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.

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.

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.

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/