Ticket vs Text

My old habit of ignoring parking tickets has made my new year resolution list. Gone are the days of easy breezy ignoring those pesky reminders that you owe $30 dollars to the municipal fairy god mother of fill in the blank city or town. The beauty of technology is that they know where you live and work. The Denver boot is liable to make it's way to a front tire upon which it shall rest until the fines and penalties are paid in full. I've worn out my luck with the parking gods. These days, it's better to be safe and pay the meter vs. karmic kisses from the parking gods lest they feel fickle.

Enter stage left- the ability to pay for a spot on the street voila! via my iPhone. Groovy is as groovy does, and this my friends is the next best thing to 'free' valet parking...yeah ya gotta pay... no digging, scratching around for that elusive quarter that rattles around every where except where ya need it- when it comes time to feed the meter. My sandy-toed little city- Santa Cruz has got to be the unsung hero, at least when it comes to smart government. Parkmobile and a phone is your super power to pay for your street parking sans digging for coins. Thank-you city council members, you made my day today! As I rock star parked next to Jamba on Pac ave for my bright-eyed blueberry with whey protein this morning, I was greeted with a small sticker placed meter-side with the announcement of the ability to pay for parking via my phone. Finally- government making my little life a little bit easier.

Many may sneer, as they contemplate the mundane routine of street parking. For the non-bourgeois (and we know who we are) this new technology makes the day a bit smoother, a tiny bit less frantic. Text messages sent from parkmobile will be the civilized love note alerting me of my status before it runs out.

Remember, it's the little things that make life easier. The app, btw...it's free. Thank-you city of Santa Cruz.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.