I am not a brave soul.
I don’t think I missed too much, though, because the view was excellent nonetheless. Below, I could see the zig-zagging road we had just driven up. Beneath that came row upon row of houses, most painted pastel yellow or pink in the San Francisco style. Then, still further down, the whole city spread out glistening and gleaming. The skyscrapers of downtown jutted upward in the distance; beyond them, out in the bay, I could see Alcatraz. The Golden Gate bride was obscured by fog, by distance, and by an obnoxious little finger of land. Some large hills humped up in the middle of the city—they looked like gargantuan green whales breaching the waves. I stood admiring the scene for more than a few minutes. Then, of course, out came the camera, followed by an orgy of picture-snapping.
Then there was the bathroom. What a nightmarish thing. Not that it was disgusting; indeed, that was exactly the problem. The sign on the outside bragged that it was a “self-cleaning bathroom”; after every visitor, the walls sprayed a stream of water over the floor, sanitizing it for the next occupant. Good in theory, horrible in practice. Each cleaning session lasted a minute. So someone would step out and the next person would have to stand there, waiting, while the bathroom went through its meticulous cleaning process like a janitor with OCD. I stood in life for fifteen minutes. When I finally got inside, I expected to have the best damn bathroom experience of my life. For a wait like that I wanted nothing less than soft, plush towels, soothing bathroom Muzak, and a soda dispenser. Instead, all I got was a damp floor and a sink that didn’t work. Sometimes I think the Luddites got a few things right.
Our little excursion ended with a jaunt through Haight-Ashbury. Say Haight-Ashbury to most people and they’ll look confused. Say it to a hippie and…well, hippies always look confused, but you’ll see some happiness mixed in with his blissed-out bewilderment. Haight-Ashbury is Hippie Central. In the late 1960s it was Ground Zero for the Summer of Love, during which thousands of hippies, drawn together by the irresistible gravitational pull of their own stupidity, descended on San Francisco. The Grateful Dead had lived in Haight-Ashbury; so had the Jefferson airplane. So had countless other crappy psychedelic bands whose names are, thankfully, lost to history. Remember, this was a genre that tried to introduce the sitar and bongos to rock n’ roll. Bongos are to music as horseradish is to food; it ruins everything it touches.
Even today, a few hippies cluster in Haight-Ashbury, waiting, I assume, for the second coming of Jerry Garcia. They squat on street corners, looking very depressed for a bunch of people who are all about peace n’ love. Of course, these are all neo-hippies. None of them are older than twenty-five. The real hippies, the ones who got stoned while watching Moby Grabe play at the Fillmore in ’67 (it was aaaawesome, man), all got fat, went bald, and opened boutiques on Haight Street. There, they make money selling off heirlooms from the short-lived hippie kingdom. You can buy tie-dye shirts, “Impeach Nixon” buttons, and “the authentic Jimi Hendrix Line of t-shirts.” You can also buy a lot of bongs. One store had an otherworldly collection of bongs that looked like it had been assembled by a hippie Indiana Jones.
I had to stop at a record store. It was Haight-Ashbury; I felt obligated. I found a place way down at the end of Haight Street, a dusty little shop with vinyl in front and CDs in the back. I passed right by the vinyl. I had spent enough time struggling with records as a DJ at WXDU. Never again would I subject myself to that absurdity. I browsed for fifteen minutes, while the other interns grew more and more bored. Eventually they just sat down on the floor, while I, oblivious, flipped through rack after rack of albums. There was music playing softly in the background. Right before I left, a bizarre spoken word piece started up. As I approached the counter, new Oingo Boingo album in hand, I asked the clerk, “Is that Allen Ginsberg?” Er, no, it wasn’t. So much for being Mr. Music Buff.
Next: Fourth of July, only two weeks late!
Review: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
The latest Harry Potter film, “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” absolutely baffles me. I don’t mean that the film is confusing—it is, a little, but that’s hardly the biggest problem. No, what I can’t understand is how a film can look this good, sound this good, have this many good actors, and yet somehow…not be much good at all. How can it be so much less than the sum of its parts?
Maybe the problem lies with the source material. “Half-Blood Prince,” after all, was certainly the weirdest of all the Potter books. Perhaps the slowest, as well. It was not much more than a seven-hundred page prologue to the seventh and final chapter in the series. If I recall, the slithery, deadly evil Lord Voldemort never even put in an appearance. Much of the book occurred in flashbacks, as Harry and Dumbledore tried to figure out what made Voldy tick. That was half the book; the other half was snogging, as hormones ran rampant in Hogwarts. Harry snogs Ginny, Ron snogs Lavender, and Hermione bitterly regrets snogging the oafish Cormac MacLaggen.
Not that I’m criticizing the book. Looking back, I might even choose it as my favorite. J.K. Rowling’s greatest strength as a writer came from her skill at writing relationships—Harry and Ron, Harry and Dumbledore, Harry and Voldemort, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, the magic was all very fun, but it could get quite goofy, even by fantasy standards. You can only read about Avada Kedavra and Expelliarmus and all the rest so many times before you start asking questions. Like, could you Accio the liver out of someone’s body? Wouldn’t that be a more effective way of killing than Avada Kedavra?
Relationships are key. But if there’s one thing the Harry Potter films don’t do well, it’s acting. Oops, sorry, I mean relationships. The acting is perfectly decent. All the usual British thespians are back—Michael Gambon as Dumbledore, Maggie Smith as McGonagall, Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid—and they all do an excellent job. Unfortunately, they’re all dancing around three big holes in the center of the film. Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson look fantastic in long black robes and scarves, but I’ve yet to see them turn in a really good performance. I’d even be satisfied with a really decent one.
Some background is in order; God knows you’re not going to get it from the film. The Harry Potter books have always been harsh to newbies. When it comes to plot in the Potter movies, there are two kinds of people: those who know it by heart, and those who won’t have a clue what’s going on. The scenes rush by so quickly, with characters popping in and out at random, that a non-Potterphile will wind up completely baffled. At times, even I wished I had a copy of the book to flip through during the down time.
And there’s plenty of down time to be had. The beginning is literally magic, as a trio of flying Death Eaters wreak some otherworldly havoc on the oblivious Muggles of London. By the way, if you’ll permit a brief fanboy interruption: Flying? Didn’t that ability belong to only Voldemort and Snape? But that’s beside the point. After that opening joyride things get pretty slack. We get reacquainted with Harry while he’s sitting in a subway restaurant, flirting with the waitress. Harry’s only a few steps away from reaching non-wizard first base, but then Dumbledore has to show up and spoil all the fun. Rowling’s post-series revelation that Dumbledore was gay adds a new and rather interesting twist to this scene.
Dumbledore than spirits Harry away to meet Prof. Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), a gouty, corpulent dandy obsessed with the finer things in life. Dumbledore hires Slughorn to teach at Hogwarts—so much for any pretense of interviewing other qualified candidates—so that Harry can wangle a long-repressed memory out of the portly professor’s brain. Apparently, Dumbly tells us, the memory is key to defeating Voldemort. And…that’s pretty much the movie, actually. Harry spends the next hour and a half wheedling with Slughorn, but Slughorn, to his credit, recognizes bad acting when he sees it.
Relationships! I get the feeling screenwriter Steve Kloves didn’t want to bother with all that stuff. In the book, we get a couple tangled love duets, with Harry lusting after Ginny, who’s dating somebody else, while Hermione longs for a couple minutes with Ron in the broom cupboard, if you know what I mean. Ron, in the book, gets caught up somewhere between Hermione and the amorous Lavender Brown. In the movie all this is replaced by a good deal of snogging. Ron snogs pretty much everything that moves, stopping just short of planting a kiss on Dumbledore’s whiskers.
Chemistry, however, is sadly lacking. Harry’s supposed to have a deep and heartfelt love for Ginny. After all, he marries her in the epilogue. But I’ve seen a third-grader with a test tube produce better chemistry than that which exists between the two. Ron? It doesn’t help that the poor guy has become 100% comic relief. He’s played solely for laughs, and I’ll give Rupert Grint credit: he’s got great comedic timing. Yet he’s less a human being and more of a manic yuk machine. And Hermione? I’m not even going to speculate. Emma Watson has always played her as completely imperturbable. Here, she’s more inscrutable than the stone turrets in the background.
It’s a flimsy plot—Slughorn and snogging—but it still takes up 95% of the movie’s time. Sure, there are some nods to the traditions of Potterphilia. We have a Quidditch game. We have a brief cameo by Hagrid. We have Neville Longbottom. We have shots of a bunch of students eating beneath the floating candles in the Great Hall. Incidentally, do the students eat anywhere other than the Great Hall? Do they ever take lunch in their rooms? It’s like Hogwarts is a prison and the students are GenPop.
Everything looks beautiful; the Potter films have never wanted for gorgeous backgrounds. The cinematographer….uh, whoever he was, he did a fine job with the camera. Every scene practically glows. The Quidditch match looks particularly pretty, with lots of nice twisting and turning acrobatic aerial shots. The flashbacks to young Voldemort occur in a hazy, dreamlike fog, adding an extra level of menace. And the magic still looks great. The flying Death Eaters are as magnificent and terrifying as anything out of a Peter Jackson film.
But it’s all dark, all dim, all gray, all leaden, sullen, static and despairing. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. The rich relationships of the book have fossilized into stiff declarations of teenage love. The whole background of an epic struggle between good and evil vanishes completely. I don’t know what it will take to make a good seventh film. The only thing I know is that six films in, the Potter films are still running a distant second to Lord of the Rings in the epic fantasy matchup. Will they ever catch up? Two more films to go. Let’s see what they’ve got.
Maybe the problem lies with the source material. “Half-Blood Prince,” after all, was certainly the weirdest of all the Potter books. Perhaps the slowest, as well. It was not much more than a seven-hundred page prologue to the seventh and final chapter in the series. If I recall, the slithery, deadly evil Lord Voldemort never even put in an appearance. Much of the book occurred in flashbacks, as Harry and Dumbledore tried to figure out what made Voldy tick. That was half the book; the other half was snogging, as hormones ran rampant in Hogwarts. Harry snogs Ginny, Ron snogs Lavender, and Hermione bitterly regrets snogging the oafish Cormac MacLaggen.
Not that I’m criticizing the book. Looking back, I might even choose it as my favorite. J.K. Rowling’s greatest strength as a writer came from her skill at writing relationships—Harry and Ron, Harry and Dumbledore, Harry and Voldemort, et cetera, et cetera. Yes, the magic was all very fun, but it could get quite goofy, even by fantasy standards. You can only read about Avada Kedavra and Expelliarmus and all the rest so many times before you start asking questions. Like, could you Accio the liver out of someone’s body? Wouldn’t that be a more effective way of killing than Avada Kedavra?
Relationships are key. But if there’s one thing the Harry Potter films don’t do well, it’s acting. Oops, sorry, I mean relationships. The acting is perfectly decent. All the usual British thespians are back—Michael Gambon as Dumbledore, Maggie Smith as McGonagall, Robbie Coltrane as Hagrid—and they all do an excellent job. Unfortunately, they’re all dancing around three big holes in the center of the film. Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, and Emma Watson look fantastic in long black robes and scarves, but I’ve yet to see them turn in a really good performance. I’d even be satisfied with a really decent one.
Some background is in order; God knows you’re not going to get it from the film. The Harry Potter books have always been harsh to newbies. When it comes to plot in the Potter movies, there are two kinds of people: those who know it by heart, and those who won’t have a clue what’s going on. The scenes rush by so quickly, with characters popping in and out at random, that a non-Potterphile will wind up completely baffled. At times, even I wished I had a copy of the book to flip through during the down time.
And there’s plenty of down time to be had. The beginning is literally magic, as a trio of flying Death Eaters wreak some otherworldly havoc on the oblivious Muggles of London. By the way, if you’ll permit a brief fanboy interruption: Flying? Didn’t that ability belong to only Voldemort and Snape? But that’s beside the point. After that opening joyride things get pretty slack. We get reacquainted with Harry while he’s sitting in a subway restaurant, flirting with the waitress. Harry’s only a few steps away from reaching non-wizard first base, but then Dumbledore has to show up and spoil all the fun. Rowling’s post-series revelation that Dumbledore was gay adds a new and rather interesting twist to this scene.
Dumbledore than spirits Harry away to meet Prof. Horace Slughorn (Jim Broadbent), a gouty, corpulent dandy obsessed with the finer things in life. Dumbledore hires Slughorn to teach at Hogwarts—so much for any pretense of interviewing other qualified candidates—so that Harry can wangle a long-repressed memory out of the portly professor’s brain. Apparently, Dumbly tells us, the memory is key to defeating Voldemort. And…that’s pretty much the movie, actually. Harry spends the next hour and a half wheedling with Slughorn, but Slughorn, to his credit, recognizes bad acting when he sees it.
Relationships! I get the feeling screenwriter Steve Kloves didn’t want to bother with all that stuff. In the book, we get a couple tangled love duets, with Harry lusting after Ginny, who’s dating somebody else, while Hermione longs for a couple minutes with Ron in the broom cupboard, if you know what I mean. Ron, in the book, gets caught up somewhere between Hermione and the amorous Lavender Brown. In the movie all this is replaced by a good deal of snogging. Ron snogs pretty much everything that moves, stopping just short of planting a kiss on Dumbledore’s whiskers.
Chemistry, however, is sadly lacking. Harry’s supposed to have a deep and heartfelt love for Ginny. After all, he marries her in the epilogue. But I’ve seen a third-grader with a test tube produce better chemistry than that which exists between the two. Ron? It doesn’t help that the poor guy has become 100% comic relief. He’s played solely for laughs, and I’ll give Rupert Grint credit: he’s got great comedic timing. Yet he’s less a human being and more of a manic yuk machine. And Hermione? I’m not even going to speculate. Emma Watson has always played her as completely imperturbable. Here, she’s more inscrutable than the stone turrets in the background.
It’s a flimsy plot—Slughorn and snogging—but it still takes up 95% of the movie’s time. Sure, there are some nods to the traditions of Potterphilia. We have a Quidditch game. We have a brief cameo by Hagrid. We have Neville Longbottom. We have shots of a bunch of students eating beneath the floating candles in the Great Hall. Incidentally, do the students eat anywhere other than the Great Hall? Do they ever take lunch in their rooms? It’s like Hogwarts is a prison and the students are GenPop.
Everything looks beautiful; the Potter films have never wanted for gorgeous backgrounds. The cinematographer….uh, whoever he was, he did a fine job with the camera. Every scene practically glows. The Quidditch match looks particularly pretty, with lots of nice twisting and turning acrobatic aerial shots. The flashbacks to young Voldemort occur in a hazy, dreamlike fog, adding an extra level of menace. And the magic still looks great. The flying Death Eaters are as magnificent and terrifying as anything out of a Peter Jackson film.
But it’s all dark, all dim, all gray, all leaden, sullen, static and despairing. Nothing moves. Nothing changes. The rich relationships of the book have fossilized into stiff declarations of teenage love. The whole background of an epic struggle between good and evil vanishes completely. I don’t know what it will take to make a good seventh film. The only thing I know is that six films in, the Potter films are still running a distant second to Lord of the Rings in the epic fantasy matchup. Will they ever catch up? Two more films to go. Let’s see what they’ve got.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Market and the Mission
The second day in San Francisco began with a bang. No, actually it was more like a buzz. A loud, obnoxious buzz ringing right in my ear like a demented cicada. Over the past couple years, I have grown to know and loath the sound of my cell phone’s alarm clock. I would know it blindfolded and without ears. But it never fails to wake me up, so I can’t live without it. We had to get up early today. We had a city to explore, and damn it, we were going to explore the holy hell out of San Francisco!
The fun started with a walk down Market Street, San Francisco’s attempt to rip off either Broadway or Fifth Avenue. I couldn’t tell which. A number of large, shiny buildings lined the street, a testament to the ubiquity of ugly glass skyscrapers. A fifteen minute walk brought us to the Ferry Building. The Ferry Building is, true to its name, the dropping-off point for the ferry that tools back and forth between San Francisco and Oakland. I’m pretty sure most of the traffic goes one way. As far as I know, there are no huddled masses of San Franciscans waiting to escape across the bay to the paradise that some call Oakland. I’m fairly sure the reverse is true, though.
Outside the Ferry Building is the S.F. farmer’s market. Everywhere I looked, I saw those two magic words: “Free samples.” In my Schultzian interpretation of history, there are only three really great men: Martin Luther, Winston Churchill, and the man who invented free samples. Who was the genius who realized that, if you offered small portions of your food free of charge, you might induce tasters to purchase the full version? Whoever he was, he had the wisdom of Socrates and the generosity of a saint. I am deeply in his debt.
I love apples more than any other fruit—or any other food in general, or any thing at all—so I was a little disappointed to find that apples were not in season. There were plenty of peaches, though. OK, I have to ask: can anyone really spot the differences between varieties of peaches? I contend that no one can. What separates a “Flavorcrest” from an “Autumn Red”? They’re both soft, fuzzy, and sweet. They even have the same coloration, for the love of God! They’re the same thing! The peach farmers have conned us for years. I’m wise to their tricks.
That didn’t stop me from plowing through a dozen peaches’ worth of free samples. I also tried some strawberries, a handful of blueberries, and a cracker loaded down with sweet, sticky red jam. One stall didn’t have any free samples; what they did have was a big box full of dried beans, with the label, “Go ahead and feel it. You know you want to.” I couldn’t resist an invitation like that. I found my favorite sample at a booth advertising “Nuts,” which I confess made me giggle. There were two people working the crowd, each holding a little plastic baggie filled with something small and dark. I approached—and promptly got a chunk of almond brittle shoved into my hand. I tried it and was changed forever. I went back at least four times for more.
We made a quick dash through the Ferry Building itself. Behind the building, you’ll find a big statue of Gandhi—and for the curious, no, Gandhi never came within a thousand miles of East Bay. The stores inside all offered their own free samples. In one five minute walk I tried some tangy lemon olive oil, a spoonful of creamy melted caramel, and a crisp chunk of bread (not all at the same time, though I was tempted to do a little mixing and matching). I drew the line at raw oysters. When it comes to raw food, I follow Woody Allen’s dictum: I never eat anything that’s only unconscious. We regrouped outside the Ferry Building right near a shaggy street musician. He was a drummer, and a sign sitting next to him said that he “played for peace.” At first I scoffed, but then I though: hey, if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work, but if it does...well, then we all owe that guy a good deal of gratitude.
There, we convened a plenipotentiary session of the intern crew to decide on our next stop. Much debate ensued. I kid you not when I say we spent ten minutes going back and forth. At last we hammered out a schedule: stop by the Mission District, San Fran’s hipster kingdom, before going on to the most fabulous place on earth—the legendary Castro District. From there we would go to Twin Peaks. I admit, as soon as I heard Twin Peaks I thought of Laura Palmer. And I’ve never even seen the show! Wikipedia, what have you done to me? My life is nothing but a series of disjointed pop culture references! Having resolved on a course of action, we headed underground to the nearest BART station, BART standing for Bay Area Rapid Transit.
BART is like the New York subway system, only it doesn’t ooze hostility and hatred. There is also less of a urine-y smell. A five-minute trip brought us right up to the Mission. We had visited the very same station the night before; what a difference the sunlight makes. Perhaps all the creepy, shady figures we had seen loitering outside were vampires. That explains why they vanished in the daylight. Under the San Fran sun, the Mission District loses its seedy feel and takes on a kind of bourgeois-hipster atmosphere. It’s where broke college students go to feel cool.
The first order of business was to visit a vintage clothing shop that sells its goods by the pound. For a low, low price, you can buy ten pounds of funky purple button-down shirts and sweaters that look like they were cut from a shag carpet. A couple peculiar things caught my eye: a hat rack full of berets, a fragment of lederhosen, and a purple-and-gold silk robe that looked as if it belonged in Harry Potter. I was especially tempted by a security guard’s jacket, complete with a badge on the shoulder. Putting it on made me feel like a total badass. I was ready to go out and crack some hippie skulls. I also spent a few minutes admiring a rack filled with colorful parachute pants; after a few minutes, I realized I was looking at a bunch of curtains.
Then came a brief stop in a vintage book store. One of the other interns stumbled across a book titled “A Piece of Tape,” written by Watergate burglar James McCord. But wait, there’s more—McCord had autographed the book! We all oohed and aahed over that. To us, that was like finding a copy of the Bible autographed by God. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. I picked up a book on the French Revolution, because I enjoy nothing more than French people killing one another. It’s my ideal; the world loses some French people, while no real human beings get harmed in the process. Because it was July 4, the clerk engaged me in a brief discussion about the differences between French and American revolutions. I nodded a bit, furrowed my brow, and escaped without him realizing that I was a total idiot.
OK, time to take a break. Next—the Castro District, and Twin Peaks!
The fun started with a walk down Market Street, San Francisco’s attempt to rip off either Broadway or Fifth Avenue. I couldn’t tell which. A number of large, shiny buildings lined the street, a testament to the ubiquity of ugly glass skyscrapers. A fifteen minute walk brought us to the Ferry Building. The Ferry Building is, true to its name, the dropping-off point for the ferry that tools back and forth between San Francisco and Oakland. I’m pretty sure most of the traffic goes one way. As far as I know, there are no huddled masses of San Franciscans waiting to escape across the bay to the paradise that some call Oakland. I’m fairly sure the reverse is true, though.
Outside the Ferry Building is the S.F. farmer’s market. Everywhere I looked, I saw those two magic words: “Free samples.” In my Schultzian interpretation of history, there are only three really great men: Martin Luther, Winston Churchill, and the man who invented free samples. Who was the genius who realized that, if you offered small portions of your food free of charge, you might induce tasters to purchase the full version? Whoever he was, he had the wisdom of Socrates and the generosity of a saint. I am deeply in his debt.
I love apples more than any other fruit—or any other food in general, or any thing at all—so I was a little disappointed to find that apples were not in season. There were plenty of peaches, though. OK, I have to ask: can anyone really spot the differences between varieties of peaches? I contend that no one can. What separates a “Flavorcrest” from an “Autumn Red”? They’re both soft, fuzzy, and sweet. They even have the same coloration, for the love of God! They’re the same thing! The peach farmers have conned us for years. I’m wise to their tricks.
That didn’t stop me from plowing through a dozen peaches’ worth of free samples. I also tried some strawberries, a handful of blueberries, and a cracker loaded down with sweet, sticky red jam. One stall didn’t have any free samples; what they did have was a big box full of dried beans, with the label, “Go ahead and feel it. You know you want to.” I couldn’t resist an invitation like that. I found my favorite sample at a booth advertising “Nuts,” which I confess made me giggle. There were two people working the crowd, each holding a little plastic baggie filled with something small and dark. I approached—and promptly got a chunk of almond brittle shoved into my hand. I tried it and was changed forever. I went back at least four times for more.
We made a quick dash through the Ferry Building itself. Behind the building, you’ll find a big statue of Gandhi—and for the curious, no, Gandhi never came within a thousand miles of East Bay. The stores inside all offered their own free samples. In one five minute walk I tried some tangy lemon olive oil, a spoonful of creamy melted caramel, and a crisp chunk of bread (not all at the same time, though I was tempted to do a little mixing and matching). I drew the line at raw oysters. When it comes to raw food, I follow Woody Allen’s dictum: I never eat anything that’s only unconscious. We regrouped outside the Ferry Building right near a shaggy street musician. He was a drummer, and a sign sitting next to him said that he “played for peace.” At first I scoffed, but then I though: hey, if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work, but if it does...well, then we all owe that guy a good deal of gratitude.
There, we convened a plenipotentiary session of the intern crew to decide on our next stop. Much debate ensued. I kid you not when I say we spent ten minutes going back and forth. At last we hammered out a schedule: stop by the Mission District, San Fran’s hipster kingdom, before going on to the most fabulous place on earth—the legendary Castro District. From there we would go to Twin Peaks. I admit, as soon as I heard Twin Peaks I thought of Laura Palmer. And I’ve never even seen the show! Wikipedia, what have you done to me? My life is nothing but a series of disjointed pop culture references! Having resolved on a course of action, we headed underground to the nearest BART station, BART standing for Bay Area Rapid Transit.
BART is like the New York subway system, only it doesn’t ooze hostility and hatred. There is also less of a urine-y smell. A five-minute trip brought us right up to the Mission. We had visited the very same station the night before; what a difference the sunlight makes. Perhaps all the creepy, shady figures we had seen loitering outside were vampires. That explains why they vanished in the daylight. Under the San Fran sun, the Mission District loses its seedy feel and takes on a kind of bourgeois-hipster atmosphere. It’s where broke college students go to feel cool.
The first order of business was to visit a vintage clothing shop that sells its goods by the pound. For a low, low price, you can buy ten pounds of funky purple button-down shirts and sweaters that look like they were cut from a shag carpet. A couple peculiar things caught my eye: a hat rack full of berets, a fragment of lederhosen, and a purple-and-gold silk robe that looked as if it belonged in Harry Potter. I was especially tempted by a security guard’s jacket, complete with a badge on the shoulder. Putting it on made me feel like a total badass. I was ready to go out and crack some hippie skulls. I also spent a few minutes admiring a rack filled with colorful parachute pants; after a few minutes, I realized I was looking at a bunch of curtains.
Then came a brief stop in a vintage book store. One of the other interns stumbled across a book titled “A Piece of Tape,” written by Watergate burglar James McCord. But wait, there’s more—McCord had autographed the book! We all oohed and aahed over that. To us, that was like finding a copy of the Bible autographed by God. Perhaps I exaggerate a little. I picked up a book on the French Revolution, because I enjoy nothing more than French people killing one another. It’s my ideal; the world loses some French people, while no real human beings get harmed in the process. Because it was July 4, the clerk engaged me in a brief discussion about the differences between French and American revolutions. I nodded a bit, furrowed my brow, and escaped without him realizing that I was a total idiot.
OK, time to take a break. Next—the Castro District, and Twin Peaks!
Monday, July 13, 2009
First Day in San Fran
I was going to San Francisco, but unfortunately I had forgotten to wear flowers in my hair. That’s one cardinal rule violated already. Still, I was looking forward to the trip. I have yet to meet someone who hated San Francisco. Heck, I have yet to meet someone who even mildly disliked. Everybody I spoke to praised the city to high heaven. It was heaven on the East Bay, apparently. I remained skeptical. How great can it be, I thought, if it doesn’t have its own NBA franchise?
We approached the city via the Not Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t know what it’s name is—I only know what is isn’t. We didn’t have a particularly good view of San Francisco as we approached. Some of that was due to the fog. Some of it was due to the fact that I was asleep at the time. I woke up as we got nearer to the hotel. I jerked my head up, blinking and rubbing my eyes, and immediately saw at least three liquor stores. I started to get a little nervous. What had I gotten myself into?
That, of course, was before I saw the hotel. The hotel was fine. It looked very nice, actually, with an old-fashioned vertical sign out front and a classy little canopy beneath that. The neighborhood around it…failed to live up to those standards. If you walk across the street you can visit Frenchy’s, “Your Adult Superstore.” We had arrived just in time, actually—Frenchy’s was having a sale! If we wanted, we could have our pick of “1000s of New Toys!” or enjoy a “$7 Private Booth!”
But I didn’t get my knickers in a twist over Frenchy’s, to use a very appropriate metaphor. Heck, I figured, the store added some color to the neighborhood. Better an adult superstore than a boring supermarket or strip mall. Anyway, it’s not like I expected the Waldorf-Astoria. We were paying $50 a night for room and board, not $500. For that price I expect nothing more than four walls, a roof, and no hypodermic syringes concealed in the mattress. And two of those three are negotiable.
First on the agenda: napping. I had slept in the car on the way up, but one nap is never enough, particularly when one has had to wake up at three in the morning. I settled down for a quick fifteen-minute doze. Like most of my fifteen-minute naps, this one stretched on for an hour or so. Next: some preliminary exploring. I explored the bathroom and found that, contrary to my fears, the toilet and sink did indeed work. Then I explored the closet, the hallway, and the lobby. That was just preparation; now I was ready to explore the city itself. I said a quick prayer to St. Tom-Tom, patron saint of Not Getting Totally Lost in a Strange City, and stepped out onto the street.
Before we left for San Francisco, I had asked a co-worker to recommend a few places worth seeing. He thought for a minute. Then he left for a couple minutes and came back with a map of the city. Laying it out on the table, he pointed to a place called Eddy Street, circled it, and told me to stay away from there at any cost. He didn’t get into specifics, but my imagination supplied all that. Needless to say, after walking for one block I found myself on Eddy Street. A homeless guy loitering on the corner gave me a funny look. I fled, screaming.
After narrowly escaping rape and murder on Eddy Street, I wound up on the streets of Little Saigon. I kept a nervous eye open for the Viet Cong. Little Saigon is less a neighborhood than an endless series of Vietnamese restaurants, each seeking to outbid the other with absurdly low prices. One store offered a pair of sandwiches for less than $2. How much lower can you go? I half expected a shopkeeper to come running out and stuff a sandwich in my mouth, shouting “EAT! EAT FOR FREE!”
After Little Saigon I wandered into Little Phnom Penh, which was nothing but a smoking wasteland of bones and spent shell casings. Sorry, I realize that was in terrible taste. Let me start again. After Little Saigon I wandered into a wide, tree-lined plaza, beyond which stood San Francisco’s City Hall. It impressed me in a good way. Sure, it resembled a knock-off of Congress, but so does every other city hall. Big dome—check. Columns—check. Stone carving of naked women representing “Justice” and “Equality”—check. But the San Francisco City Hall had gilt on its dome; not many other city halls can claim that. It looked quite beautiful. I’m sure it would have looked even better if the sun hadn’t been concealed by a dense, impenetrable layer S.F. fog.
Later that evening we visited Chinatown, still unwinding from hosting the 2008 San Francisco City Olympics. Oh man, this was the most amazing part—the signs were written IN CHINESE! Not English—CHINESE! No, wait there’s more. They don’t even use English letters! I’m serious! They use these weird symbols that look like a game of Pick Up Sticks got out of hand. God only knows what they said. I preferred to make up my own translations. We ate dinner at a place I dubbed “Kidneys for Sale.” The food was quite good. The chopsticks were impossible. I tried to eat with them, gave up, and proceeded to use them in a light saber fight with one of my tablemates.
Our final stop of the night brought us to the Mission District, ground zero for San Francisco’s hipsters. They breed there, I think. They bump into each other, start admiring one another’s thrift-store-bough clothes, and BANG! Nine months later the world has a new aspiring ‘zine writer. People told me the Mission District gets a bit…sketchy at night. Wrong! It gets really, really, REALLY sketchy. Every storefront is either a Mexican place serving cheap fried brains or a seedy-looking club. Homeless guys push shopping carts full of garbage up and down the street. I never felt threatened, though, because I’m a smooth operator fully at home in the city. Plus, I had about a dozen friends with me. I could offer them to the homeless guys as a sacrifice.
The night ended a little late; that made me grumpy, as I missed my usual bedtime of five in the evening. We hitched a ride back to our hotel on one of San Fran’s cable cars. Here’s something no one tells you about those trolleys. They make the world’s most ominous noise, a metallic rattle that sounds like the death call of some bizarre alien creature. At night, the sound turns the streets into a weird sci-fi world; you hear a strange twanging noise echoing in the dark. Quite a strange sensation.
So that’s the first day. Coming soon: the third day! I mean, the second day. I know how to count. Seriously.
We approached the city via the Not Golden Gate Bridge. I don’t know what it’s name is—I only know what is isn’t. We didn’t have a particularly good view of San Francisco as we approached. Some of that was due to the fog. Some of it was due to the fact that I was asleep at the time. I woke up as we got nearer to the hotel. I jerked my head up, blinking and rubbing my eyes, and immediately saw at least three liquor stores. I started to get a little nervous. What had I gotten myself into?
That, of course, was before I saw the hotel. The hotel was fine. It looked very nice, actually, with an old-fashioned vertical sign out front and a classy little canopy beneath that. The neighborhood around it…failed to live up to those standards. If you walk across the street you can visit Frenchy’s, “Your Adult Superstore.” We had arrived just in time, actually—Frenchy’s was having a sale! If we wanted, we could have our pick of “1000s of New Toys!” or enjoy a “$7 Private Booth!”
But I didn’t get my knickers in a twist over Frenchy’s, to use a very appropriate metaphor. Heck, I figured, the store added some color to the neighborhood. Better an adult superstore than a boring supermarket or strip mall. Anyway, it’s not like I expected the Waldorf-Astoria. We were paying $50 a night for room and board, not $500. For that price I expect nothing more than four walls, a roof, and no hypodermic syringes concealed in the mattress. And two of those three are negotiable.
First on the agenda: napping. I had slept in the car on the way up, but one nap is never enough, particularly when one has had to wake up at three in the morning. I settled down for a quick fifteen-minute doze. Like most of my fifteen-minute naps, this one stretched on for an hour or so. Next: some preliminary exploring. I explored the bathroom and found that, contrary to my fears, the toilet and sink did indeed work. Then I explored the closet, the hallway, and the lobby. That was just preparation; now I was ready to explore the city itself. I said a quick prayer to St. Tom-Tom, patron saint of Not Getting Totally Lost in a Strange City, and stepped out onto the street.
Before we left for San Francisco, I had asked a co-worker to recommend a few places worth seeing. He thought for a minute. Then he left for a couple minutes and came back with a map of the city. Laying it out on the table, he pointed to a place called Eddy Street, circled it, and told me to stay away from there at any cost. He didn’t get into specifics, but my imagination supplied all that. Needless to say, after walking for one block I found myself on Eddy Street. A homeless guy loitering on the corner gave me a funny look. I fled, screaming.
After narrowly escaping rape and murder on Eddy Street, I wound up on the streets of Little Saigon. I kept a nervous eye open for the Viet Cong. Little Saigon is less a neighborhood than an endless series of Vietnamese restaurants, each seeking to outbid the other with absurdly low prices. One store offered a pair of sandwiches for less than $2. How much lower can you go? I half expected a shopkeeper to come running out and stuff a sandwich in my mouth, shouting “EAT! EAT FOR FREE!”
After Little Saigon I wandered into Little Phnom Penh, which was nothing but a smoking wasteland of bones and spent shell casings. Sorry, I realize that was in terrible taste. Let me start again. After Little Saigon I wandered into a wide, tree-lined plaza, beyond which stood San Francisco’s City Hall. It impressed me in a good way. Sure, it resembled a knock-off of Congress, but so does every other city hall. Big dome—check. Columns—check. Stone carving of naked women representing “Justice” and “Equality”—check. But the San Francisco City Hall had gilt on its dome; not many other city halls can claim that. It looked quite beautiful. I’m sure it would have looked even better if the sun hadn’t been concealed by a dense, impenetrable layer S.F. fog.
Later that evening we visited Chinatown, still unwinding from hosting the 2008 San Francisco City Olympics. Oh man, this was the most amazing part—the signs were written IN CHINESE! Not English—CHINESE! No, wait there’s more. They don’t even use English letters! I’m serious! They use these weird symbols that look like a game of Pick Up Sticks got out of hand. God only knows what they said. I preferred to make up my own translations. We ate dinner at a place I dubbed “Kidneys for Sale.” The food was quite good. The chopsticks were impossible. I tried to eat with them, gave up, and proceeded to use them in a light saber fight with one of my tablemates.
Our final stop of the night brought us to the Mission District, ground zero for San Francisco’s hipsters. They breed there, I think. They bump into each other, start admiring one another’s thrift-store-bough clothes, and BANG! Nine months later the world has a new aspiring ‘zine writer. People told me the Mission District gets a bit…sketchy at night. Wrong! It gets really, really, REALLY sketchy. Every storefront is either a Mexican place serving cheap fried brains or a seedy-looking club. Homeless guys push shopping carts full of garbage up and down the street. I never felt threatened, though, because I’m a smooth operator fully at home in the city. Plus, I had about a dozen friends with me. I could offer them to the homeless guys as a sacrifice.
The night ended a little late; that made me grumpy, as I missed my usual bedtime of five in the evening. We hitched a ride back to our hotel on one of San Fran’s cable cars. Here’s something no one tells you about those trolleys. They make the world’s most ominous noise, a metallic rattle that sounds like the death call of some bizarre alien creature. At night, the sound turns the streets into a weird sci-fi world; you hear a strange twanging noise echoing in the dark. Quite a strange sensation.
So that’s the first day. Coming soon: the third day! I mean, the second day. I know how to count. Seriously.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Stanford
We had some time to kill, so why not slay it at Stanford? After all, Stanford has rightfully earned its reputation as a one-school Ivy League. I don’t know much about Stanford. In high school I thought about applying there, but I never went any further than picking up the school’s brochure. I must say, though, that the brochure looked very nice. Lots of ethnically diverse students frolicking in the California sun. My high school self, being a pale and bitter misanthrope, was not impressed.
Stanford was named after Leland Stanford, a railroad tycoon who got filthy rich exploiting his Chinese workers. Add Stanford to the list of “schools named after bloated plutocrats”—also featuring Johns Hopkins, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie Mellon. But hey, it could be worse. Stanford certainly has it easier than nearby Hitler University.
My first glimpse of Stanford came at a great, great distance. On our vertigo-inducing drive up the mountainside, we stopped at a scenic overlook to do some overlooking. Our guide pointed out a cluster of red roofs on the horizon. That was Stanford. The Farm. The…uh…actually, that’s the only nickname Stanford has. The Farm. I can’t complain, though, as I attend a school nicknamed The Hill. I admired the vista of Stanford, but I was a bit distracted at the time. My instinct for self-preservation had kicked in; I was planning on how to survive the trip down the mountain without puking.
We arrived at Stanford about forty-five minutes later. The descent was rough; I intensely regretted all of the trail mix I had eaten. But I heroically resisted the urge to vomit. So there’s the first good thing I can say about Stanford: it did not make me throw up.
Someone once described Stanford as looking “very Taco Bell.” There’s a grain of truth in that, I suppose. The buildings all have red-tile roofs; that, combined with the ubiquitous yellow brick, gives the campus a prefabricated feel. You can imagine Stanford dropping out of the sky fully-formed. Like Duke, another triumph of synthetic architecture, Stanford seems a little artificial.
But who says artificial can’t be beautiful? Taco Bell or no, Stanford is still a gorgeous place. It’s dotted with wide stone plazas and crisscrossed by long, open air corridors lined with pillars. Everything is big and squat; the history building has only two stories, but we spent nearly fifteen minutes walking around. The clock tower is the only thing on campus that stands taller than the average giraffe. The whole campus has a very monastic feel. I kept expecting an angry abbot to show up and chide us for missing vespers.
We spent a good hour wandering the campus. Stanford, like most colleges, has more than its fair share of god-awful modern art. The place is littered with twisted hunks of metal that look like tragic helicopter accidents. One piece resembled the work of Constantin Brancusi, assuming, of course, that Brancusi was stoned out of his mind when he designed it. There is also, for reasons known only to God, a giant totem pole in the middle of one of the quads.
Thankfully, the buildings are pretty enough to balance out the sculptures. They get ample support from the vegetation; Stanford is one of the greenest campuses I have seen. I don’t mean “green” in the Al Gore sense. I speak literally. Trees and grass grow everywhere, bravely defying the California heat. No matter how hard the sun beats down, the trees keep on growing. There are even a couple willow trees, strategically placed around a fountain to give the place a wonderfully collegiate atmosphere.
I should mention the food. Not much was open, given that it was both the summer and the day before a national holiday. I worried we might have to end up scrounging in the garbage cans for food…again. But we were in luck: a little Mexican place called “The Treehouse” was open. It was everything you would expect from a college joint. It offered the staples of college life—burritos, pizza, burgers—in ridiculous quantities at a very reasonable price. No, they didn’t pay me to write that. I wish they had, though, as I spent more than I intended during my San Francisco visit.
As I sat in one of the many little courts across campus, munching by bean-and-cheese burrito (by Mexican standards, I’m a vegetarian) I began to do a little thinking. I’ve often considered Stanford for graduate school. It boasts a great history program and has a great reputation in general. Now, thanks to my trip, I know that it also has a beautiful campus. Does that outweigh the fact that I’d be a couple thousand miles from home? That’s the only thing holding me back.
I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can swing it. Stanford is awfully hard to resist. It’s a great campus. Palo Alto is a great campus town. And the Treehouse serves one mean bean-and-cheese burrito.
Stanford was named after Leland Stanford, a railroad tycoon who got filthy rich exploiting his Chinese workers. Add Stanford to the list of “schools named after bloated plutocrats”—also featuring Johns Hopkins, Vanderbilt, and Carnegie Mellon. But hey, it could be worse. Stanford certainly has it easier than nearby Hitler University.
My first glimpse of Stanford came at a great, great distance. On our vertigo-inducing drive up the mountainside, we stopped at a scenic overlook to do some overlooking. Our guide pointed out a cluster of red roofs on the horizon. That was Stanford. The Farm. The…uh…actually, that’s the only nickname Stanford has. The Farm. I can’t complain, though, as I attend a school nicknamed The Hill. I admired the vista of Stanford, but I was a bit distracted at the time. My instinct for self-preservation had kicked in; I was planning on how to survive the trip down the mountain without puking.
We arrived at Stanford about forty-five minutes later. The descent was rough; I intensely regretted all of the trail mix I had eaten. But I heroically resisted the urge to vomit. So there’s the first good thing I can say about Stanford: it did not make me throw up.
Someone once described Stanford as looking “very Taco Bell.” There’s a grain of truth in that, I suppose. The buildings all have red-tile roofs; that, combined with the ubiquitous yellow brick, gives the campus a prefabricated feel. You can imagine Stanford dropping out of the sky fully-formed. Like Duke, another triumph of synthetic architecture, Stanford seems a little artificial.
But who says artificial can’t be beautiful? Taco Bell or no, Stanford is still a gorgeous place. It’s dotted with wide stone plazas and crisscrossed by long, open air corridors lined with pillars. Everything is big and squat; the history building has only two stories, but we spent nearly fifteen minutes walking around. The clock tower is the only thing on campus that stands taller than the average giraffe. The whole campus has a very monastic feel. I kept expecting an angry abbot to show up and chide us for missing vespers.
We spent a good hour wandering the campus. Stanford, like most colleges, has more than its fair share of god-awful modern art. The place is littered with twisted hunks of metal that look like tragic helicopter accidents. One piece resembled the work of Constantin Brancusi, assuming, of course, that Brancusi was stoned out of his mind when he designed it. There is also, for reasons known only to God, a giant totem pole in the middle of one of the quads.
Thankfully, the buildings are pretty enough to balance out the sculptures. They get ample support from the vegetation; Stanford is one of the greenest campuses I have seen. I don’t mean “green” in the Al Gore sense. I speak literally. Trees and grass grow everywhere, bravely defying the California heat. No matter how hard the sun beats down, the trees keep on growing. There are even a couple willow trees, strategically placed around a fountain to give the place a wonderfully collegiate atmosphere.
I should mention the food. Not much was open, given that it was both the summer and the day before a national holiday. I worried we might have to end up scrounging in the garbage cans for food…again. But we were in luck: a little Mexican place called “The Treehouse” was open. It was everything you would expect from a college joint. It offered the staples of college life—burritos, pizza, burgers—in ridiculous quantities at a very reasonable price. No, they didn’t pay me to write that. I wish they had, though, as I spent more than I intended during my San Francisco visit.
As I sat in one of the many little courts across campus, munching by bean-and-cheese burrito (by Mexican standards, I’m a vegetarian) I began to do a little thinking. I’ve often considered Stanford for graduate school. It boasts a great history program and has a great reputation in general. Now, thanks to my trip, I know that it also has a beautiful campus. Does that outweigh the fact that I’d be a couple thousand miles from home? That’s the only thing holding me back.
I figure that maybe, just maybe, I can swing it. Stanford is awfully hard to resist. It’s a great campus. Palo Alto is a great campus town. And the Treehouse serves one mean bean-and-cheese burrito.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Driving the PCH
I just flew in from San Francisco, and boy, are my arms tired! OK, now replace “flew” with “drove” and “arms” with “butt,” and you’ve got a good picture of how I feel. That drive would count as torture in other, more civilized nations. But forget that! I’m not here to complain about the drive. I’m here to tell you about my trip to Paris on the East Bay—San Francisco!
We left at 4:30 in the morning, hoping to watch the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. In retrospect, that was a stupid move. We headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, a long and winding road trafficked mostly by out-of-state gawkers. We were from out-of-state; we had come to gawk; that made the PCH perfect for us. The drive lasted more than ten hours, but was well worth it.
There wasn’t much to see at first. Leaving Yorba Linda, you have to make your way through a tangled spaghetti of roadways, freeways, parkways, highways, byways and skyways and lots of other –ways. Plus, it was dark. The first two hours of the trip went by in a blur of headlights and taillights. We passed by Los Angeles without any trouble. Even the notorious L.A. traffic subsides at five in the morning.
The sun came up in the east, as it traditionally does, and we finally realized why so many people brave the twisty pretzel that is the PCH. The Pacific coastline is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It makes my top five list, with a bullet:
1. My face, every morning, in the mirror
2. The Pacific coast
3. Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
4. Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory
5. My face, every evening, in the mirror
Why are beaches so dang pretty? When you actually break it down, they don’t seem all that special. Beach=sand+water. So what’s the difference between the Pacific coast and, oh, I don’t know, a kiddie pool sitting next to a sandbox?
I think it’s the sheer size of the thing. Bigger isn’t always better; for proof, look up “Bradley, Shawn.” But the vast expanse of the Pacific gives the coast a grandeur all its own. Everything is magnified to gargantuan proportions. You stand on the cliff and look at the rocks below, and it takes a few seconds to register, Hey, those rocks are the size of my house! Each frond of kelp is big enough to supply a lifetime of sushi. The Pacific coast is nature, super-sized.
We drove a little above the recommended speed limit—3 miles per hour on the straightaway, 2 on the curves—so that we could get to San Francisco before the end of the decade. Now and then we stopped, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes to simply admire the view. And sometimes to use the bathroom, of course. Those are few and far between on the PCH. You can pull over to the side of the road and run off into some vegetable field, of course, but that seems to take away from the rugged beauty of the scenery around you.
The first stop was for gas. The second stop was also for gas. Again, in retrospect, that was a stupid idea. We ate breakfast at Starbucks, one of the few businesses as established in the west as it is back home in the east. The west has In-N-Out and the east has Chick-Fil-A. The west has Albertson’s, the east, Food Lion. The west has El Pollo Loco. The east has Long John Silver’s. But Starbucks, like God, is with us always. Unlike God, Starbucks also serves a mean mocha frappe latte with espresso sauce. I don’t know my coffee. Does it show?
We also had the pleasure of visiting Gorda, a little seaside community with a population of five (Mike, Bridget, Cal, Jose, and Betty). It looks like something out of Middle Earth, a tiny hobbit town cut into the cliff wall. Attractions included a couple restrooms, a convenience store, and an unattended espresso bar. We didn’t buy anything, but if we did, I think we would have doubled the town’s income.
Gorda came right before Big Sur. Big Sur—originally named Tiny Sur, until the California Board of Tourism decided to go for the gusto—is one of the nation’s largest surs. A sur, according to dictionary.com, is “a town in S Lebanon, on the Mediterranean Sea: site of ancient port of Tyre.” Yeah, I’m not sure what to make of that either. Regardless of what dictionary.com says, Big Sur is a big, rocky promontory jutting out into the Pacific. It attracts sightseers the way potato salad draws flies at a picnic.
But really, who could resist something like Big Sur? It’s one of the most impressive sights I’ve ever seen. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world. Fog was rolling in off of the ocean, clinging to the cliffs and beaches below us. The water was rough; waves smacked endlessly against the rocks, throwing up little jets of foamy white spray. I looked out to the horizon and saw nothing except for more fog. Behind us stood the rocky hills that dominate the California coast. We stood alone on a sliver of land between ocean and mountains. Alone, I guess, except for the dozen or so tourists clicking away on their cameras. Not that I can criticize them for that. I took plenty of pictures myself.
Everything after Big Sur was a little uneventful. We veered away from the Pacific coast into the farmlands of northern California. There were many green things growing on the side of the road; please don’t ask me to name them. I’m lost when it comes to plants. I can’t tell an artichoke from an asparagus. The only crop I can identify is tobacco, and that’s because I spent ten years of my childhood driving past huge fields of it every day on my way to school. No tobacco out here, though. That’s more of a red state crop.
We passed by Monterey, home of John Steinbeck. In honor of the grittiest writer not named Hemingway, we stopped for a moment to ponder the bleak and hopeless situation that confronts America’s poor.
The leader of our convoy took this opportunity to lead us on one of his favorite drives through the mountains. Unfortunately—and unbeknownst to us—he usually negotiates that drive on his bike. A car is somewhat larger than a bike. I spent most of that drive alternatively admiring the scenery and praying that our driver didn’t sneeze at the wrong second and send us over a cliff. Scenery sure was nice, though. The path ended up going through a redwood forest. Even in the midst of mortal terror, I found time to admire the massive trees looming over us. It reminded of something out of Lord of the Rings. I kept on the watch for an orc ambush. Thankfully, none was forthcoming.
That’s enough for the first installment! Next: Stanford, and our first day in San Francisco!
We left at 4:30 in the morning, hoping to watch the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. In retrospect, that was a stupid move. We headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway, a long and winding road trafficked mostly by out-of-state gawkers. We were from out-of-state; we had come to gawk; that made the PCH perfect for us. The drive lasted more than ten hours, but was well worth it.
There wasn’t much to see at first. Leaving Yorba Linda, you have to make your way through a tangled spaghetti of roadways, freeways, parkways, highways, byways and skyways and lots of other –ways. Plus, it was dark. The first two hours of the trip went by in a blur of headlights and taillights. We passed by Los Angeles without any trouble. Even the notorious L.A. traffic subsides at five in the morning.
The sun came up in the east, as it traditionally does, and we finally realized why so many people brave the twisty pretzel that is the PCH. The Pacific coastline is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. It makes my top five list, with a bullet:
1. My face, every morning, in the mirror
2. The Pacific coast
3. Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
4. Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory
5. My face, every evening, in the mirror
Why are beaches so dang pretty? When you actually break it down, they don’t seem all that special. Beach=sand+water. So what’s the difference between the Pacific coast and, oh, I don’t know, a kiddie pool sitting next to a sandbox?
I think it’s the sheer size of the thing. Bigger isn’t always better; for proof, look up “Bradley, Shawn.” But the vast expanse of the Pacific gives the coast a grandeur all its own. Everything is magnified to gargantuan proportions. You stand on the cliff and look at the rocks below, and it takes a few seconds to register, Hey, those rocks are the size of my house! Each frond of kelp is big enough to supply a lifetime of sushi. The Pacific coast is nature, super-sized.
We drove a little above the recommended speed limit—3 miles per hour on the straightaway, 2 on the curves—so that we could get to San Francisco before the end of the decade. Now and then we stopped, sometimes for a bite to eat, sometimes to simply admire the view. And sometimes to use the bathroom, of course. Those are few and far between on the PCH. You can pull over to the side of the road and run off into some vegetable field, of course, but that seems to take away from the rugged beauty of the scenery around you.
The first stop was for gas. The second stop was also for gas. Again, in retrospect, that was a stupid idea. We ate breakfast at Starbucks, one of the few businesses as established in the west as it is back home in the east. The west has In-N-Out and the east has Chick-Fil-A. The west has Albertson’s, the east, Food Lion. The west has El Pollo Loco. The east has Long John Silver’s. But Starbucks, like God, is with us always. Unlike God, Starbucks also serves a mean mocha frappe latte with espresso sauce. I don’t know my coffee. Does it show?
We also had the pleasure of visiting Gorda, a little seaside community with a population of five (Mike, Bridget, Cal, Jose, and Betty). It looks like something out of Middle Earth, a tiny hobbit town cut into the cliff wall. Attractions included a couple restrooms, a convenience store, and an unattended espresso bar. We didn’t buy anything, but if we did, I think we would have doubled the town’s income.
Gorda came right before Big Sur. Big Sur—originally named Tiny Sur, until the California Board of Tourism decided to go for the gusto—is one of the nation’s largest surs. A sur, according to dictionary.com, is “a town in S Lebanon, on the Mediterranean Sea: site of ancient port of Tyre.” Yeah, I’m not sure what to make of that either. Regardless of what dictionary.com says, Big Sur is a big, rocky promontory jutting out into the Pacific. It attracts sightseers the way potato salad draws flies at a picnic.
But really, who could resist something like Big Sur? It’s one of the most impressive sights I’ve ever seen. I felt like I was standing at the edge of the world. Fog was rolling in off of the ocean, clinging to the cliffs and beaches below us. The water was rough; waves smacked endlessly against the rocks, throwing up little jets of foamy white spray. I looked out to the horizon and saw nothing except for more fog. Behind us stood the rocky hills that dominate the California coast. We stood alone on a sliver of land between ocean and mountains. Alone, I guess, except for the dozen or so tourists clicking away on their cameras. Not that I can criticize them for that. I took plenty of pictures myself.
Everything after Big Sur was a little uneventful. We veered away from the Pacific coast into the farmlands of northern California. There were many green things growing on the side of the road; please don’t ask me to name them. I’m lost when it comes to plants. I can’t tell an artichoke from an asparagus. The only crop I can identify is tobacco, and that’s because I spent ten years of my childhood driving past huge fields of it every day on my way to school. No tobacco out here, though. That’s more of a red state crop.
We passed by Monterey, home of John Steinbeck. In honor of the grittiest writer not named Hemingway, we stopped for a moment to ponder the bleak and hopeless situation that confronts America’s poor.
The leader of our convoy took this opportunity to lead us on one of his favorite drives through the mountains. Unfortunately—and unbeknownst to us—he usually negotiates that drive on his bike. A car is somewhat larger than a bike. I spent most of that drive alternatively admiring the scenery and praying that our driver didn’t sneeze at the wrong second and send us over a cliff. Scenery sure was nice, though. The path ended up going through a redwood forest. Even in the midst of mortal terror, I found time to admire the massive trees looming over us. It reminded of something out of Lord of the Rings. I kept on the watch for an orc ambush. Thankfully, none was forthcoming.
That’s enough for the first installment! Next: Stanford, and our first day in San Francisco!
Friday, July 3, 2009
Update
Hey, folks--
The posting forecast for the next couple days is light to non-existent, on account of an intern trip to San Francisco. But don't worry; I won't forget about you guys. I'm sure I'll have plenty of stories to tell when I get back. Like, that time I got lost in the Castro District and got whistled at by an 80-year-old man in fishnet tights. Or the time I got arrested for chasing the sea lions near Pier 39. Yes, none of this has happened yet, but don't be surprised if it does.
Anyway, I will return soon, (hopefully) safe and sound. Until then, au revoir and auf wiedersehen!
The posting forecast for the next couple days is light to non-existent, on account of an intern trip to San Francisco. But don't worry; I won't forget about you guys. I'm sure I'll have plenty of stories to tell when I get back. Like, that time I got lost in the Castro District and got whistled at by an 80-year-old man in fishnet tights. Or the time I got arrested for chasing the sea lions near Pier 39. Yes, none of this has happened yet, but don't be surprised if it does.
Anyway, I will return soon, (hopefully) safe and sound. Until then, au revoir and auf wiedersehen!
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
We're rolling with the dog theme, so let's end with a Bizarre Google Search for "cold dog":
Que?
Que?
Hot Dog!
From dead dog to hot dog...I bring you a list of "Ten Gourmet Hot Dogs." The Chicken Willy sounds particularly good, if vaguely obscene. And who can read a description like this without their mouth watering?
A creation of San Francisco bar 15 Romolo, the crispy dog is a tubular mashup of a wiener from artisan charcutier Fatted Calf filled with cheese, wrapped in a corn tortilla, and deep-fried. In other words, perhaps the tastiest way ever devised to induce a heart attack.
Mmmmm...coronary-clogging goodness.
A creation of San Francisco bar 15 Romolo, the crispy dog is a tubular mashup of a wiener from artisan charcutier Fatted Calf filled with cheese, wrapped in a corn tortilla, and deep-fried. In other words, perhaps the tastiest way ever devised to induce a heart attack.
Mmmmm...coronary-clogging goodness.
Utter Foolishness
I spent the last three weeks doing my laundry with fabric softener; I thought it was detergent. The bottles look the same, dammit! Well, I guess it's not the worst detergent-related mix-up I've ever made. There was that one time I confused my detergent with orange juice...
Dog and Pony Show
Meet Berry the Chihuahua, a little dog whose hobbies include running, yapping at shadows, and cheating death.
Treading Water
Some years ago—when exactly, I can’t remember—I resolved to get more exercise. Unlike some of my other resolutions, like Will Schultz’s vow to always speak in the third person, I actually kept this one. It was easy, really, once I applied my crippling OCD to the problem. When I started treating exercise as a boring, repetitive task, rather than as something fun and enjoyable, I felt compelled to do it each and every day. Not every day, I suppose. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are for exercise; Tuesdays and Thursdays are for relaxing; Saturday is for chores; Sunday is for donuts.
At Chapel Hill, I would get up early three times a week and go for a run around the neighborhood. Chapel Hill’s a great place to run. It has lots of long, winding back streets, where you can run past fancy homes that belong to the Dean of Students or the Dean of Tuition Hikes or whoever. Traffic is light, so except at a few street crossings, you never feel in grave bodily danger. If you’re feeling frisky you can run all the way to the Dean Dome. My old running schedule used to include a couple laps around the Dome. I stopped this routine after I got lost halfway through the fifth lap. Hey, it’s a big building!
Running is a little trickier in Fullerton. First, the streets of Fullerton are mean indeed. Have a mentioned that the drivers here are homicidal? I know I have, but I should mention it again. The drivers are homicidal. Oh, you think you’ve got the right of way? Think again, little pedestrian. The only thing you have the right to do is get the hell out of my way. Move, or you’ll end up splattered halfway to Santa Monica.
So instead of risking life and limb by running in Fullerton, I’ve taken to using the treadmill in the basement of UV’s student center. Yes, I know. A treadmill is to real running as artificial insemination is to sex. It’s not running; it’s running-lite. You miss out on the fresh air and beautiful California sunshine. So sue me. I like my exercise to be free from the grim specter of death. Is that too much to ask? I think not.
The UV’s treadmill has got a little dashboard covered with all sorts of buttons. I’ve figured out about half of them through trial and (mostly) error. I can crank up the speed, from “old man moseying down to pick up the mail” to “Usain Bolt running the 1 meter dash right after taking a big snort of cocaine.” Note: those are not the actual titles. I can also shift the incline of the treadmill, allowing you to imagine that you’re climbing a mountain. A mountain with a movable track running to the summit, but a mountain nonetheless.
I also listen to music while I run. It helps take my mind off of the burning pain in my ankles, knees, thighs, and nose (from that time I smacked my face on the dashboard). Some people like to listen to soothing music while they run. They say it helps them calm down, and allows them to keep their breathing under control. I say: wimps! I prefer some hardcore pumping up music. Of course, for me, anything heavier than the Carpenters is hardcore. The heaviest album I ever listened to was “Abbey Road.”
This morning’s run was a bit unusual. The treadmill faces a window, but the shutters are always drawn. That means I spend twenty minutes bouncing up and down while staring at a row of white plastic slats. “Oh,” I find myself wishing, “If only the window was open! Then I could bask in the sunlight while I run! I could see the newly-mown grass outside and people splashing in the pool!”
Ha! The windows were open today. Turns out I didn’t miss much. The first thing I saw was my reflection. I never realized how goofy I look running on a treadmill. I bounce up and down like some kind of spastic wind-up toy, my head bobbing in and out of view. It looks like I’m the mole in some crazy game of whack-a-mole. And if I back up to get a better view out the window, I see…a wall. Remember, the gym is in the basement of the community center. Not much to see out there. I tried to focus on the wall, but my incessant bouncing made the wall appear to jump up and down. Soon, I started to feel a little seasick. I closed my eyes, cranked up the Beach Boys, and prayed that by Friday some kind soul would have closed the window.
At Chapel Hill, I would get up early three times a week and go for a run around the neighborhood. Chapel Hill’s a great place to run. It has lots of long, winding back streets, where you can run past fancy homes that belong to the Dean of Students or the Dean of Tuition Hikes or whoever. Traffic is light, so except at a few street crossings, you never feel in grave bodily danger. If you’re feeling frisky you can run all the way to the Dean Dome. My old running schedule used to include a couple laps around the Dome. I stopped this routine after I got lost halfway through the fifth lap. Hey, it’s a big building!
Running is a little trickier in Fullerton. First, the streets of Fullerton are mean indeed. Have a mentioned that the drivers here are homicidal? I know I have, but I should mention it again. The drivers are homicidal. Oh, you think you’ve got the right of way? Think again, little pedestrian. The only thing you have the right to do is get the hell out of my way. Move, or you’ll end up splattered halfway to Santa Monica.
So instead of risking life and limb by running in Fullerton, I’ve taken to using the treadmill in the basement of UV’s student center. Yes, I know. A treadmill is to real running as artificial insemination is to sex. It’s not running; it’s running-lite. You miss out on the fresh air and beautiful California sunshine. So sue me. I like my exercise to be free from the grim specter of death. Is that too much to ask? I think not.
The UV’s treadmill has got a little dashboard covered with all sorts of buttons. I’ve figured out about half of them through trial and (mostly) error. I can crank up the speed, from “old man moseying down to pick up the mail” to “Usain Bolt running the 1 meter dash right after taking a big snort of cocaine.” Note: those are not the actual titles. I can also shift the incline of the treadmill, allowing you to imagine that you’re climbing a mountain. A mountain with a movable track running to the summit, but a mountain nonetheless.
I also listen to music while I run. It helps take my mind off of the burning pain in my ankles, knees, thighs, and nose (from that time I smacked my face on the dashboard). Some people like to listen to soothing music while they run. They say it helps them calm down, and allows them to keep their breathing under control. I say: wimps! I prefer some hardcore pumping up music. Of course, for me, anything heavier than the Carpenters is hardcore. The heaviest album I ever listened to was “Abbey Road.”
This morning’s run was a bit unusual. The treadmill faces a window, but the shutters are always drawn. That means I spend twenty minutes bouncing up and down while staring at a row of white plastic slats. “Oh,” I find myself wishing, “If only the window was open! Then I could bask in the sunlight while I run! I could see the newly-mown grass outside and people splashing in the pool!”
Ha! The windows were open today. Turns out I didn’t miss much. The first thing I saw was my reflection. I never realized how goofy I look running on a treadmill. I bounce up and down like some kind of spastic wind-up toy, my head bobbing in and out of view. It looks like I’m the mole in some crazy game of whack-a-mole. And if I back up to get a better view out the window, I see…a wall. Remember, the gym is in the basement of the community center. Not much to see out there. I tried to focus on the wall, but my incessant bouncing made the wall appear to jump up and down. Soon, I started to feel a little seasick. I closed my eyes, cranked up the Beach Boys, and prayed that by Friday some kind soul would have closed the window.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
Let's end the night with a Bizarre Google Search for "easy come, easy go":
No, my friend, I assure you that Arnold worked for every myofibril of muscle.
No, my friend, I assure you that Arnold worked for every myofibril of muscle.
Cave(wo)man
How to deal with heartbreak? You can suffer in silence, keeping the pain locked within yourself. You can rage against the world; you can curse fate for what it has done. You can turn pain into beauty, transforming your suffering into transcendent art.
Or you can go live in a cave for a couple decades. Up to you, really.
Or you can go live in a cave for a couple decades. Up to you, really.
Fantasy Op-Ed Page
We live in Fantasyland. It’s not quite like I expected. Say “Fantasyland” to most people, and they think of dragons, wizards, and fairies. The truth is a little more mundane. Fantasy is all around us. But it’s not fantasy as in “bold knights of the realm battling giants to rescue fair maidens” kind of fantasy. It’s more of a “overweight sports nerds in their basement” kind of fantasy.
Yes, I’m talking about fantasy sports—baseball, football, basketball and even cricket for you freakish Anglophiles. You assemble bizarre teams that would never, ever work in real life (I’m sure Kobe won’t mind sharing the ball with Allen Iverson!) and then duke it out with other sports nerds. Recently, the fantasy craze has spread a little beyond sports. You can even do Fantasy Congress if you want. I’d give you the link, but I’m trying to maintain what little shred of coolness I have left.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to blow that last shred to pieces with what I’m about to write. I was thinking: we have fantasy sports teams. We have fantasy congresses. What’s next? Fantasy sitcoms (Bill Cosby as Dad, Michael Richards as wacky neighbor)? Fantasy symphonies (Yo-Yo Ma on cello, Lang Lang on piano, Tsing-Tsing on…wait, that’s a panda)? Fantasy menus (steak from Ruth’s Chris, fries from Five Guys)?
I could go on forever. But I won’t. My time is too valuable, and yours isn’t cheap either. So here’s my idea: a fantasy editorial page. I got the idea from reading the op-eds in the New York Times. You would think that the NYT’s editorial page would be nothing but quality. After all, it’s the pinnacle to which all columnists aspire. You’d think that…but you’d be wrong. Dead, dead wrong. I’ve read better copy in my high school’s paper, The Raleigh Charter Semi-Monthly.
I exaggerate a little, but I do it to make a point. The NYT could do a lot better. But how could it do a lot better? If I could pick the perfect lineup of opinion writers, who would I choose? And why? And how would I pay them? I’ll ignore the last question. It’s moot. After all, in five years journalists will be working in return for a semi-daily supply of partly edible food.
First, I’d keep Paul Krugman. Every paper needs a Big Draw, and you can’t get much bigger than WINNING A NOBEL PRIZE. That’s how important it is—it deserves ALL CAPS. Winning a Nobel Prize is the literary equivalent of “God mode” in video games. You can say whatever stupid crap you want and get away with it. Krugman could write “I think we ought to replace paper money with small conch shells,” and people would agree, because HE WON A NOBEL PRIZE.
I’d also retain David Brooks, as the paper’s resident Ideas Man. He’s the kind of guy who can take new ideas in science, sociology and psychology and boil them down into simple terms. True, he boils away the actual “science” in the process. Brooks’s digests have all the scientific cachet of a 1950s “Weird Adventures in Space” magazine. But he’s readable, and that’s what matters in a paper. But be warned, David. I nearly dropped you in favor of your buddy Malcolm Gladwell. You’re on thin ice with me, boy.
An editorial board isn’t doing it’s job if it doesn’t tick people off. For that, it needs a Firebrand. I choose Matt Taibbi for the spot. Taibbi irritates nearly everybody. I, for instance, hate him for the way he mocked John Paul II. Other people hate him for his savage attacks on Thomas Friedman. Still others hate him because he lived in Uzbekistan. That’s a small minority, true, but the more haters the better. A newspaper thrives on controversy. Every angry old lady writing an editorial letter is money in the bank for a newspaper.
To balance the Firebrand requires an Elder Statesman. They should be old, sixty plus, conservative, and a bit cantankerous. They should complain about modern life a whole lot, even if it’s clear they don’t know what they’re talking about. They need to denounce Twitter and Facebook on a regular basis. Bonus points for mocking the music of today’s youth. I nominate George Will for the post. The man wears a bow tie! Honest to God! Oh yes, he’s also a good writer. But that bow tie!
In the middle, between the radical Firebrand and the reactionary Elder Statesman, sits the Voice of Reason. They should always seek compromise. They should never offend. If one side recommends nuking Moscow, and the other side suggests that this might be a bad idea, the Voice of Reason should split the difference: “We should only nuke half of Moscow, guys!” Michael Kinsley would be well suited for the position of Voice of Reason. He is scrupulously non-partisan. If you ask Michael Kinsely the time, he’ll call half a dozen friends, average the answer, and give you the result with the warning that, “Well, this is what some people think.”
You also need a Historian for perspective. Who better for this role than Niall Ferguson? He could put things in the long view. In fact, I would demand that all his columns contain at least one hilariously forced historical comparison. Go ahead, Niall, tell us how Barack Obama is like Louis XI. This would involve Niall whoring himself out for money, but he strikes me as the kind of historian who would do that.
And last and least, you need someone to take up the big blank spot you’ve got on Sundays, when your other writers take the day off to call each other and congratulate themselves for last week’s articles. Talent is not needed for this position. Quantity takes precedence over quality. Christopher Hitchens does a good job banging out prose. Every day he produces enough words to fill a small dictionary. It would be called “The Oxford Guide to Pretension in Literature, Volume 1.”
That’s the lineup. I would trust these six men—oops, sorry, female writers, I kind of forgot you guys—with my editorial page. Suggestions are encouraged. Good suggestions will be smiled upon; bad suggestions will be damned to hell.
Yes, I’m talking about fantasy sports—baseball, football, basketball and even cricket for you freakish Anglophiles. You assemble bizarre teams that would never, ever work in real life (I’m sure Kobe won’t mind sharing the ball with Allen Iverson!) and then duke it out with other sports nerds. Recently, the fantasy craze has spread a little beyond sports. You can even do Fantasy Congress if you want. I’d give you the link, but I’m trying to maintain what little shred of coolness I have left.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m going to blow that last shred to pieces with what I’m about to write. I was thinking: we have fantasy sports teams. We have fantasy congresses. What’s next? Fantasy sitcoms (Bill Cosby as Dad, Michael Richards as wacky neighbor)? Fantasy symphonies (Yo-Yo Ma on cello, Lang Lang on piano, Tsing-Tsing on…wait, that’s a panda)? Fantasy menus (steak from Ruth’s Chris, fries from Five Guys)?
I could go on forever. But I won’t. My time is too valuable, and yours isn’t cheap either. So here’s my idea: a fantasy editorial page. I got the idea from reading the op-eds in the New York Times. You would think that the NYT’s editorial page would be nothing but quality. After all, it’s the pinnacle to which all columnists aspire. You’d think that…but you’d be wrong. Dead, dead wrong. I’ve read better copy in my high school’s paper, The Raleigh Charter Semi-Monthly.
I exaggerate a little, but I do it to make a point. The NYT could do a lot better. But how could it do a lot better? If I could pick the perfect lineup of opinion writers, who would I choose? And why? And how would I pay them? I’ll ignore the last question. It’s moot. After all, in five years journalists will be working in return for a semi-daily supply of partly edible food.
First, I’d keep Paul Krugman. Every paper needs a Big Draw, and you can’t get much bigger than WINNING A NOBEL PRIZE. That’s how important it is—it deserves ALL CAPS. Winning a Nobel Prize is the literary equivalent of “God mode” in video games. You can say whatever stupid crap you want and get away with it. Krugman could write “I think we ought to replace paper money with small conch shells,” and people would agree, because HE WON A NOBEL PRIZE.
I’d also retain David Brooks, as the paper’s resident Ideas Man. He’s the kind of guy who can take new ideas in science, sociology and psychology and boil them down into simple terms. True, he boils away the actual “science” in the process. Brooks’s digests have all the scientific cachet of a 1950s “Weird Adventures in Space” magazine. But he’s readable, and that’s what matters in a paper. But be warned, David. I nearly dropped you in favor of your buddy Malcolm Gladwell. You’re on thin ice with me, boy.
An editorial board isn’t doing it’s job if it doesn’t tick people off. For that, it needs a Firebrand. I choose Matt Taibbi for the spot. Taibbi irritates nearly everybody. I, for instance, hate him for the way he mocked John Paul II. Other people hate him for his savage attacks on Thomas Friedman. Still others hate him because he lived in Uzbekistan. That’s a small minority, true, but the more haters the better. A newspaper thrives on controversy. Every angry old lady writing an editorial letter is money in the bank for a newspaper.
To balance the Firebrand requires an Elder Statesman. They should be old, sixty plus, conservative, and a bit cantankerous. They should complain about modern life a whole lot, even if it’s clear they don’t know what they’re talking about. They need to denounce Twitter and Facebook on a regular basis. Bonus points for mocking the music of today’s youth. I nominate George Will for the post. The man wears a bow tie! Honest to God! Oh yes, he’s also a good writer. But that bow tie!
In the middle, between the radical Firebrand and the reactionary Elder Statesman, sits the Voice of Reason. They should always seek compromise. They should never offend. If one side recommends nuking Moscow, and the other side suggests that this might be a bad idea, the Voice of Reason should split the difference: “We should only nuke half of Moscow, guys!” Michael Kinsley would be well suited for the position of Voice of Reason. He is scrupulously non-partisan. If you ask Michael Kinsely the time, he’ll call half a dozen friends, average the answer, and give you the result with the warning that, “Well, this is what some people think.”
You also need a Historian for perspective. Who better for this role than Niall Ferguson? He could put things in the long view. In fact, I would demand that all his columns contain at least one hilariously forced historical comparison. Go ahead, Niall, tell us how Barack Obama is like Louis XI. This would involve Niall whoring himself out for money, but he strikes me as the kind of historian who would do that.
And last and least, you need someone to take up the big blank spot you’ve got on Sundays, when your other writers take the day off to call each other and congratulate themselves for last week’s articles. Talent is not needed for this position. Quantity takes precedence over quality. Christopher Hitchens does a good job banging out prose. Every day he produces enough words to fill a small dictionary. It would be called “The Oxford Guide to Pretension in Literature, Volume 1.”
That’s the lineup. I would trust these six men—oops, sorry, female writers, I kind of forgot you guys—with my editorial page. Suggestions are encouraged. Good suggestions will be smiled upon; bad suggestions will be damned to hell.
The Role of a Lifetime
Some people are already talking up Johnny Depp to play the late Michael Jackson. But this would be an even better pairing, I think.
I Scream, You Scream
Words that do not belong together: "Sex nun"
Words that really do not belong together: "Sexy nun and sexy priest"
Words that should never, ever be written, even by me: "Sexy nun and sexy priest making out in Italian ice cream commercial"
Words that really do not belong together: "Sexy nun and sexy priest"
Words that should never, ever be written, even by me: "Sexy nun and sexy priest making out in Italian ice cream commercial"
Plug Uglies
OK, it's not exactly the second coming of the French Revolution--or even of the Sexual Revolution, or the Dance Dance Revolution--but Europeans have once again struck a blow for freedom and equality everywhere! Here, "everywhere" means "among vegetables."
Urge to Kill Neighbors Rising...
The car alarm across the street has gone off three times in the past two minutes. What the heck are they doing over there? Tap-dancing on the hood? Yeesh.
Yogurtland
My gustatory adventures continue! Tonight, we visited Yogurtland, one of the many, many yogurt chains that survive and thrive on the West Coast. People out here love their yogurt the way we North Carolinians love our deep-fried Twix. And after dessert at Yogurtland, I can’t really blame them.
Yes, Yogurt is ostensibly healthy, which means it should taste bad, or at least bland. To put it in Venn diagram terms, “Good tasting” and “Good for you” almost never overlap. Yogurtland is one of the very few exceptions. Sort of. It tastes delicious, but, on further consideration, I kind of doubt that it’s healthy. Let me put it this way. Any place that offers “unlimited toppings”—including marshmallows, chocolate chips, and M&Ms—can’t be that good for you.
But so what? I’m young. I can destroy my body. I may regret it later, but that’s later and this is now. The amazing thing about Yogurtland is that you can build your own dessert. You go in there, and on the wall you see row after row of yogurt machines. Flavors include “Strawberry,” “Blueberry,” and an intriguing purple number called “Taro.” Naturally, I skipped these and went straight for “New York Cheesecake” and “Cookies and Cream.”
Yogurtland cups come in two sizes: Huge and Huger. Huge is so big, you could give a baby a sponge bathe in it. As for Huge, let’s just say it could comfortably fit Orson Welles, his twin brother, and their dinner. I went for Huge. Got to show at least a little restraint.
My restraint lasted about as long as a Bama fan at an Auburn tailgate party. Here’s the thing about serve-yourself style food. You always take more than you expect. Always, always, always. It’s a law of nature, as unbreakable as gravity. You think, “Oh, I’d better pace myself.” Think again. Before you know it you’ve piled enough food on your plate to feed an army corps.
I dashed back and forth, going from yogurt pump to yogurt pump, filling up my Huge cup with Chocolate and Cookies and Cream and Fried Lard flavored yogurt. The flavors all looked so beautiful, pouring out in loops and swirls, that I didn’t have the heart to stop. Five minutes passed. Now, I’m carrying the yogurt version of the Sears Tower. The tip-top layer (Super Triple Deluxe Chocolate with a Triple Gainer Belly Flop) scraped the ceiling. And I hadn’t even gotten to the toppings.
Maybe I should skip the part about the toppings. My pancreas is still weeping at the memory.
Conclusion? Utter deliciousness. It certainly wasn’t good for me in the traditional sense. But I’ve never been a man for tradition. I like to think outside the box. Why do we have to measure health with outdated things like “Heart Rate” and “Not Suffering Massive Organ Failure”? I think we ought to judge health on basis of our happiness. And Yogurtland made me very, very happy indeed.
Yes, Yogurt is ostensibly healthy, which means it should taste bad, or at least bland. To put it in Venn diagram terms, “Good tasting” and “Good for you” almost never overlap. Yogurtland is one of the very few exceptions. Sort of. It tastes delicious, but, on further consideration, I kind of doubt that it’s healthy. Let me put it this way. Any place that offers “unlimited toppings”—including marshmallows, chocolate chips, and M&Ms—can’t be that good for you.
But so what? I’m young. I can destroy my body. I may regret it later, but that’s later and this is now. The amazing thing about Yogurtland is that you can build your own dessert. You go in there, and on the wall you see row after row of yogurt machines. Flavors include “Strawberry,” “Blueberry,” and an intriguing purple number called “Taro.” Naturally, I skipped these and went straight for “New York Cheesecake” and “Cookies and Cream.”
Yogurtland cups come in two sizes: Huge and Huger. Huge is so big, you could give a baby a sponge bathe in it. As for Huge, let’s just say it could comfortably fit Orson Welles, his twin brother, and their dinner. I went for Huge. Got to show at least a little restraint.
My restraint lasted about as long as a Bama fan at an Auburn tailgate party. Here’s the thing about serve-yourself style food. You always take more than you expect. Always, always, always. It’s a law of nature, as unbreakable as gravity. You think, “Oh, I’d better pace myself.” Think again. Before you know it you’ve piled enough food on your plate to feed an army corps.
I dashed back and forth, going from yogurt pump to yogurt pump, filling up my Huge cup with Chocolate and Cookies and Cream and Fried Lard flavored yogurt. The flavors all looked so beautiful, pouring out in loops and swirls, that I didn’t have the heart to stop. Five minutes passed. Now, I’m carrying the yogurt version of the Sears Tower. The tip-top layer (Super Triple Deluxe Chocolate with a Triple Gainer Belly Flop) scraped the ceiling. And I hadn’t even gotten to the toppings.
Maybe I should skip the part about the toppings. My pancreas is still weeping at the memory.
Conclusion? Utter deliciousness. It certainly wasn’t good for me in the traditional sense. But I’ve never been a man for tradition. I like to think outside the box. Why do we have to measure health with outdated things like “Heart Rate” and “Not Suffering Massive Organ Failure”? I think we ought to judge health on basis of our happiness. And Yogurtland made me very, very happy indeed.
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