Saturday, October 30, 2010

The ole adage from many a sage: If it's not broken.. should be tattooed upon the foreheads of the powers that be at The Gap.

This week the crusty company tried to re invent itself. The A-ha moment came when the company finally realized it could only really change the look of khakis from ugly to uglier, then back to original ugly all with the help of a zillion dollar marketing campaign. The brilliant brains behind the brand this week unveiled something that makes the clothing look event more exciting, a new logo.
No surprise, the re design was met with the same enthusiasm one might experience pawing through the sales rack. Sales have flat lined, send in the khaki and white coated ER staff looks like the paddles are needed to resuscitate.
The stock was once a shining star on the NASDAQ. Sad to say my proxy vote faded along with my appetite for shopping at the ever morgue like environ a long time ago. Maybe it was the irritating way the bright shiny pony tailed followed me around re folding sweaters.  Once a great source for jeans, company sales numbers faded and the stock dropped after that last brilliant re-design: Denim the death rattle for Gap. Forgot to mention it's signature white shirts are still available. Too much excitement for you and your wardrobe?

I've got an idea, sell tea. Why you ask? Parent namesake The Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company is currently trading at three bucks and change.  Khakis are no longer the draw perhaps selling Tea could be the much needed breath. Otherwise there's always a way to re invent khaki: adult diapers covers, matching oxygen canister covers, wheel chair and Prius seat covers.

It's gotta be better than what's currently on the sale rack.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The World Could Use More

The clock tics toward November 4th. Meg Whitman must do her own dishes now that it's come to light that keeping indentured servants runs afoul to her current campaign strategy. While Ms. Whitman is enjoying her Palmolive moment let's take a moment to contemplate the local template.

In many ways living in a new zip code every few years affords me the opportunity to re tune my internal radar and reassess my own political compass. My true North has come closer to center than I ever imagined possible. I suppose I shall blame that upon the current quagmire of the state of CA but also federally the political malaise runes deep on both sides.

What's a girl to do?

Leaving the his and her Bentley crowd of Los Gatos, landing in the northern hemishere of Labatt's swillin maple leaf flag wavers where long held assumptions faded along with my memories of California sunshine. Toronto has a shiny urbane surface with all it's left wing leaning health care, gun shy non-moose hunters and non deadbolt securing hockey fans. Maybe this change of latitude would offer a shiny new socialist bent but alas the only plus was the fast track lane for the globally elusive swine flu shot. Not really worth the cold northern latitude and lack of sun but one could wear mink, which is always a plus.

Fast forward to my current zip code. Why do my Green Party roots feel rather republican..gasp. How can that be?  A pro-business stance and fiscally conservative pessimism in the current quagmire. Local theater aka the SC city council locally gets a bitch slap from the University Ivory tower crowd if even a whiff of non-compassion is spread around concerning the local homeless and ever growing transient population. The mer whisper surrounding capitalist concerns from locally owned business is met with politically cool contempt.

Maybe the Ivory tower crowd believes that the local sales tax base is simply fairy dust.

While I can't wrap my brain around the entirety of the macro that is my Olympic sport of choice to bemoan, may I offer up a sweet micro morsel of hope and compassion. Yes- two wrapped in a delicious package both savory and sweet.

Free empathy.

Yep- free. As in gratis, no charge. How is this gonna help the world you wonder? It's the little things that count and on a truly micro level the best hope is to be found on a Saturday afternoon at a small table usually set up in front of The Gap on Pacific Ave in downtown Santa Cruz. When I initially walked by and looked at the tiny table, the gentleman focused upon the woman in the chair in front of him. I noticed the tiny artistically printed sign no larger that a Cliff Bar that read Free Empathy.  I needed to turn upon my heels to backtrack and check that I did not mistake the true task of the seated smile. Sure enough. As I walked by again I was offered a seat. Human nature is funny when confronted with something not considered everyday. My first thought as I glanced around- Is Alan Funt hiding inside the Gap store with a camera..not sure if it was a prank or perhaps just uncomfortable thinking on my part. An introduction was followed by a seated deep breath. A calming voice noted how nice it was to see me today and if there was anything he might help with.

Remebering that small film loop of classic Peanuts comic strip. Lucy at the advice booth caddishly awaiting Charlie Brown. Thankfully Bar Lowenberg is as far from a Lucy type character as one could ever find. Sitting on the receiving end of such a gracious and free service felt divine. 
We discussed what brought me to Pac Ave (taking candid pics of people) and how my bike ride led me to park and explore the street on such a balmy Saturday eve.
Sharing with my empathy filled friend just how beautiful it was to find him here. Sparking a hope that this free empathy idea could sweep the globe, benefiting mankind with well intentioned good will. This is the real fairy dust.

The over scheduled, over subscribed crowd that resembles most of us these days could really glean a simple understanding by simply sitting down..

Look for Mr. Lowenburg on Pac Ave next time you find yourself there and do the world a favor, sit down. You won't be sorry.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Why I Opt Out

I'm not one to believe in conspiracy theories. I do believe in keeping a confidence however and like letter writing this art of conversation seems to be on the same extinction list as the drive-in theater.

Privacy is formed from the root privy. To be privy to information. The etymology of the word privacy is suggestive. As always, I have been driven by this need to know. Call it morbid curiosity to tease out the idea of meaning. Not just words but in life too. Can never be too clear on context.

Selective is another word with an interesting root. The self selecting group of social media users of facebook has seemingly morphed from just a handful of Stanford knobs to 500 M strong at last count.

Do you all know something I don't.

I remember what a big deal it was when deep throat, the top secret source for Woodward and Bernstein was sought out. Thirty years later, when the source was reveled it felt like a let down. I can only imagine that affect of lost mystique upon those close to the saga.

The song clouds in my coffee  was an ode to a mystery man of such large ego. Really Carly- an auction, for the answer?  Did we really need to know?

It's this need to know that I find so puzzling. Why have we become a nation of need to know-ers?

Is it the reconnect that is so attractive in the minds' eye or simply the idea? I have zero interest in seeking out everyone I have ever known. I have done a decent job of keeping up with those I truly care about and  make effort to see them at least quarterly..unless something really obscene blocks that effort (18+ hour flights are my personal cut off.) So why this inane drive to "friend" people? Are we so lame, so over subscribed, over scheduled, over looked that we must distill our caring and concern down to something as impersonal as a web connection.

Differentiation between person/thing seems now non-existent. Products are now part of the party. The comfort of my fave ice cream brand can now play a role in my social psyche.

Talk about the network of socially maladjusted.

Friendships with Coke, Sara Lee, and  Ruffles have nothing on my semi secret 3 a.m. rondevue with Ben and Jerry - a menage a tois where I am the sole recipient of unmentionable deliciousness and here I draw the line. I don't need to be friends with chunky monkey. Discretion please.

Maybe my years of working in media, sitting in focus groups (I've sat on both sides of the mirror, thank you) have me questioning motives. Is all this reaching out, with little effort or reasoning an indicator of our overly scheduled lives? Wanting an escape. But too lazy to make any real effort, like cook a meal or open a decent Zin. 

Data mining and aggregator sites will continue to become more sophisticated. Why? because that data of all our habits, clicks, pics whether personal or professional can glean a great deal. Big companies will continue to pimp for such privilege, unless of course they don't need to.

Think friend with benefits.

This weekend while attending a real live cocktail party I was approached by an acquaintance that I truly was happy to reconnect with.  We chatted with sweaty glasses of Pinot Gris in perfectly manicured Mano y Mano while the bugs buzzed in the back ground and the moon rose over the manicures backyard. It was the quintessential reconnect. Great conversation, with a pitch perfect evening to enjoy the company of others. The first words she purred "why had I not kept in touch on face book?" which I answered I don't use facebook. I imagined smoke pouring from my ears as neural brain synopsis secretly smoldered contemplating all we had once had in common.

I tried to be as polite as I could but my not so recessive genetic opinionated tic called the whole facebook idea a thankless mind fuck. Adding that I saw it as a seemingly sad way to spend ones' time. Also I added that something so widely discussed like the minutia of life as fodder for fostering friendship seemed stupid. But that's just me.  Oops, I guess my foot in mouth disease makes for uncomfortable cocktail chatter.

Rhetorically using facebook is no different than using a rewards cards from retailer's like Longs, or Safeway.  After all- retailers can't possibly offer me anything without knowing a bit about me. Yet time and time again based upon a complex cocktail of details, buying habits and marketing juju they seemingly guesstimate what I might like. This is where the facebook mania helps big brother.

Conspiracy theory, No.  Creepy?  Yes, but if you don't care/don't share/lack good judgement the stakes are a bit higher than receiving instant print coupons for a competitors' shampoo. Why does this logic not hold any sway over the 500M "friends" that exist today?  Lemmings don't use logic suppose it's safe to say, nor do they find it creepy.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Bumper Crop: Creative Energy

The current state of the local public school system is dire. Crowded class rooms, thin budgets, severely reduced staff. My new Tuesday routine is really an eye opening experience. Lots of energetic wiggling and foot tapping. Think puppies, but bigger and more wiggly. With 31 kids in a classroom, finding a quiet moment to think is a luxury.
Last Tuesday was the first writers workshop by Gault school 5th graders and a few topics for this first writing exercise of the new school year yielded wildly creative and poignant topics, bounced around pin-ball style. Written into free form topic, an innovative new product was produced, pure creative genius resulted in paragraphs about knitting hamster hair sweaters,  a grandfathers' death in El Salvador, and the love of beach volleyball. All topics written into personal journals.

The true highlight in this mix of the newly journal-ized,  a single suggested word scribbled down by a sweet faced cherub of a boy was the prime his pump needed. Watching the contemplative faces try on for size, sentences flowing from mostly overly sharpened nubs of pencils. The moment of recognizing. The beauty of thought transformed.

Magic.

A moment of quiet. It was as if thought clouds formed Ala cartoon style, floating free form with wild creative abandon.

Public school? Yep.. Make lemon-aid outta lemons.

On a day where baby steps are measured in smugged charcoal verbs the success of the moment tastes even sweeter when you have the nay Sayers turning scribbled pages of prose to hurriedly finish before the Tibetan bell reminds them the exercise is ending.

I've had the honor of working with private school kids as well children attending ESL classes in SF. Desire to achieve, desire to become, desire to fit in, learn, blend, or even become invisible know no class boundaries. This is where adults enter. Our job? To believe. Believe that good always wins, that the curious will dig deeper, and that the band -aids and kisses will self multiple and cover all those who seek to achieve but stumble skinning knees along the way. With 31 kids in a classroom, we could all find an hour a week and ply the system with what we bring to the the process because this  means that magic can happen

If the spark of creative genius can be lit and kept as a flame it serves us all well to find the embers burning. They burn in the brightest manner possible: youth illuminates the sheer inquisitive nature of sweet, unadulterated childhood. We shall caress the idea or image of success for those too damaged, too scared, or just unjustly kept from the opportunity be due to what ever injustice.

Who else is going to step up? The schools need an influx of magic. Think of it as the magic of volunteering meets need. Unadulterated. 100 proof.

  Currently no other place will give you these dividends. BTW, advance thanks to those you you who know of what I speak. Namaste.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Yabba-Dabba- Yuck

Of the eleven species of Rubus in California, Himalaya blackberry has grown its spiny web of industrial strength pricks to trap people like me-Or anyone that decides to belly up to mother natures' Jamba counter and eat as many blackberries as physically possible without succumbing to the beating bird wings of the neighborhood crows and sparrows as they fight beak and nail to save the bounty of berries for their own. Zen is a word that comes to mind when one can focus upon picking berries.  Repetitive and poke free if careful, a soupy greyscale backdrop of sea salty harbor air that could pass for airbrushed acrylic hides the sun. A quality Andrew Wyeth like in tonal charcoal shades. Optimistic caffeine fueled flowery metaphors aside it's simply fog but I can't help feel that I am a part of a living landscape in portraiture.

Are crows and sparrows truly birds of prey? These local berry eating birds make the panhandlers look meek...are these birds annoying? Yes, dangerous? Not so much.

I am feeling much more neighborly to my feathered friends than what seems to be sauntering toward me.

This morning I resemble a PMS possessed-picker. Greedy and Moody, equal parts sans make-up... not pretty. A foodie simply wanting to eat these lovely little berries baked into scones, washed down with a cup of Earl Gray. While "zen"ned out in the fog, along comes neighbor Fred, also referred to as Foreclosure Fred or my personal fave Fucked Fred. Not Feeling the love for this dead on Fred Flintstone. (Trade the stone wheeled dune buggy for an Escalade, you've nailed the character.) He's talking at me how these blackberries are simply weeds dirty and invasive. My zen state evaporates into the thick fog as swiftly as the pesky sparrows.

I think about the word invasive.  The word rolls around in my brain thinking of how invasive his sub-species seems to me, so combative and anti- Santa Cruz. The bombastic being that inhabits my brain chooses the NVC route and I simply say " Better to be picked than to be deposited ala colorful- rainbow coalition style upon your beloved SUV and left to bake in the hot hot sun."
Simultaneously my brain in tandem mode whispers : "I personally prefer to see them shat onto your pearlized-creamcicle steroid- ed ghetto mobile."

Maybe this is a sort of superpower that I alone possess because I believe the birds have heard this secret whisper of a thought. My imagination ponders a sort of feathered tour de force. Flocking together, planning, plotting to overthrow Fred. I smile a secret deliciously overt smile. I wish my other super power was flight because I would certainly join along in solidarity.

Fire sale properties are rare (at the moment) in my adopted hood. My wee slice of ocean nirvana may be the only piece  zip code being sprayed with chemicals automatically billed-biweekly to that big credit card in the sky.

Bankruptcy court will need to track down Chem-lawn and square up. Good luck driving' that truck down Seabright Ave. If you think for a second Fred contemplates chemical run-off into the harbor below, rest assured. He sleeps well
Back to the task at hand. No harm really. It's not like I was using live kittens or something less useful in scouring for these little fruits in their thorny hell. My zen state leaves momentarily as I swear and lick my wounds thinking this is the reason Germans' refer to these razor wrapped morsels as fruit of the forest.  My Scone Jones born of this more dark purple than black berry seemed implausible at this point. An easier bike ride is a 5min delay in almost-instant gratification waiting for me at  The Buttery.

My berry bucket is brimming with berries now, and these birds are not simply hungry--they harbor a real issue with this Karl Rove meets Fred Flintstone character. It's so odd in my tie-died cul du sac of ocean tranquility to have a Fox News Fear Based Philosophy session with the midget minded.

In this moment it's crystal clear:  Retaliation is the only option for the philosophically aligned feathered friends.

The preaching nature of Foreclosure Fred conjures up a funny visual as he shakes his bobble-like head in anger. Apparently the financial problems he has created for himself are not sufficiently complex enough and now these blackberry bushes are his target for flaming rage.

Flambe' works better with fresh figs and prosciutto as I drift off to ponder my lunch plans in my state of renewed zen.

Monday, August 23, 2010

The Book Was Better

Under the influence of idealism and poetry, I ponied up my inner cowboy boot wearin' bohemian and headed off into the sunset Saturday night in search of nostalgia and tie-dye ...
At age 70, the anointed one began his Monterey Fairgrounds show with a full on band rendition of everybody must get stoned.. as if they needed permission. Seems like a gimme, with the crowd I had imagined.

The sad truth: permission was indeed necessary, the crowd in attendance sat as stone straight as Canadians. Canadians at any public event really. Straight bunch.. No contact highs' for this mixed age crowd..unless of course they were lucky enough to sit down wind from me.

No singing. No dancing,
Carousing? Not a chance... No flowers in the hair. Was this the crowd that made the sixties so fucking groovy? I have to believe that the crowd in attendance stumbled into the wrong venue. Not a hippy-dippy-feel-the-love modality instead think Denny's dinner before 5 crowd.

Fly on the wall was not my desired station. When the band strode out and picked up their own guitars. Each member sporting polished willie wonka-alikeness. His Bobness wore a straw bola hat that seemed a little too fussy in a Nantucket way. Guess he has a NYC sensibility ala the Hampton's summer.  Guess he forgot about Northern Cali fog and dampness. A vintage era wool cap might have been a better fit. Certainly would have been a bit more authentic feeling.

One of my favorite Dylan songs came from his last album. Things have changed,. Saturday's version sang with a polished back beat and stage wrap spoke volumes of what has indeed changed from his days of kicking around the village, simply playing with a guitar, harmonica and adoring fans.
It's like the lame tee shirt's sold in tourist traps announcing all i got was this lousy tee shirt. My tee shirt moniker from my experience would have read,  I saw Bob Dylan and all I got was a lousy contact high

Things have very much changed.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Pray upon the Prey

A summer checked out, off grid, with many book laden memories.  Very happy gave way to sad as I learned that one of my favorite writers and past crushes has been diagnosed with cancer.  The favored atheist part didn't fit in so seamlessly in the last sentence. Who else would throw stones at Mother Theresa? Adoration ballsy genius. The recent best seller Hitch-22 was a marvelously witty read. I enjoyed the Audible version of the book which was deliciously devoured as mental foreplay. .. Nothing like a little pillow talk or listen, more accurately as I drifted off to sleep

The articulately debonair Christopher Hitchens is under going treatment for esophageal cancer that has spread to his lymph nodes. Certainly not a great diagnosis in the scheme of fair odds. Life is what we make of it. A recent Atlantic Monthly interview says he shall continue on with writing and reading until he can't anymore. Brave and smart..

 On the atheist bent, and a perfect compliment: The little book of Atheist Spirituality by the french cuffed Parisian Andre Comte-Sponville. A refreshingly candid look at dogmatic transcendence and the masses that embrace religion as the warm sweater that shields one from all of lifes' pain. Add a cigarette if the mass is french

If only it were so easy..we would all be sporting hand knit full-body cozies. Cashmere for me please. Itchy wool for the Republicans.

Whenever I learn of ill health plaguing a friend or in this case favored author, I don't think about what's to come, only what's been given; so much to journalism, to politics, to the fine art of writing all tied neatly with a reverence and style unparalleled to anyone currently of the now and wow genre.

Hitchens was scheduled to talk about his book back in June, of course I was angry to find a postponed sign at the Commonwealth Club in SF on the eve of the event, I was hoping to saunter off and enjoy a cocktail or two with him, but alas it was not meant to be. My boo-hoo moment of morose knowing now the reasons behind the missed engagement feels very self indulgent, and not in a good way.

I will not pray for Mr.Hitchens.  I do not believe that will help his condition. A possible answer to his plight:  toast better living through technology.  I would be remiss if I did not remind him that he is a bon-vivant of such stature few if any will be able to follow. Let death be his muse and tease him. If the voice of unadulterated street smarts and swagga' with a sharp pencil must be silenced I would seek to remind him that his literary works will live on. Hopefully he shall too, the world would be too dull without him.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Welcome 2 My World

(8:30 a.m) Big Coffee gulp. A rush to pull myself together. Gasp... what the f@%k... is this a gray eye lash? What's next, my perfectly matched shoes won't match my bag, yes you know a bad euphemism when you see one.Always fun to see pubic hair color compared with shoes in print, no- but eyelashes.

Let's get back to where my focus lies. It's bad enough to resemble a shrew sans mascara but this, eyelash of gray- I say no way!  This is too much. When the fairest of all from afar dripping from his a.m. shower asks "when is this gray hair mania gonna end?' To which I reply, " when I take my final nap...in the dirt."

Welcome to my world and maybe yours too? At least as a non member of the Y chromosome group. Those F'ing Y's, just seem to magically become more distinguished with each gray sprouted. Anywhere.

The global cosmetic industry is now hovering around $60B.. to cater solely to my needs?
I'm in good company. NOT comforting. In the least bit.  

P.G Wodehouse concluded that the guillotine is the only cure for gray hair.   Comforting.

But why this manic management around aging? I surely can't be the only one fighting it tooth and nail (bleached and manicured thank you) The well is deep when one yells into it- the echo that returns- well, it's not what any of us want to hear. There is no magic fountain of youth. Poor ponce Del Leon. Most likely would've benefited from a squirt of Rogain, genital waxing, an obligatory trim to the lively Breshnev'brows (why don't men notice when the eyebrows go wacky and start reaching around to the back of the head, odd no?)

The truth is gray hair is inevitable. Research (yes, I 've done a bit) shows that we will all gray. Some sooner than others. Premature grayness can strike some in the early 20's. So I guess I should be happy wearing 45 years viola  internal alarm clock decides it's time. Come on bio-tech... let's fight a real threat to life. Either that or move to Rio.

Beauty isn’t just big business in Brazil — it’s HUGE!  $28 billion huge. Brazil’s beauty market is now the third largest on the planet (behind the U.S. and Japan) and despite a sluggish global economy it’s also one of the world’s fastest growing, at a 14% compounded rate from 2004-2009...
 Go ahead you Iowa and Nebraska beeknickbeauties, have another burger. Brazilian babes are having those beautiful buns buffed to perfection. Just when you thought it could not get any better.

Botox and Juviderm are fairly new and give youth a foot up. Ask yourself now: wanna resemble your nutty aunt with the placid forehead?

Feel this is simply a small price to pay for staving off the inevitable?  Not so much......

A few days ago that uber glam gurl, Zsa Zsa Gabor took a spill and broke her hip. At 93 she looks 50'ish... wide eyed and smoothed by facial fillers and who knows what else. The bright eyed look made me wonder if the overly stretched taughtness allows her to close her eyes and sleep. Research fleshed out that as we age the need to sleep lessens. Yes, Ms. Gabor is the extreme version of good chemistry gone bad. Suppose my true self shines. Wondering: when she came tumbling from bed what was she watching on the telly....porn. Nope..... Jeopardy!

Wink , wink Alex Trebec. She'd love to wink dahling..but a bit tight. kisses.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Snoozy Summer Slacker Style

Yes... I know I know... An entire month has vaporized as I look at my writing of rough draft posts..meaning: I write, but only for myself and only to realize that an entire month has gone by without a single snarky post.

Yes an Anniversary of sorts.. but not one I care to celebrate.

Slacker gurl self loath abounds, so off of that mind numbing exercise and off to greener mental pastures. Slather on a little more SPF 70.

This summer seems as unstructured as a lincoln log structure yet complex enough that one can mentally expand upon where-what-who to frolic with but that takes planning and plotting.

I think we all know the straight story ...it takes far too much time and energy to plan.

The current plan this summer? The plan is to make a plan and stick with it.

The Beach Boardwalk Friday scene is all our myopic planning can muster.  Beach ball bouncy happy and sun drenched, we sandy critters lounge with high SPF coverage and little else as we await the evening concert to kick start the weekend. Kick start is the correct verb here as the summer with it's frenetic energy can overwhelm even the most travel/party/beach savvy of the bunch.  My only wish for these frenetically fabulous evenings???  A bit more time to actually enjoy the scene as it truly is a quintessentially Santa Cruzian scene.

Which means no plastic boobs bobbing about, no high heels as they are sooo sand unfriendly, no attitude because it's Santa Cruz... and the best part>>>? A short beach walk home from the festivities.

Thursday evenings are a muddy drone of over amped sound from across the harbour. We seek out the best the beach scene has to offer and throw the Thursday eve scene to the out of town riffraff.

If live music is your thing, look no further than some sand in your plans http://www.beachboardwalk.com/concerts/

Friday, June 18, 2010

Summer Bummer

An unlikely place within my grey matter beckons me to question if this really is a good idea?. . .Organized summer commitments that is, like summer school. But for every negative, crybaby why-me whinge as of late I must at least smile at the karmic reality recently sun-kissed upon my freckled forehead.

Just when you think ya have the summer (or life for that matter) figured out something flies in the face of fun, frolic, and full-on favored existence.

The current fly in the gin & tonic?  Summer school. The dreaded sound of those two words.
As kids we feared the threat. As parents we fear the commitment. Speaking for myself- apropos to nothing it's consistent with my lack of stay-on-track. Speaking theoretically summer should be a time for goof off hang time accompanied with a high SPF at least when one has children or free time at hand or both.

I do commit. Sun screen rituals need to be followed. Vain, fair haired and sun sensitive bitch that I am, but the morning hurry scurry continues. How's that for Karma: just when the nice weather and calls from beach seeking friends return in tandem..damn it.

What's a irresponsible person to do? Organize.

Not my life, that's sooo un-summer. Car pool. Carpool Carma Come save us from all things commitment, I mean commuter laden, (except southbound US Open traffic on Hwy1..fuck'.)

So it is, a wee bit of positive karmic lint left in my bellybutton to finagle such a feat for those of you who have the inside skinny this is no small gift. Summer drama aside, the sand is warm and the UV rays off the charts.

Northwest swell' been a bit too sloppy for any serious surfboard/boggieboard/wakeboard fun. So let's sing my latest song:"when in doubt parse it out, there's no need to hover when you can find cover... from friends. Large vehicle drivin friends. VehicularVengence has no place in this sacred summer space, seek out large vehicles acquaintance or summer school parent . Carpool to Chartwell. Carpool to Chartwell. Foe is friend as well as neighbor and let us remember that five kids can't be crammed into a convertible mini, even when utilizing the trunk space as a time out place." It's time to go! Heve Ho, let's go..oh good I don't drive today-hooray! It's Carpool Carma Carpool Carmaaaaa. "


My new summer survival sonnet is sung in B-flat and best chased by a beachside beer (best enjoyed on those non-driving days.)
I need to work on that last verse, or turn that into the chorus. Bob Dylan could twist it for me, but why bother him...he's hopefully enjoying his summer. Do the same won't you?

Friday, May 28, 2010

Dante's Inferno: My idea of a Playdate

The simple act of writing a simple letter of apology to a dear friend has turned into the drama-rama of my year
(or at least right up there with that other bone-head thing I keep f'ing up, but I digress.)

A couple of summers ago I had a very drunk, very irish, very- wait I am repeating myself here... I spit out some nasty-ass words in a very venomous way (man can I spew) to a friend(s) who meant the world too me.

Fast forward to two Full years later, and I have yet to make a proper Mea Culpa. Until five fabulous min ago.

Hooray for procrastination. Hooray for Guilt, and Therapy, and a glass of Vino Verde.   A hugely hopeful moon this evening that is blindingly beautiful over the Pacific Ocean at this very moment.

So I suppose the best gift (If she accepts the apology letter that I've just licked the stamp for to that far flung zipcode in the east.)

Please note:  a mental cost-investment breakdown. Thanks for letting me share.

THERAPY $  10,920.00
one year of weekly sessions - (not including the double sessions when I was super loquacious) Working towards the goal of mending an important relationship with a girl friend.    I.E. writing letter stating the above mentioned drama-rama.

WINE/LIQUOR  $ 1000.00
This amount is small...yes. yes. I know..You're thinking liar liar pants on fire- but wait.  I gave up drinking as a "sport" in December 09/Jan..2010. I personally liked myself better as the witty, dancing drunk, with her lovely red locks in the lou...but alas that is for another pissy post so stay tuned as I envision a post paired with PMS and a fine zinfandel.

Kleenex $ 100.00
Cry baby tendencies aside, I still buy the good stuff, that leaves a soothing yet healing trace of aloe on my sniffling boo-hooing wet-nosed moments of the past. ( A quick sneak to pander to friends and kind strangers- you know who you are, patient and detail seeking subway token taker in the Toronto subway who listened and said just write it girll.. Accolades to my home team Olympic medal winners in the pitty-party Olympics. A stellar list of mental giants with P.H.d's in un-fucking up things that are fucked beyond belief, this includes my tolerant hairstylist, Robo, Colleen, and Rob.)  Gold baby... Pure Gold.

Writing the Mea Culpa letter $ PRICELESS.
Mea Culpa letter scrawled in my chicken scratch to the very fabu-lous Hillary Steinau (upon the very paper stock that I scold my kids for using) is simply priceless.



H
Fang Island Baby, August.  I propose a summit meeting of epic proportions and maybe a little arm wrestling ( 'cause you can and will kick my ass.) that's what I love about those Mainers.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

Food Porn

What's not to like about this evening's dinner entree of reduced fat Ruffles potato chips and a bar of Scharffenberger dark chocolate? C'mon people, work with me here, unconventional works for dinner. Works very well indeed. Wash down dinner with a glass of French rose (because California Pinot based Rose' is just too damn sweet to wash down a nice potato chip of reduced fat and salt. )

The great part of being adult like is the ability to reason with ones' self that the reduced fat of the salty will underscore the antioxidants of the Scharffenberger.  To reduce dinner to such a mundane route requires a complete lack of planning. For a foodie, this lack of planning is really like rehab. Breaking the well planned route i.e. contemplating what might be a dinner option typically takes place after I have my coffee in the morning.  Lunch is typically a non sequitur, although pleasant surprises do indeed take place during mid day. Just not lately.

Friends just returned from a trip to Korea. In true foodie travel fashion, the mpeg video snippets are all of food. Travel should almost always be about the food experiences and the photo ops (typically of food, farmers markets or an edible delight.) These friends also jetted in for a visit to Shanghai once(pic @left) and although I thought the visit was to spend time with me, it was really about finding the best bowl of noodles (which we did indeed find as they were being made.) Jetting to exotic locals to "see" friends took on a very different meaning. Code for, you better get a handle on what's to eat in the 'hood because it's a real drag to disappoint a jet lagged lover of food.

A sort of food porn really, because the tease begins with the markets, prep and plating moving on to that final climax we all seek: enjoying the long sought after meal. My only question of course: where was the HD feature when one really needs it.
On the flip side, others may only experience a meal as a move along.
Glad I don't dine on that side of the table.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Time To Wean The 'Tween

The lay of the land has shifted when it comes to learning about the birds and bees. Gone are the days of stealing away to the garage with your dad's dog eared issues of Playboy. The G rated National Geographic always a giggle inducing page turner for the 4th grade and under crowd has been long over shadowed by the Internet.

When it comes to parental controls Apple has done a fine job, Thank-You Steve Jobs. Even the itouch gives you the ability to play stalag 13 quite literally as a parent. Initially I was against the lock-down And while I waved my ACLU card my tween aged consumers consumed media as if the itunes store were a colossal brain candy store.  I felt bad limiting my childrens' web exposure to pedestrian sites, knowing full well that curiosity can strike and the magic wand in reality is google.

Yesterday my rose colored glasses were smashed by a pair of size 5 Vans' as the reality took shape, it was just as I had been warned. Guess it takes one to know one, but when my uber IT muffin lectured the evils of unlimited bandwidth I could not would not listen. The beauty of the FireFox history is a savant like memory for key words. I was reading an Ipad history cache that reminded me of a Penthouse Forum column or a shopping list for a pervert (or in my case, a ten year old boy.)

Boobs, Pussy, Sex, Fuck, Fucking and the list goes on in that narrow vein of genre. As one can only imagine thousands of pages came back. Maybe this is where the idea of Santa and Magic cross over to reward the resourceful elementary school aged. Yes Virginia there Is a Santa and he likes to be spanked by a red-head sporting thigh high boots.

My parental tumble into the sexual abyss came long before I expected. I figured I had a few more years to parse the inevitable.. The stumble comes with the ipad. No flash ability means no club penguin, but no parental controls means that club penguin is no longer the fave stay for the after school elementary crowd. Think boobs.  Really big boobs.

Innocence is fleeting or in our case it's flown the coop, along with unlimited bandwidth.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Ride The Bling

Depending upon where one is in the Bay Area, one thing is certain bicycle enthusiasts are a different breed-At least in zip codes south of San Francisco, and north of Santa Cruz.  A recent bike dodge on Sandhill road would have left a brightly colored smudge upon my hood. It made me think about the recent trend of expensive bike enthusiasts peddling while angry, or with an anti-auto agenda.

 Don't peddle angry is the thought that typically radiates from my brain. An encounter from one's comfy car makes these colorful angst ridden riders offer up a game of vehicular chicken. Rhetorically one's brain says: enjoy the ride, in reality it's seems to be a reason to rumble with whatever crosses paths with these spandex wrappers of corporate logos.

Gotta admit that nothing can showcase the package like spandex bike shorts.

The detached aura of spandex clad bikers made me think about what riding a bike means to different people. Menlo park and Shallow Alto rider's seem to covet the expensive bike as bling where as Santa Cruz cycling seems nirvana like for true bike riding enthusiasts where cars share the road respectfully. Bikes are less of a wealth statement and more of transportation. In a place where funky is a statement, it's tough to even make it on to the radar screen with so much fantabulous funkyness.

This weekend IS different as those spandex packages make their way over the rivers, through the big basin woods and into sleepy Santa Cruz. Even that one ball wonder (you know the live strong one of yellow spandex fame) will grace our sun burnished beaches as locals glimpse the greatness of  sherbet colored swirls of testosterone  and platform toe shoes.

Ooh la la- bike seat envy from the cheap seats.

Monday, May 10, 2010

News at 11:Neanderthal Discovered in Dio Deka Hotel Bar



Sometimes the most fun to be had is sans alcohol. This is a new found skill set for me, and certainly not one that comes naturally as an Irish-Catholic spawn of naturally effervescent drunks.

In a past life working in radio, the afternoon cocktail was akin to what a yoga class is today. So as my liver says thank-you and takes a well deserved rest, I continue to play fly on the wall in situations never before imagined. The first step in any bar/pub/nightclub journey is always deciding which direction to head when entering a boozy circle of friends, this important piece lately is to find the drunkest of the bunch and chat about mind bending antics like "wow did I ever door ding the shit of this 7 series in the valet lot" then watch four or five of the group run out to look around.

My most recent outing this past week could have been a sociological study on that suburban trifecta: money, boredom and booze. The place: the ever busy Dio Deka bar in the ritzy burb of Los Gatos.
As hotel bars go, it's got a bit of antiseptic charm mixed with sparkly spandex clad ladies. Eye candy in various shades of large to extra large plasticized cleavage. Beautiful Barbie wanna bees to even out the gaggle of Y chromosome that seemed to be Neanderthal in origin. This is where the real fun of nursing a glass of wine while secretly making fun of mental midgets parading as the big swinging dicks of the valley.

This isn't the only enclave that is as inbred as it seems. Conversations with the well-heeled hotel bar patrons excitedly describing recent travels to exotic hotspots like Cabo and the ever popular and culturally deep seek out the yearly Magic Kingdom trek, which makes the pedestrian nature of this hotel bar even more surprising, as most of the wine list would make for an interesting pub quiz.
Think geographically challenged.

If this is shoal ground mentally speaking, Thursday night I ran aground.

Surveying the wreckage became less amusing and more like work as Mr. Neanderthal and his cave man club members came to rest wrists and empty beer bottles on our table ala a frat party with french cuffs. A few simple "can you please set your empty glasses and beer bottles upon the bar, as I'm not your barmaid" garnered curious sideways looks and stares. Maybe I used large words, or perhaps the request should have been delivered as a series of grunts and hand gestures.

The lack of manners combined with the lack of simple social graces painted the picture of the simple life, sans the whipet-esque Paris Hilton. I can't write about the who-said what's, who hooked up, or why I was even there. Suffice to say I would rather eat roadkill than return to the 95030 zip code anytime soon.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Theater Of The Mind

One of my favorite sports heroes Ernie Harwell, has past. Ernie was the voice of Tiger baseball.

I have such a profound sense of sadness even though I have not attended or streamed a broadcast of the Detroit Tigers in many moons.  My introduction to baseball attributable to the magic of AM radio.

As a ten year-old Mideastern mutt of a tom boy my window to the world was my mono ear plug. A life-line to the world loomed just after dark as many local radio stations powered down, and the clear booming 50,000 w channel big stick Am stations came booming into my bedroom and transporting me to another place and space. WJR was the "local" station over 400 miles away and home to the Detroit Tigers and the voice of Ernie Harwell. Imprints from big city powerhouse stations like WGN  and WLS to the south west in Chicago, KMOX mixed jazz and baseball from St.Louis where even the call letters were exotically spelled with K's, being west of the Mississippi.

Connected to a tiny transistor radio that I hid under my pillow, that plug of a mono ear piece opened my world and helped focus my sights on the greener grass of the city, any city. Theater of the mind.

Twelve years later I found myself sitting in a posh mahogany board room in the Fisher Building home to WJR-760.
Sports autographs and smiling athletes adorned the walls of the GM's offices at WJR. Pitching my love of radio, pitching for a job, I shared the story of my beloved transistor radio whispering baseball games into my ear on sultry summer evenings. Many a bedtime came and went while the last batters made the final push for runs. Theater of the mind: the lost art of A.M radio.

Later that same year I spent time with a then newbie superstar from the Japanese leagues, Cecil Fielder. I drank iced tea in the heat of the dugout, hobnobbing with Ernie Harwell himself at a WJR fantasy camp in Lake land Florida. He told me to be careful in the sun, my freckles might burn. Fantasy Camp  was a day spent with deep pocketed advertising agencies and clients flown down to that sleepy Orlando swamp of a suburb.

Fantasy baseball camp cost big bucks, and the wait list was always longer that the open slots. Many a middle-aged man longed to sport a real Tigers uniform, hang with Allan Trammel and swing bats with the old timers who also tagged along for added color. Denny McClain made a brief, but ham fisted appearance shunning autographs.

Harwell was the star  even in the heat of the day, making friends with everyone. Refilling Iced tea glasses.

Radio has always been my favorite medium. Nothing can fill the shoes of radio as the backdrop for quintessential summertime afternoons. Listening to Ernie Harwell spew factoids about Americas' sport always left me with walk around knowledge that I could apply like currency to real-life boys club sports radio, and for that I thank him.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Dog Eared Truth

Ahh-it's that time of year again when spring cleaning gleans treasures from house and garage to yard sale. Craigslist is currently a bastion of people selling crap, as well as people advertising yard sales to people in need of extra crap.

The very best of these sales offer a glimpse of fly-on the wall truth. Think impromptu Sociology project as more often than not dusty paperbacks offer up subject matter that speaks volumes about the seller. How you ask? Take a quick scan from the book bins at any yard sale, then let's discuss. Books color a pretty realistic view of the inner-workings of family dynamics and turmoil. Personal drama isn't just for television reality any longer. Reading junk and how to books can be beach friendly.

 Used book bins are the windows to the soul, no need to look deeply into ones' eyes- just do a bit of digging thru used book bins at yard sales and take note. Finding health books owned by the wanna bees of healthy living as they circulate the yard sale soft-drink in hand. Perhaps it's the hypochondriac neighbor with the latest and greatest medical journals and how-to-live germ free. Another popular subject matter of dog-eared hope: Marital strife. How to fix_________ seems to always be popular in the yard sale book bin.

I like fix-it themes. More so boat and yoga . Most recently VW Manuals.

On the east coast yard sales are a contact sport. Here in Santa Cruz the theme can be a bit more spiritual with more than enough natural fiber clothing and hemp shoes to encourage anyone shopping to be a kind gentler version of themselves while sporting alpaca sweaters. Locally harvested of course.

So as you shop, remember that bargaining at yard sales here in Santa Cruz is considered a faux pas.
Be politically correct and pay the full boat price and walk away knowing more about your neighbors than you ever thought possible.

Friday, April 9, 2010

Tough 2 Be Buff


The manly Man, a brute force dose of testosterone or simply a guy with a grumble against humanity (and so we all pay with dick like behavior to all living beings.) Why is that? I suppose it has to do with a myriad of problems that most likely started in tadpole stage. So why write about manly men? Because thank goodness Virgina, there is a Santa and he is a metro sexual.

The traits of the meto sexual male? I'll start with the good stuff: he will buy tampons, wear earrings, be found drinking hot tea with honey while getting waxed. The last one of course is my personal favorite. For as long as Wilma Flinstone has shaved we girls have had to undergo the torturous task of having our short hairs yanked out with waxing.

Welcome to the club Barney Rubble.

Manly men drive beef cake cars and ride fatboys. The metro sexual man drives piously in a Prius.

Put your yoga mats down ladies, news is out as the once zen oasis of the ever posh spa-beauty industry has changed the last bastion of female refuge. Yes, now the spa chairs are filled with hetro-metros receiving nail treatments.

Fighting for a spa chair is tough enough on a Saturday morning. But wait.... the yoga studio has made me very un'zen in the arm-wrestling asana for mat real-estate. Yoga guys stretch before getting to nails- wax- trim. The world is a softer place now literally with these guys. Yes, we like.
btw..... I only found that shaving vid as I dug deep with a proper search for a proper nickname for such smoothness.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The Here & Zen


So it's true what they say about a beach town mentality. A few choice adjectives come to mind like bum, slacker, and my personal favorite: surf savant. But what if there was a laundry list of good monikers. Praiseworthy list of lists with a bright and shiny badge to be worn as proudly as sunscreen and flip-flops?

The reason there has yet to be a revival of all things beach zen makes me believe in a theory (ok, yes it is MY own theory: If everyone else knew how low -keyed delight plays on the corporate/professional step ladder in our wi-fi saturated, skype plump world my wait for my morning latte here in Santa Cruz would be much longer.

I will never be a true convert/transplant of Beach town hang. My affinity toward stilettos runs deep as does my taste for the big city. But I am smitten with the gentle rhythm of things sand centric. When life gets too complex and overwhelming, the best RX is gonna be toes in the sand and a drink in hand (or just toes and some beach yoga for those of us on the wagon as of late.)

I like to spend my mornings tooling around town on my beach cruiser. The trees are in bloom and morning air fog free. It's like a little piece of the Truman Show but with an influx of Medicinal 420 and spiritual namiste thrown in for good measure. Now if I could just find a place that sold my beloved Sunday New York Times, within my bike routine I really could be living in the Truman Show. Zen has a name. Just keep it safe or we'll be complaining about our morning wait for coffee.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Hippy Dippy


You decide.
The magic of a new place always makes me fall in love in a kinda-now-kinda -wow way. Shiny new faces and places all mixed into a dee-licious way of looking at the world.

That rose colored glasses thing-it's a real phenomenon. Just wish they woulda' worked longer in Toronto, but pink layered atop of mono chromatic gray scale is just a different shade of grey.

Fast forward to hippy dippy Santa Cruz.
Beach cruiser-eye candy central minus the 'tude and tats of Venice beach.

Luscious ocean breeze and the Seabright Brewery is my answer to "yes Virginia there IS a Santa Claus..and he surfs a Softops board" (santa needs serious stability.)
The real gift this past week? While my Subaru was rock-star parked at an unfed meter in front of a local bike repair, I was tapped on the shoulder by a lovely woman who reminded me to feed the meter. Of course I thanked her and walked to the meter quarter in hand. The dropping of the quarter drown out by the meter maid mobile wheeling away with her pony tail blowing in the ocean breeze, recognizing the pony tail as the same one belonging to the shoulder tapper.. My heart felt like the Grinch heart when it expanded to three sizes too big. Thump thump.

True love is hard to find. Even tougher to sustain but I have a good sense of well being at the moment totally attributable to this sandy little beach town. Let's hope the love will last. Or I can find groovy pink glasses to match my surfboard.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Land of Sun and Surf


As someone who prides them self as a lite traveler and can typically put a plan of action into motion with little more than a text message prompt from a friend, I have found the last few weeks particularly stressful trying to juggle biz calls, emails, kids surfing in the ocean and deciding upon what flavor of fruit works in the tequila concoction for the evening sunset cocktail del dia. Yes, it's not the typical boo-hoo but it is worth parsing out the following pearls of wisdom.

Stream lining a trip by tying in another trip/move/relocation may seem like a great idea but when it nets out that you become a sherpa of shit-you- don't-want to- deal - with
(but now defines your choices of where to go.) I'd rethink that game plan had I really had a non-frozen brain cell. Always the ambitious traveller preferring to wing details and see where the wind takes me.. only really works well when one is nimble, nimble of mind, yes but lite is tantamount to happy travels. Crankiness and logistical nightmares will be your unwelcome shadow should you have too much crap to cart.

My biggest Epiphany this recent trip? No connectivity is good. The inability to check email with relative ease takes an entire layer of complexity off the table. Living wi-fi free is as liberating as swimming naked in the ocean- with a full moon and a fire on the beach. Yes, really that good. Why is it so compelling to check when we are supposed to unplug from the world.

A holiday in theory is a giant yank upon that great extension cord called life.. While it's been enjoyable and a fresh perspective for the minions it's a welcome thought to return stateside.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Sayulita IS the new Saucy

So why travel south of the boarder you ask?

Mexico is to California as Cuba is to Canada. A vitamin D boost helps everyone cope with the cranky nature of mid-winter blahhs and when you can no longer stave off placing your head in the oven, ala Sylvia Plath (for warmth of course) book a flight and thank me later.

I can't get enough of the sand-in-places you never knew could chafe. Why use a glass for a drink when you can buy a fresh coconut and reuse it later with a few shots of ron, purely for medicinal reasons. Plus it's fun to drink from a cup made from a coconut..nothing looks as legit with sand in the crack of your toes and a drink of re-cycla'ble material in your mono.

The real reason to travel to far flung places, and drink dangerous amounts of peptobismol, is to remember that in the end, you're simply money on legs. Nothing more, nothing less.

Enjoy! ( imagine a picture of cute gurls with surfboards and drinks in hand, sporting saucy 'kinis, but google mexico would not let me upload the pic..so sad;(

Friday, February 12, 2010

It's Not What You Think


It's a wacky world out there.



Travel is the one true indicator of this.

My recent stateside romp was a sweet sojourn from the tundra of Toronto.
Venice beach a mer blur in my rearview mirror.
Lingering is the weirdness of what it is to travel in twenty ten.

TSA has become an unweilding force of ineptitude. If I had to describe what the stateside airport security look and feels like, it might be a psycholtic blend of visuals, think or envision a hybrid of midwestern high school homecoming queen blandness mixed with the blunt force percision of a butter knife, add a blog for know-it-all-ness and voila-it's the Transportation Security Administration.

Throw stones if you will but someone has got to pretend to be in charge, now with Al Haig gone.

The rules change. Just when you think in a smug swagga' that you've got the drill-poof it's changed from the country club feel of the Tucson airport to the uber scrum of L>A. In it's regal-real ness stands the SFO experience where as the later shoes must be in a separate bin. My mind of course played this as a real estate metaphor- where separateness is a fabric in San Francisco life that shoes deserve a separate and quiet place before the laptop but after the camera gear.
Think Namaste but for footwear.

Crocs still seem to be in bankruptcy but available in too many shades to think about, all over the airport, all over-stocked.

The true object and marketing genius lost upon the wearer of said plastic shoes: a non pharmaceutical form of birth control.
The quaint kiosk quiet as the croc sales rep or as I called him the croc monsieur, surfed porn on the free airport wi-fi. I guess his lack of eye contact meant he knew I wasn't a true shoe shopper, either that or my footwear du-jour was too telling - I am more of a Christian Louboutin girl than plastic shoe girl.

The airport moment that stood above the rest - the q tip test experience.

The no-fly list of prohibited items is weirdness personified. Think twice before picking up the $13.00 snowglobe from Hudson News- it's been banned. Not because someone got bonked on the head but rather it contains an undetermined amount of liquid, and therefore banned. Verboten.

So back to the q-tip story. While awaiting a Denver connection, I notice a blue gloved harem of TSA "officers" wielding q-tips and hovering near a very pedestrian looking woman who was simply sipping from a plastic water bottle. Nothing exotic, a garden variety crystal geyser brand in the handy 500ml size. The q-tip in the hand of the specialist- or at least dressed to look like one hovered over the open water bottle while the perplexed sipper looked mortified.

Since when is anyone on the TSA team equipped to address this sort of testing? My first thought after thinking that the TSA is now employing biologists- wow the economy really is worse off than we thought, biologists at the TSA gotta make less than 30K a year, when actually they are compensated a bit better, at 35K. But alas, none of these agents possessed any science or biology background. Nary a one barely possessed a GED..but really, why throw stones?

Now who is calling on the white courtesy phone?? Ayn R. Key, paging Mr. Ayn R. Key.
It's a wild and wacky world, don'tcha feel safer in the confines of the airport as of late?.....Me neither.

Monday, January 25, 2010

The New Shiny Shiny


Back in the land of plenty, burning brightly under clouds of Santa Cruz mountain fog and palm trees. Ahh- you can take the gurl outta California but you can't dampen the optimistic edge with frozen tundra and salted sidewalks. The biggest ahh is the new San Jose Airport. My morning cafe here awaiting my L.A. flight was a Illy brand espresso in a proper cup no less. Pinch me.

The femine curves of the new Southwest Airlines terminal is reminiscent of a perfect thigh. A Frank Geary'esque design so damn sexy so un San Jose, that maybe this is just what the doctor ordered for the bruised ego of the valley. Did I mention it's sooo good to be back in the hood' that
it's hard to contain my irrational exuberance. Yes, that too will pass but I felt the need to scream it from the ceiling ( which is angular skylight and steel) this is my new fave hang..

did I mention the free wi-fi?? Luv. True blue love. Gotta jet!

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Keys


The New York Times home section has an article today that really spoke to me.

The meat of the article: people who don't lock the doors where they live. It spoke to me I suppose because I too never lock my door. Can't say that I have ever had a break-in. But why lock up, arm the alarm? If someone wants to find a way into your home, they most likely will. I have to admit to another thing I wasn't in the habit of locking, and that was my car (when I still had one.)

The sweet little enclave I lived in was pretty low key and my view point? My neighbors all drive nicer, flasher vehicles than I, so let them lock their vehicles. Keys just seem like another thing to worry about.

My Mini Cooper was so laden full of Lego's and trail mix who the fuck would want it was my mantra.

Keys to the castle, the key to my heart.
Key-lime pie I say because if you can't enjoy life without looking over your shoulder wondering and worrying who might be out to get your stuff , then maybe you just have too much stuff. Or watch too much Fox News, maybe both.

Did I mention the four bicycles stolen over the course of ten years living in San Francisco. All securely locked all snatched. Like I mentioned, If somebody wants it... Oh yes, I forgot about the Mercedes of baby buggies, pinched from the front of my flat in Barcelona on a sunny summer day- really, if you need to steal a baby buggy than you need it more than I.

I found an odd comforting feeling, reading the Times article. I suppose that it's nice to think that I'm not the only key-less wing nut on the continent. It helps to live in a building with a doorman these days, as my key-less habits die hard in Toronto where I do need a fob to unlock and allow access.

Wishful thinking on that key free way of life.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Bad Latitude


I will chalk up my recent fowl mood to the latitude of Toronto. One of my fave ads of recent memory was a beer commercial that preached "change your latitude , change your attitude." If only it was that easy. SAD, or the lack of light causing Seasonal Affective Disorder is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody. This applies only if the latitude you find yourself in actually has a summer. For those of us susceptible to SAD, it seems a change of latitude may be the only quick fix. Good to know that Westjet flies to points south and to Cuba from Toronto. So my preferred latitude is not 43°.72″N,(Toronto) or even 41°23′N, (Barcelona) but 37° 45' 55" N ( San Fran/Oakland.)