I discovered last night that the only phone numbers I can remember are thus:
1. My first ever home phone number
2. My mum's current home phone number
3. Mike's old mobile number
4. Mike's parents' home phone number
5. My old mobile number
6. My current phone number
7. The phone number for Going Live
8. A chat line number (Chat Back - go on google it!) from around 1997 which was constantly advertised with a clearly catchy jingle
And that is it. Eight numbers. Two of which I have never even called, from a twenty nine year and eleven month life involving several moves and corresponding phone numbers. I am not sure what this says about me, but I am thinking I should maybe reference it on my resume. Which reminds me...
* title supplied by a monkey obsessed limb clicking boy, currently dancing around the room with only his feet and elbows. We have had too much coffee, sorry.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Fanny's Your Aunt
I like words. They are enormously important. I have my personal everyday favourites and some which I keep just for special occasions. Sometimes, if I like the sound of a word or just how it makes my mouth move, I will say it over and over again. Rapscallion, gusset, knickerbockers, winkle pickers, guttersnipe, codswallop, poppycock, plop. I have never been thrown off a bus yet [but as an interesting aside, Mike has, for smelling of day old crab.]
When someone asks me what I do for a living, I would like to describe myself as a wordsmith, but that would lead to enormous pressure to be witty, intelligent and urbane. I am much better on paper. Out loud, there are other people involved. Shudder.
Words have to be used correctly and effectively though. For my new American resume, I am supposed to be branding myself, with an arresting tag line which states my key skills, and what I could do better than anyone else to raise productivity, morale, profit... I'm struggling. I can't get past the first word. It is something a little more than writer's block. I don't have an easy title to throw in to the mix. I just do stuff. I am not a freelance scientist, a hairdresser, a software engineer, a marketing manager, a circus clown, a nurse, a police officer, an accountant, a teacher. I'm just me. Perhaps a wannabe wordsmith with labelling issues would be suitable?
In between my twenty minute bouts of job hunting and resume tweaking, I discovered that there are many words commonly used in the UK which would mean nothing to an American, more so perhaps than the other way round. I have therefore composed a baffling sentence.
What a kerfuffle! I bought cagoule on the high street so I could abseil in the rain, when some chav carrying candy floss from the dodgems, wearing a daft hat and dustman's jacket, ran into me and Bob's your uncle, my coat had been nicked. I was gobsmacked. I called the Old Bill, cut my losses and took a trip to the offy. I'll just wear a jumper covered in cling film instead.
All of this is very lovely in a slightly deranged way, but I am no closer to employment am I? You are so distracting.
When someone asks me what I do for a living, I would like to describe myself as a wordsmith, but that would lead to enormous pressure to be witty, intelligent and urbane. I am much better on paper. Out loud, there are other people involved. Shudder.
Words have to be used correctly and effectively though. For my new American resume, I am supposed to be branding myself, with an arresting tag line which states my key skills, and what I could do better than anyone else to raise productivity, morale, profit... I'm struggling. I can't get past the first word. It is something a little more than writer's block. I don't have an easy title to throw in to the mix. I just do stuff. I am not a freelance scientist, a hairdresser, a software engineer, a marketing manager, a circus clown, a nurse, a police officer, an accountant, a teacher. I'm just me. Perhaps a wannabe wordsmith with labelling issues would be suitable?
In between my twenty minute bouts of job hunting and resume tweaking, I discovered that there are many words commonly used in the UK which would mean nothing to an American, more so perhaps than the other way round. I have therefore composed a baffling sentence.
What a kerfuffle! I bought cagoule on the high street so I could abseil in the rain, when some chav carrying candy floss from the dodgems, wearing a daft hat and dustman's jacket, ran into me and Bob's your uncle, my coat had been nicked. I was gobsmacked. I called the Old Bill, cut my losses and took a trip to the offy. I'll just wear a jumper covered in cling film instead.
All of this is very lovely in a slightly deranged way, but I am no closer to employment am I? You are so distracting.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Tenacious D
Dan spent the whole of today (and by that I mean about fourteen hours on and off) trying to convert the 3GP film he took of the jazz festival on his mobile phone to a usable wmv film to import to his blog. The efforts were well worth it though, and thanks to him, for your delectation dear reader, without further ado, will you welcome to the stage, the irrepressible, the magnificent, that talented dancing duo......Mr Brown and Mr Orange.
Sit back, turn your volume up, press here and say hello to San Francisco.
Sit back, turn your volume up, press here and say hello to San Francisco.
Chosen
Another hot Saturday in San Francisco, a need to be outside, and very little money saw us visit the Fillmore Centre Plaza Jazz Festival, a free afternoon concert headlined by the legendary Booker T (minus his MGs) to celebrate the opening of a new public space in the Jazz district. In this part of the city, Sunday had got impatient for its turn and muscled its way in a day early, leaving in its wake a very relaxed and low key mood.
We visited a very small old fashioned ice cream shop with one wall containing a board of flavours, one wall with jar after jar of sweets, and one wall containing a counter propped up by a well-seasoned man in a hat and apron looking like his heart had never left the 50s, even if his body had. He took my order for 3 single scoops of rainbow sherbet, but before he handed them over the counter, he asked me, with his deep beautiful voice, where I was from, and when I told him, he said I "talked real nice." I thanked him and as I was paying, he told me that if I ever come back this way again, to make sure that I drop in. I smiled and told him that I would, and I very much meant it.
With our sherbet full bellies we could really soak up the festival, a very small but perfectly formed affair made up mainly of locals and die hard jazz fans, some Shaun of the Dead extras, and us. There were two small food stalls selling the most delicious smelling and looking, and then tasting, barbecued chicken and ribs. When we arrived people were milling around eating and drinking, a few people were jazz-swaying or otherwise appreciating the music. One couple had fallen asleep in the middle of the plaza, and when one of the pair woke up, he looked genuinely shocked that there was music playing and people had crowded around him. The fact that they left shortly after waking confirmed my notion that they hadn't intended to be here.
Booker T's performance was excellent - there was a short and unplanned intermission due to a broken guitar string and his need to pee, but otherwise he played for just over an hour. The crowd though provided what could have been hours and hours of free and fascinating entertainment. People were really dancing now; giving it what for. Two of the dancers, who I shall imaginatively call Mr Orange and Mr Brown stood out in particular.
Mr Orange was a very petite man perhaps in his late 50s, with a grey beard standing out against the backdrop of his orange T-shirt, and with eyes that twinkled with mischief. His smile was frequent and delighted and he danced like a gleeful pixie who had tricked a foolish king of his youngest daughter.
Mr Brown was younger, taller and wider than Mr Orange. He danced with all his heart and soul, moving every muscle, every inch of flab and every limb, often all at once, and at speed. In short, he was amazing. He danced the dance of the outsider, the joyful, the passionate, the happy, the sad, the self-conscious, the wildly egotistical, the insecure, the no-holds-barred-taken-captive-by-the-music and happily succumbing to its power shimmy. He flailed randomly. He shook. He sidestepped. Throughout the dancing, he grinned like a loon and generally had a ball.
When Mr Orange and Mr Brown hooked up and danced together, it was a truly marvellous moment.
When Mr Brown approached me and asked me if I wanted to dance, I was overwhelmed.
We visited a very small old fashioned ice cream shop with one wall containing a board of flavours, one wall with jar after jar of sweets, and one wall containing a counter propped up by a well-seasoned man in a hat and apron looking like his heart had never left the 50s, even if his body had. He took my order for 3 single scoops of rainbow sherbet, but before he handed them over the counter, he asked me, with his deep beautiful voice, where I was from, and when I told him, he said I "talked real nice." I thanked him and as I was paying, he told me that if I ever come back this way again, to make sure that I drop in. I smiled and told him that I would, and I very much meant it.
With our sherbet full bellies we could really soak up the festival, a very small but perfectly formed affair made up mainly of locals and die hard jazz fans, some Shaun of the Dead extras, and us. There were two small food stalls selling the most delicious smelling and looking, and then tasting, barbecued chicken and ribs. When we arrived people were milling around eating and drinking, a few people were jazz-swaying or otherwise appreciating the music. One couple had fallen asleep in the middle of the plaza, and when one of the pair woke up, he looked genuinely shocked that there was music playing and people had crowded around him. The fact that they left shortly after waking confirmed my notion that they hadn't intended to be here.
Booker T's performance was excellent - there was a short and unplanned intermission due to a broken guitar string and his need to pee, but otherwise he played for just over an hour. The crowd though provided what could have been hours and hours of free and fascinating entertainment. People were really dancing now; giving it what for. Two of the dancers, who I shall imaginatively call Mr Orange and Mr Brown stood out in particular.
Mr Orange was a very petite man perhaps in his late 50s, with a grey beard standing out against the backdrop of his orange T-shirt, and with eyes that twinkled with mischief. His smile was frequent and delighted and he danced like a gleeful pixie who had tricked a foolish king of his youngest daughter.
Mr Brown was younger, taller and wider than Mr Orange. He danced with all his heart and soul, moving every muscle, every inch of flab and every limb, often all at once, and at speed. In short, he was amazing. He danced the dance of the outsider, the joyful, the passionate, the happy, the sad, the self-conscious, the wildly egotistical, the insecure, the no-holds-barred-taken-captive-by-the-music and happily succumbing to its power shimmy. He flailed randomly. He shook. He sidestepped. Throughout the dancing, he grinned like a loon and generally had a ball.
When Mr Orange and Mr Brown hooked up and danced together, it was a truly marvellous moment.
When Mr Brown approached me and asked me if I wanted to dance, I was overwhelmed.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
More Time A-Wasting
The name is the best thing about it - I especially love the spelling and use of two colours for emphasis - but not too bad. For Hershey.
Supposed to be some sort of toffee. Gag worthy.
The Lost Chart
If you cast your mind back to the MP3 experiment post I did (I am not going to link to it. I am supposed to be job hunting after all, which is why I am doing so many postings all of a sudden. I am fully confident that you can find it though- here's a clue, it is called Notes from the Outside.)
Memories refreshed then, you will recall that I spoke of a chart on a napkin I produced "depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time... which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures." Well, here it is (down a bit). Ta da. Not only is all of the above true, it is also impossible to read and gain any sense out of it post-event.
So, if you have a company based in San Francisco near a Muni route which needs someone who clearly has excellent procrastination skills; the ability to skirt around an issue almost indefinitely, appalling customer service with matching bad attitude and low motivation; 'interesting' communication attributes; the ability, but total unwillingness, to adapt; excelent attetnion to detail; worrying interpretations of data (including dubious logic but lots of creative thinking); shocking numeracy and lack of commercial awareness; no ambition, but with high salary expectations, I am free until the end of June 2009.
Picture courtesy of Ed's blog. In case you are reading this Ed, thank you, and sorry for not asking permission first.
Memories refreshed then, you will recall that I spoke of a chart on a napkin I produced "depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time... which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures." Well, here it is (down a bit). Ta da. Not only is all of the above true, it is also impossible to read and gain any sense out of it post-event.
So, if you have a company based in San Francisco near a Muni route which needs someone who clearly has excellent procrastination skills; the ability to skirt around an issue almost indefinitely, appalling customer service with matching bad attitude and low motivation; 'interesting' communication attributes; the ability, but total unwillingness, to adapt; excelent attetnion to detail; worrying interpretations of data (including dubious logic but lots of creative thinking); shocking numeracy and lack of commercial awareness; no ambition, but with high salary expectations, I am free until the end of June 2009.
Picture courtesy of Ed's blog. In case you are reading this Ed, thank you, and sorry for not asking permission first.
Windswept and Short
Me, Mike, Dan
Please note that we are on a hill and Mike is crouching.
Note further that Mike is neither a monkey or a Frankie Howerd impersonator.
Consumerism
A small sample of the beer shelf at Whole Foods. After the Big Ass beer evening, I am more hesitant now than I was to try comedy booze.
Made by Nestle, containing peanuts, caramel and a kind of nougat, and covered by the greasy substance which passes for chocolate. I have not tried one, and do not intend to, even for the purposes of research, but Holly recently ate half before retiring.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Jimmy; the man, the legend
You won't remember Jimmy because I met him before I started to blog. Jimmy was the second American we met after we landed. The first was our very friendly cab driver who used to live in the UK and who told us that we wouldn't be needing our clothes here, and that if we wanted anything, anything at all, to give him a call. He meant of course that the weather would be so different, a new set of clothes may be in order. He must have lived in London before I was born, when people wore long johns, snow shoes, greatcoats and mittens in the summer.... or maybe he just feels the cold more than I. Needless to say, our clothes have be more than sufficient, and we never did call him. Forget about him though, it is Jimmy that I want to talk about.
Jimmy opened our bank account for us the day after we arrived. He laughed and joked the whole time and made us feel extraordinary welcome in a way I certainly have never experienced in a bank before. He patiently answered all our questions, even when we struggled to contain our surprise and some scorn when we were told about the direct debit system here - someone in the bank gets a message when you want to pay a bill, writes the cheque for you as per your online banking instruction, pops it in an envelope with a stamp and posts it on your behalf. I do have a image of a lovely little old lady (Mavis?) with a stack of envelopes and a younger boy, possibly called Geoffrey, handwriting the electronic details and putting them on a paper spike for Mavis, no, Gladys. Yes, Geoffrey and Gladys; they make a formidable team.
Back to Jimmy. He made a real impression on both Mike and I and we left happy that we had a bank account, and it had been such a lovely morning.
So, when Dan came over and needed to open a bank account, imagine my joy when Jimmy walked up, beaming from ear to ear as ever, to shake his hand and welcome him to the bank. Before this time, I had met Jimmy once, three and a half months ago, so imagine my standard joy quickly turn into utter high-pitched-squeak-producing glee, when he said to me that not only did he remember me, but, a mere second later, Jimmy, the amazingly happy despite working for a bank and memory manipulator extraordinaire, produced my name from out of his mouth, and into the air. I was stunned. I cannot even imagine how many people have passed through this man's office in that amount of time in this main city branch, and yet, the man did not only remember my face, but my actual name.
Bank account opened, card activated, frivolity exchanged, hands shook and I assured Jimmy that if any more of my family decide to come and work in the area, I will of course recommend him and his bank highly, at length, and perhaps rather too enthusiastically to them.
Jimmy opened our bank account for us the day after we arrived. He laughed and joked the whole time and made us feel extraordinary welcome in a way I certainly have never experienced in a bank before. He patiently answered all our questions, even when we struggled to contain our surprise and some scorn when we were told about the direct debit system here - someone in the bank gets a message when you want to pay a bill, writes the cheque for you as per your online banking instruction, pops it in an envelope with a stamp and posts it on your behalf. I do have a image of a lovely little old lady (Mavis?) with a stack of envelopes and a younger boy, possibly called Geoffrey, handwriting the electronic details and putting them on a paper spike for Mavis, no, Gladys. Yes, Geoffrey and Gladys; they make a formidable team.
Back to Jimmy. He made a real impression on both Mike and I and we left happy that we had a bank account, and it had been such a lovely morning.
So, when Dan came over and needed to open a bank account, imagine my joy when Jimmy walked up, beaming from ear to ear as ever, to shake his hand and welcome him to the bank. Before this time, I had met Jimmy once, three and a half months ago, so imagine my standard joy quickly turn into utter high-pitched-squeak-producing glee, when he said to me that not only did he remember me, but, a mere second later, Jimmy, the amazingly happy despite working for a bank and memory manipulator extraordinaire, produced my name from out of his mouth, and into the air. I was stunned. I cannot even imagine how many people have passed through this man's office in that amount of time in this main city branch, and yet, the man did not only remember my face, but my actual name.
Bank account opened, card activated, frivolity exchanged, hands shook and I assured Jimmy that if any more of my family decide to come and work in the area, I will of course recommend him and his bank highly, at length, and perhaps rather too enthusiastically to them.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Trains, Buses and Skate Boards
Yesterday Dan and I went to Santa Cruz to see his new city of abode for the first time, to register his presence at the university and to look for some places for him to live.
Santa Cruz is some 77 miles away from San Francisco (the equivalent of London to Peterborough or Liverpool to Windermere), and involves a train ride and then a bus. The return journey cost $23 (just shy of £14). A quick glance at the national rail enquiries website revealed to me that an early morning walk up fare in Liverpool would be £28.10 and in London £34.70. Considering the state of California alone is 3 times the size of England, either the rail system here is very impressive, or Britain is even worse than I thought, and my opinions are very low owing to half a lifetime of heavy train use.
We rode on a shiny silver double decker train to San Jose which left just after 7am. It was clean and quiet and allowed me to soak up the visual feast from the top deck. In just over an hour we rolled into San Jose where our connecting bus was there to meet us, you know, exactly what you hope will happen. We didn't have to sit in a desolate station for over an hour with no facilities and no information to board a train so crowded that you gag from the heady stench of stale and fresh sweat when you push your way on. The smell of bad chemical toilets wasn't so overpowering that eating anything at all on board was out of the question. The ticket system didn't require a post doctorate in differential calculus in order to work out the best deal, or planning your trip twelve and a half years in advance. We had to pick single or return and then the zone we needed from a clear list and pay our fare. We arrived on time and if we had of stopped, we would have been given clear information as to why, with an apology and an estimated time of starting again. I know this because it happens on all of the other transport systems here.
The bus driver who took us to Santa Cruz was alarmingly cheerful. On the way back, he even complimented me on my skill at depositing $4 worth of quarters into the automated ticket machine, at speed. We shared the bus with a man carrying a right-wing placard and a large black bag full of recyclables to sell, in clothes which hadn't been cleaned this month, and who told a girl (who he may or may not have known) that Jesus saves; a man who had those horrible extended ear things and a pair of female eyes tattooed into the back of his head; giggling teenage girls presumably off to the famous Board walk for the day; and Silicon Valley workers. The bus (via an automated voice and scrolling text screen) was even considerate enough to point out some of the sites of the journey. The inhabitants of this bus were a good indication of the wealth of characters who filled the streets of Santa Cruz.
The university was truly enormous, located on 2,000 acres of farmland requiring one of their free shuttle buses to get you to where you need to be. For such a big size, there were very few maps or even names on buildings, so as you tramp through the forests, and across wooden bridges ( I cannot even begin to describe this place and any description I give will be wholly inadequate so I will stop there) you have to call upon the help of the students, who were exactly the same as any teenage college series I have ever seen. It was incredible. Later when house hunting, we even saw a sandy haired, braced up, American school boy skate boarding in suburbia, Saved by the Bell style. Sometimes I have to remind myself, yes, I do live in America now.
The day was a success as Dan found himself a place to live very easily for a what passes as reasonable price in these parts. He will be a lodger to a psychotherapist called Barbara and moves in hopefully on 1st November. I am sure there will be plenty of fodder in a mere 10 months time to write several best sellers and live off the interest, but alas, the stories won't be mine to tell.
Santa Cruz is some 77 miles away from San Francisco (the equivalent of London to Peterborough or Liverpool to Windermere), and involves a train ride and then a bus. The return journey cost $23 (just shy of £14). A quick glance at the national rail enquiries website revealed to me that an early morning walk up fare in Liverpool would be £28.10 and in London £34.70. Considering the state of California alone is 3 times the size of England, either the rail system here is very impressive, or Britain is even worse than I thought, and my opinions are very low owing to half a lifetime of heavy train use.
We rode on a shiny silver double decker train to San Jose which left just after 7am. It was clean and quiet and allowed me to soak up the visual feast from the top deck. In just over an hour we rolled into San Jose where our connecting bus was there to meet us, you know, exactly what you hope will happen. We didn't have to sit in a desolate station for over an hour with no facilities and no information to board a train so crowded that you gag from the heady stench of stale and fresh sweat when you push your way on. The smell of bad chemical toilets wasn't so overpowering that eating anything at all on board was out of the question. The ticket system didn't require a post doctorate in differential calculus in order to work out the best deal, or planning your trip twelve and a half years in advance. We had to pick single or return and then the zone we needed from a clear list and pay our fare. We arrived on time and if we had of stopped, we would have been given clear information as to why, with an apology and an estimated time of starting again. I know this because it happens on all of the other transport systems here.
The bus driver who took us to Santa Cruz was alarmingly cheerful. On the way back, he even complimented me on my skill at depositing $4 worth of quarters into the automated ticket machine, at speed. We shared the bus with a man carrying a right-wing placard and a large black bag full of recyclables to sell, in clothes which hadn't been cleaned this month, and who told a girl (who he may or may not have known) that Jesus saves; a man who had those horrible extended ear things and a pair of female eyes tattooed into the back of his head; giggling teenage girls presumably off to the famous Board walk for the day; and Silicon Valley workers. The bus (via an automated voice and scrolling text screen) was even considerate enough to point out some of the sites of the journey. The inhabitants of this bus were a good indication of the wealth of characters who filled the streets of Santa Cruz.
The university was truly enormous, located on 2,000 acres of farmland requiring one of their free shuttle buses to get you to where you need to be. For such a big size, there were very few maps or even names on buildings, so as you tramp through the forests, and across wooden bridges ( I cannot even begin to describe this place and any description I give will be wholly inadequate so I will stop there) you have to call upon the help of the students, who were exactly the same as any teenage college series I have ever seen. It was incredible. Later when house hunting, we even saw a sandy haired, braced up, American school boy skate boarding in suburbia, Saved by the Bell style. Sometimes I have to remind myself, yes, I do live in America now.
The day was a success as Dan found himself a place to live very easily for a what passes as reasonable price in these parts. He will be a lodger to a psychotherapist called Barbara and moves in hopefully on 1st November. I am sure there will be plenty of fodder in a mere 10 months time to write several best sellers and live off the interest, but alas, the stories won't be mine to tell.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
A Light Relief from Words Part 2: Assorted
Ferry Building, home to boats and food.
A mean and moody looking Alcatraz, from the boat going home from Sausalito at the end of a warm Saturday.
The view from the top of Mission Dolores Park looking into the city, on the day of the MP3 experiment.
Japanese Tea Garden
I am aware than despite all my words, I often do not do justice to the beauty of the scenery. These go some way to capture the serenity of the tea garden.
This bridge was so much steeper than it looks and I managed to hurt my knee on the descent. The poor woman on it was terrified and she is being helped down by her father. It is utterly incongruous in a relaxing, lush and peaceful garden, and all the more beautiful for it.
Holly's Holiday Highlights
I thought I would do some brief reviews of the places I took Holly on her recent holiday, which I haven't already mentioned previously. These are my opinions though - it was just 'clever' alliteration to use that extra H.
Note my ambitious use of the word brief. Please place your bets now whether I can do it, without scrolling down the page to see that so blatantly haven't.
Alcatraz - just amazing and well worth the money. I am surprised but happy to report that it was thoroughly interesting, well organised, minimally commercialised and with beautiful scenery; practically flawless. We took an evening tour which meant that you got extra guided tours which delved further into stories of the more notorious criminals, and saw the city lit up from over the water, and if you time it right, which we didn't (but did on another day) you can see the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge. I wanted to stay later but my feet had the final say.
Mama's on Washington Square - a American breakfast diner which we got up at 6am on a Sunday morning to go to. It didn't disappoint and thanks to the very early start, we were lucky enough to get the last seat in the first wave so didn't queue for too long. The food was amazing and the portions typically huge. I had a French toast sampler place with all sorts of fruit, Mike had Eggs Florentine, Holly had eggs and bacon, US style - and as it was a special treat, we got a side plate of pancakes to share. We struggled to move after it all. The prices were reasonable, the service was spot on, very friendly but not intrusive and despite the growing queue outside, they didn't hurry you along and refilled teas and coffees the minute your cup was running low.
I am not good in the morning and grumbled to Mike (who is frankly even worse in the morning) that this would have to be a spiritual experience, to get up at 6am just for food. There was no other worldly visitations, no epiphany or enlightenment, no bleeding statues and no messages in the tea leaves (it was a tea bag anyway), but I would get up and I will go again. I just have to do some digesting first.
SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) - perhaps it is because previously I have been spoilt for choice for excellent free art galleries, but I really couldn't believe that they seriously expect people to pay for this. It opens at a very lazy 11am, so we had to queue for a few minutes before the ticket booth opened. After some nasty queue action and general pre-ticket ill feeling (caused entirely by an overzealous jobsworth employee who everyone wanted to stab in the eye, or maybe that was just me) we got into the gallery. If I wasn't being brief I would tell you all about the pretension of the place, the intellectual inaccessibility (no information signs anywhere or descriptions of artefacts), and the two tier system emerging from the fact that the entrance fee entitled you building entrance and then you were expected to pay extra to gain any insight into the works on show. As I am being brief though, I will simply state that the place sucked. I would not recommend it to anyone, unless you were desperate for an art fix. They had some amazing and very famous pieces, which they had just plonked down and labelled if they felt like it.
The best part of the experience was meeting an extremely charming woman who asked Holly to take her picture, telling her exactly where to stand for the best light and precisely what she wished to be included in the photo, and then inviting me into the shot as 'she was all on her own' only to have me (at least triple her size) blot out anything she could have wanted in it. Still, I put on my best smile and I hope I make the final cut into her post holiday slide show.
Anchor Steam Brewery Tour - a free tour of the local beer factory which is so popular they advise booking a month in advance, however it doesn't seem to be in any guide book or recommended on any visitor website. This is an almost locals only treat. I booked about 3 weeks in advance and could only get a place on the 11am tour. It seemed a little early for beer, even free beer, but I had recently found out that my work permit has been granted so it seemed an apt celebration of the end of 'era'. It is only open on week days so the opportunity may not present itself again for a while.
Unlike the chocolate tour which seemed to pitch its level to a 7 year old with below average intelligence, it was non patronising, informative and interesting. We had an insufferable know-it-all on the tour who made everyone (me) want to stab him in the eye (only twice in the one week is good) but the guide handled him well and his female friend swooned around him so much that he was distracted by his own manliness and soon stopped asking irrelevant questions. The people there (only 25 at a time) all seemed to be either local or from other US states and visiting friends in the city, and when I asked a question, all the heads in the room turned to look and point at the outsider with a funny voice. Or maybe they found my voice so attractive that they wanted to see if the face matched. Maybe not.
We got to sample 5 of their beers a half pint at a time, a summer beer (OK), the trademark steam beer (quite nice), something else (hic), a porter (amazing and so so much nicer and smoother than Guinness which is the closest thing to it that I have tasted) and a sweet after dinner beer like a dessert wine, which I was surprised to find that I really liked. The tour guide turned bar man and best friend now to many, asked if anyone wanted some more of the one you liked the best. I plugged for the porter, so for people who had drank a full measure of all of the beers on offer, they had drunk 3 pints for free and it wasn't even 1pm. I had one pint of porter, one half of summer beer, and quarter pints of everything else - 2 and a quarter pints of beer. Just amazing. There was seemingly nothing in it for them - they had no beer to sell but it must be worth it for them. I plan to buy myself some Porter and some sweet Old Foghorn before the month is out and I would urge anyone to take the tour. In short, the power of word of mouth advertising executed extraordinarily well.
Lombard Street - renowned for being the crookedest street in the city. For a start, this is a lie. The real crookedest street is in Potrero Hill, which is a suburb south of the city. I had been before and was distinctly unimpressed, and this time Holly was too. It is a street which they have put curves in the road to make it less steep, and then planted flowers. People like to drive down it. People like to take pictures of it. I pity the people who live on it, but not too much as their houses are gorgeous.
Sausalito - described by the tourist website as "a charming waterfront community that lies across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Because of its Mediterranean flair and breathtaking views, it is often compared to the French Riviera" perhaps by people who have never been to France, but have seen Bergerac and got confused. The ferry across was absolutely lovely and provided wonderful views of the bridges and city, and on the way back we even got to see the sunset over the bridge, and a real close up of Alcatraz. It was a much cheaper alternative to the many tourist cruises on offer and you got to stop off for an ice cream.
A nice place for something different and I can see why it appeals to people, but I found it was very twee, full of art galleries but not much else, and after an hour you have exhausted everything there, and most of that time is spent picking your ice cream flavour. We were determined to give it the benefit of the doubt though and set off to see everything that the map (from the most beautiful, oldest, wrinkliest, cutest, smiliest woman in a tourist booth I had ever seen in my life^) said that it had to offer. We trekked across the town away from the main drag to the place the map called 'Beach'. When we got there, we understood why no one had taken the trouble to name it. In fact, the use of the word beach was laughable. I used to have a bigger sand pit when I was a child. We sat on the bench provided for the masses of visitors they must get and watched an old woman play with a dog, until we had had our fill, and headed back for the excitement of the main town where a man had put a wig on his dog and sang terrible songs for money.
^ apart from that time I did a coach tour of cute and happy old woman in tourist booths.
Note my ambitious use of the word brief. Please place your bets now whether I can do it, without scrolling down the page to see that so blatantly haven't.
Alcatraz - just amazing and well worth the money. I am surprised but happy to report that it was thoroughly interesting, well organised, minimally commercialised and with beautiful scenery; practically flawless. We took an evening tour which meant that you got extra guided tours which delved further into stories of the more notorious criminals, and saw the city lit up from over the water, and if you time it right, which we didn't (but did on another day) you can see the sun set over the Golden Gate Bridge. I wanted to stay later but my feet had the final say.
Mama's on Washington Square - a American breakfast diner which we got up at 6am on a Sunday morning to go to. It didn't disappoint and thanks to the very early start, we were lucky enough to get the last seat in the first wave so didn't queue for too long. The food was amazing and the portions typically huge. I had a French toast sampler place with all sorts of fruit, Mike had Eggs Florentine, Holly had eggs and bacon, US style - and as it was a special treat, we got a side plate of pancakes to share. We struggled to move after it all. The prices were reasonable, the service was spot on, very friendly but not intrusive and despite the growing queue outside, they didn't hurry you along and refilled teas and coffees the minute your cup was running low.
I am not good in the morning and grumbled to Mike (who is frankly even worse in the morning) that this would have to be a spiritual experience, to get up at 6am just for food. There was no other worldly visitations, no epiphany or enlightenment, no bleeding statues and no messages in the tea leaves (it was a tea bag anyway), but I would get up and I will go again. I just have to do some digesting first.
SFMOMA (San Francisco Museum of Modern Art) - perhaps it is because previously I have been spoilt for choice for excellent free art galleries, but I really couldn't believe that they seriously expect people to pay for this. It opens at a very lazy 11am, so we had to queue for a few minutes before the ticket booth opened. After some nasty queue action and general pre-ticket ill feeling (caused entirely by an overzealous jobsworth employee who everyone wanted to stab in the eye, or maybe that was just me) we got into the gallery. If I wasn't being brief I would tell you all about the pretension of the place, the intellectual inaccessibility (no information signs anywhere or descriptions of artefacts), and the two tier system emerging from the fact that the entrance fee entitled you building entrance and then you were expected to pay extra to gain any insight into the works on show. As I am being brief though, I will simply state that the place sucked. I would not recommend it to anyone, unless you were desperate for an art fix. They had some amazing and very famous pieces, which they had just plonked down and labelled if they felt like it.
The best part of the experience was meeting an extremely charming woman who asked Holly to take her picture, telling her exactly where to stand for the best light and precisely what she wished to be included in the photo, and then inviting me into the shot as 'she was all on her own' only to have me (at least triple her size) blot out anything she could have wanted in it. Still, I put on my best smile and I hope I make the final cut into her post holiday slide show.
Anchor Steam Brewery Tour - a free tour of the local beer factory which is so popular they advise booking a month in advance, however it doesn't seem to be in any guide book or recommended on any visitor website. This is an almost locals only treat. I booked about 3 weeks in advance and could only get a place on the 11am tour. It seemed a little early for beer, even free beer, but I had recently found out that my work permit has been granted so it seemed an apt celebration of the end of 'era'. It is only open on week days so the opportunity may not present itself again for a while.
Unlike the chocolate tour which seemed to pitch its level to a 7 year old with below average intelligence, it was non patronising, informative and interesting. We had an insufferable know-it-all on the tour who made everyone (me) want to stab him in the eye (only twice in the one week is good) but the guide handled him well and his female friend swooned around him so much that he was distracted by his own manliness and soon stopped asking irrelevant questions. The people there (only 25 at a time) all seemed to be either local or from other US states and visiting friends in the city, and when I asked a question, all the heads in the room turned to look and point at the outsider with a funny voice. Or maybe they found my voice so attractive that they wanted to see if the face matched. Maybe not.
We got to sample 5 of their beers a half pint at a time, a summer beer (OK), the trademark steam beer (quite nice), something else (hic), a porter (amazing and so so much nicer and smoother than Guinness which is the closest thing to it that I have tasted) and a sweet after dinner beer like a dessert wine, which I was surprised to find that I really liked. The tour guide turned bar man and best friend now to many, asked if anyone wanted some more of the one you liked the best. I plugged for the porter, so for people who had drank a full measure of all of the beers on offer, they had drunk 3 pints for free and it wasn't even 1pm. I had one pint of porter, one half of summer beer, and quarter pints of everything else - 2 and a quarter pints of beer. Just amazing. There was seemingly nothing in it for them - they had no beer to sell but it must be worth it for them. I plan to buy myself some Porter and some sweet Old Foghorn before the month is out and I would urge anyone to take the tour. In short, the power of word of mouth advertising executed extraordinarily well.
Lombard Street - renowned for being the crookedest street in the city. For a start, this is a lie. The real crookedest street is in Potrero Hill, which is a suburb south of the city. I had been before and was distinctly unimpressed, and this time Holly was too. It is a street which they have put curves in the road to make it less steep, and then planted flowers. People like to drive down it. People like to take pictures of it. I pity the people who live on it, but not too much as their houses are gorgeous.
Sausalito - described by the tourist website as "a charming waterfront community that lies across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Because of its Mediterranean flair and breathtaking views, it is often compared to the French Riviera" perhaps by people who have never been to France, but have seen Bergerac and got confused. The ferry across was absolutely lovely and provided wonderful views of the bridges and city, and on the way back we even got to see the sunset over the bridge, and a real close up of Alcatraz. It was a much cheaper alternative to the many tourist cruises on offer and you got to stop off for an ice cream.
A nice place for something different and I can see why it appeals to people, but I found it was very twee, full of art galleries but not much else, and after an hour you have exhausted everything there, and most of that time is spent picking your ice cream flavour. We were determined to give it the benefit of the doubt though and set off to see everything that the map (from the most beautiful, oldest, wrinkliest, cutest, smiliest woman in a tourist booth I had ever seen in my life^) said that it had to offer. We trekked across the town away from the main drag to the place the map called 'Beach'. When we got there, we understood why no one had taken the trouble to name it. In fact, the use of the word beach was laughable. I used to have a bigger sand pit when I was a child. We sat on the bench provided for the masses of visitors they must get and watched an old woman play with a dog, until we had had our fill, and headed back for the excitement of the main town where a man had put a wig on his dog and sang terrible songs for money.
^ apart from that time I did a coach tour of cute and happy old woman in tourist booths.
Gratis
They say there is no such thing as a free lunch, and 'you don't get something for nothing' but they (again) are wrong. I have had many free lunches, others may have called them leftovers, but to greedy bored office workers, a not quite curly yet sandwich can be the highlight of the afternoon. But that was my old life.
This week alone without even trying, I have had the following freebies; food (samples from the Farmer's Market, a bag of popcorn to go with our free film showing, chocolate samples, pumpkin cake), beer (a brewery tour which gave out 3 free American pints*, and 2 bottles with the free film), an outdoor film (this one will come as no surprise, see food and beer), hot chocolate, eye cream and an insult. My visitor, Holly, got a free makeover and Mike got a free cupcake and 2 badges. I was also offered a make over, twice,** and some cider which I declined. I have not included things like free refills, or products or anything which meant spending some money first.
I was the recipient of some free advice and directions from a very well meaning and generous soul on the bus but unfortunately his directions were wrong and I chose to ignore them. I also got to see a free air show whilst soaking up the sun, and more wonderful, the most heart warming drama, played out in the arrivals lounge of San Francisco International Airport, in glorious technicolour. Whilst I waited for Holly's plane to land, I was able to watch grandparents wait expectantly for their young grandchildren, who, brimming over with exhaustion and excitement ran into their open arms; lovers with single roses reunite with their loved ones with warm embraces and a shower of kisses; and even drivers with handwritten placards waiting for strangers with a curious impatience gratefully shaking hands with relieved and weary travellers. Tears of joy fell on my ears and the beauty of the every-day exploded in front of my eyes in an unrelenting stream of wonder. I really could have stayed there all day, which is a good thing as I am there again tomorrow to meet Dan's plane and casual observers get to watch an impatient girl with her own packed lunch turn from agitated to overjoyed in the blink of an eye.
* smaller but still very well received
** it appears I am more ugly than I thought.
This week alone without even trying, I have had the following freebies; food (samples from the Farmer's Market, a bag of popcorn to go with our free film showing, chocolate samples, pumpkin cake), beer (a brewery tour which gave out 3 free American pints*, and 2 bottles with the free film), an outdoor film (this one will come as no surprise, see food and beer), hot chocolate, eye cream and an insult. My visitor, Holly, got a free makeover and Mike got a free cupcake and 2 badges. I was also offered a make over, twice,** and some cider which I declined. I have not included things like free refills, or products or anything which meant spending some money first.
I was the recipient of some free advice and directions from a very well meaning and generous soul on the bus but unfortunately his directions were wrong and I chose to ignore them. I also got to see a free air show whilst soaking up the sun, and more wonderful, the most heart warming drama, played out in the arrivals lounge of San Francisco International Airport, in glorious technicolour. Whilst I waited for Holly's plane to land, I was able to watch grandparents wait expectantly for their young grandchildren, who, brimming over with exhaustion and excitement ran into their open arms; lovers with single roses reunite with their loved ones with warm embraces and a shower of kisses; and even drivers with handwritten placards waiting for strangers with a curious impatience gratefully shaking hands with relieved and weary travellers. Tears of joy fell on my ears and the beauty of the every-day exploded in front of my eyes in an unrelenting stream of wonder. I really could have stayed there all day, which is a good thing as I am there again tomorrow to meet Dan's plane and casual observers get to watch an impatient girl with her own packed lunch turn from agitated to overjoyed in the blink of an eye.
* smaller but still very well received
** it appears I am more ugly than I thought.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Barnet Fair
I have long suspected that there is something fundamentally wrong with my hair, but lately I am beginning to wonder whether it is actually evil, or at the very least, malicious.
It is wilful and stubborn and in all my long years of having my hair cut every month in some sort of attempt to show it who is boss, no one has ever managed to tame it. I would have loved the next sentence to be, 'until now', but this isn't Oprah. At the slightest provocation, like, say walking away from the mirror, my hair reverts into its usual joke; the nun. It lies down flat and refuses to play. One of its other jokes, although I haven't seen this one for a while, is to turn my hair into something so bouffant, if you look quickly, I look like Melvyn Bragg. My hair (as is my genetic predisposition) grows very fast, and I have loads and loads of it. Masses of the stuff, and every inch is ill tempered and malevolent. It chose to turn itself grey when I was sixteen, and refuses to be dyed unless it can turn random patches bright red, even if I am dying it brown.
Normally, I laugh in its face and get on with it, but I have begun to notice lately that my hair is forcing my poor unsuspecting hairdressers to cut themselves. It was only when the last two haircuts resulted in bloodshed that I remembered this actually happens with alarming regularity. Not only do these people get injured, I swear that as soon as one hair is cut, it grows back immediately. Today I turned a lovely smiley girl into an exhausted, perplexed, shadow of her former self. She just couldn't understand why it still looked exactly the same. The time before last, from start to finish, my 'trim' took two and a half hours. The hairdresser had much more stamina and refused to give up, despite the fact that all I cared about at this stage was my lunch. My hair took it upon itself to grow back into the same mess a mere week later.
On the way back from the hairdresser this afternoon, a man selling the Big Issue equivalent (Street Sheet I think it is called) told me that I had pretty hair. I said thank you, then he said, awkwardly now, thinking that he may well have offended me 'well all of you is pretty too'. I stopped and laughed out loud in the street like Brian Blessed and continued on my journey without pausing to look back. I think my hair is planning something, and I don't want anyone else to get hurt.
It is wilful and stubborn and in all my long years of having my hair cut every month in some sort of attempt to show it who is boss, no one has ever managed to tame it. I would have loved the next sentence to be, 'until now', but this isn't Oprah. At the slightest provocation, like, say walking away from the mirror, my hair reverts into its usual joke; the nun. It lies down flat and refuses to play. One of its other jokes, although I haven't seen this one for a while, is to turn my hair into something so bouffant, if you look quickly, I look like Melvyn Bragg. My hair (as is my genetic predisposition) grows very fast, and I have loads and loads of it. Masses of the stuff, and every inch is ill tempered and malevolent. It chose to turn itself grey when I was sixteen, and refuses to be dyed unless it can turn random patches bright red, even if I am dying it brown.
Normally, I laugh in its face and get on with it, but I have begun to notice lately that my hair is forcing my poor unsuspecting hairdressers to cut themselves. It was only when the last two haircuts resulted in bloodshed that I remembered this actually happens with alarming regularity. Not only do these people get injured, I swear that as soon as one hair is cut, it grows back immediately. Today I turned a lovely smiley girl into an exhausted, perplexed, shadow of her former self. She just couldn't understand why it still looked exactly the same. The time before last, from start to finish, my 'trim' took two and a half hours. The hairdresser had much more stamina and refused to give up, despite the fact that all I cared about at this stage was my lunch. My hair took it upon itself to grow back into the same mess a mere week later.
On the way back from the hairdresser this afternoon, a man selling the Big Issue equivalent (Street Sheet I think it is called) told me that I had pretty hair. I said thank you, then he said, awkwardly now, thinking that he may well have offended me 'well all of you is pretty too'. I stopped and laughed out loud in the street like Brian Blessed and continued on my journey without pausing to look back. I think my hair is planning something, and I don't want anyone else to get hurt.
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Woman of My Word
As promised, a tale from the other side - or less dramatically, Mike's version of the same weekend as a fully fledged participant. Please note (interest or ambivalence optional) how it varies wildly from my own account, is much shorter, has far fewer bracketed asides, and includes a link to a strange photo which Mike seems to dominate. I took a photo of the view of the city from the top of the park which was pretty spectacular and managed to get a shot of my bag, as viewed from above. So that's pretty much the same.
I'll leave it to you to decide who had a better time, not that everything is a competition to me.
I'll leave it to you to decide who had a better time, not that everything is a competition to me.
Opposites Attract
I already know what my resolution for 2009 will be - practice in the art of succinctness.
Sunday's geeky event was a book reading by author Neil Gaiman. The tickets included a copy of his new book and if they hadn't been so expensive, I would have gone too. As it was, I waited in the queue with Mike, (an event in itself as we attracted a girl bemused by the whole idea, and an old man who proudly declared that he hadn't read a book for a decade), until the last possible minute, then left him, arranging to meet at the bottom of the cherry blossom steps from 4.30pm onwards. As it turned out, it was more like 5pm. It seems life before mobile phones was more romantic and involved much more waiting around, but we get to re-live those days now. Lucky us.
While Mike was away being read to by a talented man, and presumably given some milk and a biscuit and having to cross his legs and sit up straight, I did some further exploring of Japan town. I was impressed with this peaceful part of the city the first time, but this time there was a Fall Festival on and the area was transformed into a buzzing bazaar which still managed to maintain its serenity. This seemed to be the equivalent of a summer fete in a village or school. There were scouts selling popcorn (yes, I thought it was odd too) and stalls where you got to throw things to win prizes, raffle tickets, and someone on a microphone boring people to tears. There were also people walking around in kimonos and their favourite Pokemon character. The highlight of the bits and pieces I saw while walking through the shops, was the community dance, where everyone from the tiniest old lady in traditional dress and fan to spotty teenager in jeans joined in with the most eloquent dance. There was also a tramp dancing, sandwiched in between two women in beautiful colourful outfits, and his movements, although not as precise and elegant as others perhaps, managed to produce a lump in my throat. Morris Dancing paled into insignificance.
I also went into the local Japanese supermarket and played 'guess the product' with myself, ummed and arred about whether to get some eels, or the umeboshi plums which I have never seen sold anywhere else but have been keen to try, but decided as we had already sampled some sushi and very cheesy deeply-savoury cheesecake, and tea tree and white chocolate flavoured manju (which we had to take home and freeze to make the texture edible to our western palates), I decided against it. There is always next time.
Sunday's geeky event was a book reading by author Neil Gaiman. The tickets included a copy of his new book and if they hadn't been so expensive, I would have gone too. As it was, I waited in the queue with Mike, (an event in itself as we attracted a girl bemused by the whole idea, and an old man who proudly declared that he hadn't read a book for a decade), until the last possible minute, then left him, arranging to meet at the bottom of the cherry blossom steps from 4.30pm onwards. As it turned out, it was more like 5pm. It seems life before mobile phones was more romantic and involved much more waiting around, but we get to re-live those days now. Lucky us.
While Mike was away being read to by a talented man, and presumably given some milk and a biscuit and having to cross his legs and sit up straight, I did some further exploring of Japan town. I was impressed with this peaceful part of the city the first time, but this time there was a Fall Festival on and the area was transformed into a buzzing bazaar which still managed to maintain its serenity. This seemed to be the equivalent of a summer fete in a village or school. There were scouts selling popcorn (yes, I thought it was odd too) and stalls where you got to throw things to win prizes, raffle tickets, and someone on a microphone boring people to tears. There were also people walking around in kimonos and their favourite Pokemon character. The highlight of the bits and pieces I saw while walking through the shops, was the community dance, where everyone from the tiniest old lady in traditional dress and fan to spotty teenager in jeans joined in with the most eloquent dance. There was also a tramp dancing, sandwiched in between two women in beautiful colourful outfits, and his movements, although not as precise and elegant as others perhaps, managed to produce a lump in my throat. Morris Dancing paled into insignificance.
I also went into the local Japanese supermarket and played 'guess the product' with myself, ummed and arred about whether to get some eels, or the umeboshi plums which I have never seen sold anywhere else but have been keen to try, but decided as we had already sampled some sushi and very cheesy deeply-savoury cheesecake, and tea tree and white chocolate flavoured manju (which we had to take home and freeze to make the texture edible to our western palates), I decided against it. There is always next time.
Notes from the Outside
We had a very eventful weekend, in which Mike spent participating, and I spent time not taking part. A good time was had by all. It was meant to be a 'Mike' weekend as my friend comes to visit on Wednesday and there were lots of geeky activities happening for him to expend his energy on.
The first was on Saturday in the form of an MP3 experiment. The details are all in the link, but basically this involved wearing a T shirt in either red, yellow, blue or green, downloading (but not listening to in advance) an MP3 track, and coming armed with an umbrella and un-inflated balloon, at a set time and place. The time was 2pm sharp (watches were synchronised, black and white spy film style) and the place was Mission Dolores Park.
I don't like organised activities much, particularly secret ones. What can I say? I'm cynical and mistrustful. This is Mike's idea of Saturday afternoon utopia, so we set off, and Mike had even managed to bring some friends. Yep, that's right, we actually spent some time with other people this weekend - frankly miraculous. I had listened to the first few minutes of the track and after getting over the grating, irritatingly slow voice; I made it to instructions involving stranger and tree hugging, thumb wars, and waving to strangers and knew that my worse suspicions had been realised. I decided instead to play sociologist (I've even have some training in the field. Impressed? Don't be) and watch and record the reactions of the unsuspecting park goers, who had thought they were taking their dog for a walk, or their children to the play area, but instead had stumbled upon a large group of primary coloured clad lunatics.
It felt a little bit play school to me. I have heard of MP3 experiments which involve turning up at a busy train stations and all stopping and remaining absolutely still at exactly the same time. That sounds cool, but elaborate hokey cokey gets a bit dull, even to the trained watcher. Mike plans to write up details on his blog what the experiment entailed and his views etc, which I will post a link to, but I have the luxury of unemployment which means I can post now.
My personal highlights included when told to point to the Golden Gate Bridge and other local landmarks Mike getting it exactly wrong and then, when noticing where everyone else was pointing quickly doing an about turn and confidently pointing in the correct direction, as if he had known all along. Also when playing thumb wars with his random stranger, who he took ages to find, although too far away to see his facial expression, I knew he had lost as his whole body looked perplexed. He later claimed that his opponent had extraordinarily large thumbs, which of course must be true.
The reactions of the non participants were mixed, but for a group of young boys playing 5 a side right next to the crowd of activity, literally anything could have happened and all they would be able to recall would be the details of the match. One woman who happened to be walking through the park looked frankly unimpressed and dismissed it out of hand as people trying to make a human Rubik's Cube. Lots of people stopped to watch, semi curious. It was better than naval gazing anyway. It could possibly have been the helicopter which endlessly and noisily circled the park, presumably filming, which attracted their attention in the first place though. Unless I had come prepared with a well written and non-leading questionnaire and a clip board to make myself look official, we will never know for sure.
I am especially rambling today, and I am still on Saturday. OK - the rest I will right in short hand. I met a nice Texan who had explored lots of the UK and pronounced Bath and Edinburgh hilariously. I managed not to laugh. I drew a chart depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time on a napkin, which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures.
My best part of the day though was being fortunate enough to witness one event (apart from going for ice cream - in a different place as the queue was too long where we had wanted to go, so we opted for some Belgian beer and chips, the next best thing surely, in a place which taught German in the toilets. Nice touch. The ice cream story is for another time I think - this is getting confusing now.)
The event involved a loud and barefoot transvestite of advancing age and baring more than a passing resemblance to Doc from Back to the Future, especially if Doc had ever worn a red party dress with a fake bra stuffed with socks. He made her way up the hill in the park loudly shouting obscene stories about his dog to anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot while she wheeled a home made wooden cart full of what must have been bricks behind him*. She took such a long time to go such a very short distance that a chivalrous soul who must have just entered the park and therefore missed the bowel-movingly deep-voiced obscenities, rushed to help what he must have thought was an old lady in need. His epiphany lasted a millisecond where his face flushed ever so slightly, and then he managed to rearrange it into something suitable and polite for the occasion. His wife / friend / girlfriend /companion / sworn enemy who he was keeping close / pet dressed as a human, when hearing the 'old lady's' joy expressed and instructions on the best way of cart pulling, who had the benefit of being behind and out of sight, found the whole thing rather amusing and struggled to retain her mirth from falling out of her mouth and into the ether.
* I realise this sentence is grammatically very dubious but I am playing safe with gender allocation. I would be genuinely grateful if anyone could give me any advice.
The first was on Saturday in the form of an MP3 experiment. The details are all in the link, but basically this involved wearing a T shirt in either red, yellow, blue or green, downloading (but not listening to in advance) an MP3 track, and coming armed with an umbrella and un-inflated balloon, at a set time and place. The time was 2pm sharp (watches were synchronised, black and white spy film style) and the place was Mission Dolores Park.
I don't like organised activities much, particularly secret ones. What can I say? I'm cynical and mistrustful. This is Mike's idea of Saturday afternoon utopia, so we set off, and Mike had even managed to bring some friends. Yep, that's right, we actually spent some time with other people this weekend - frankly miraculous. I had listened to the first few minutes of the track and after getting over the grating, irritatingly slow voice; I made it to instructions involving stranger and tree hugging, thumb wars, and waving to strangers and knew that my worse suspicions had been realised. I decided instead to play sociologist (I've even have some training in the field. Impressed? Don't be) and watch and record the reactions of the unsuspecting park goers, who had thought they were taking their dog for a walk, or their children to the play area, but instead had stumbled upon a large group of primary coloured clad lunatics.
It felt a little bit play school to me. I have heard of MP3 experiments which involve turning up at a busy train stations and all stopping and remaining absolutely still at exactly the same time. That sounds cool, but elaborate hokey cokey gets a bit dull, even to the trained watcher. Mike plans to write up details on his blog what the experiment entailed and his views etc, which I will post a link to, but I have the luxury of unemployment which means I can post now.
My personal highlights included when told to point to the Golden Gate Bridge and other local landmarks Mike getting it exactly wrong and then, when noticing where everyone else was pointing quickly doing an about turn and confidently pointing in the correct direction, as if he had known all along. Also when playing thumb wars with his random stranger, who he took ages to find, although too far away to see his facial expression, I knew he had lost as his whole body looked perplexed. He later claimed that his opponent had extraordinarily large thumbs, which of course must be true.
The reactions of the non participants were mixed, but for a group of young boys playing 5 a side right next to the crowd of activity, literally anything could have happened and all they would be able to recall would be the details of the match. One woman who happened to be walking through the park looked frankly unimpressed and dismissed it out of hand as people trying to make a human Rubik's Cube. Lots of people stopped to watch, semi curious. It was better than naval gazing anyway. It could possibly have been the helicopter which endlessly and noisily circled the park, presumably filming, which attracted their attention in the first place though. Unless I had come prepared with a well written and non-leading questionnaire and a clip board to make myself look official, we will never know for sure.
I am especially rambling today, and I am still on Saturday. OK - the rest I will right in short hand. I met a nice Texan who had explored lots of the UK and pronounced Bath and Edinburgh hilariously. I managed not to laugh. I drew a chart depicting the strength of crowd reaction to the experiment over time on a napkin, which one of our companions, Ed, took a picture of. I like my work to be appreciated. I managed to then lose it after I promised I would upload it to the blog. I seem to remember it was rubbish though and had badly proportioned stick people and unrealistic umbrella pictures.
My best part of the day though was being fortunate enough to witness one event (apart from going for ice cream - in a different place as the queue was too long where we had wanted to go, so we opted for some Belgian beer and chips, the next best thing surely, in a place which taught German in the toilets. Nice touch. The ice cream story is for another time I think - this is getting confusing now.)
The event involved a loud and barefoot transvestite of advancing age and baring more than a passing resemblance to Doc from Back to the Future, especially if Doc had ever worn a red party dress with a fake bra stuffed with socks. He made her way up the hill in the park loudly shouting obscene stories about his dog to anyone unfortunate enough to be in earshot while she wheeled a home made wooden cart full of what must have been bricks behind him*. She took such a long time to go such a very short distance that a chivalrous soul who must have just entered the park and therefore missed the bowel-movingly deep-voiced obscenities, rushed to help what he must have thought was an old lady in need. His epiphany lasted a millisecond where his face flushed ever so slightly, and then he managed to rearrange it into something suitable and polite for the occasion. His wife / friend / girlfriend /companion / sworn enemy who he was keeping close / pet dressed as a human, when hearing the 'old lady's' joy expressed and instructions on the best way of cart pulling, who had the benefit of being behind and out of sight, found the whole thing rather amusing and struggled to retain her mirth from falling out of her mouth and into the ether.
* I realise this sentence is grammatically very dubious but I am playing safe with gender allocation. I would be genuinely grateful if anyone could give me any advice.
Friday, October 3, 2008
A long time to get to a point and then some chat about sandwiches and rain, probably brought on by too much wine
You know those evenings when you have partaken in some black bean and rice enchiladas (they sound horrible but let me assure you, they rocked) and delicious local wine from a tetrapak, when ideas come upon you, which at the time bridge all the gaps in your life and the world, and yet in the morning can be hastily dismissed, if even remembered. It's a munchie-induced right the world, or get rich quick, or indeed, come up with the best sandwich filling.
I've had some of my best debates at times like these, and whilst I haven't been moved to navigate my way across a country with a kitchen appliance, or try to find my namesake 54 times over, sometimes the soul of the idea flutters around me biding its time.
All this is very nice, but what I wanted to say is this. Despite the fact that we invented the sandwich, and are pretty much known for it across the world, the US has raised us two and matched us two (this may or may not be a gambling phrase but it sounds about right to me). I believe that it is part of the constitution which says that soggy, pathetic, bland and dubiously filled with a limp lettuce afterthought, sandwiches are just not allowed. I haven't found one yet; but I find myself still looking for a good sandwich which isn't the same price as a week's rent in the UK. One thing which we will take back home with us is the art of a good sandwich. They pile them high and stuff them with crunchy and squidge in correct proportions on good hardy bread (well hardy anyway, I'm worried I am getting use to the sugar overload) and use mustards and pickles and sauerkraut and things which I really don't like, but which raise the piquancy of these sandwiches to levels hitherto unexplored.
By the way, it's raining. It was promised but I didn't expect it and was out in my shirtsleeves all day, but now, its quarter past eleven and the smell of the air has changed. The rain is pouring continuously and soaking everything in its path, and despite the fact that everything we have planned for the weekend is outdoors, it feels wonderful. I should have expected it of course; today was the day that our windows finally got cleaned. As predicted ( I really could write this life stuff) there were big dirty marks left all over, but now, the rain will wash them all away, and I really could not be happier.
I've had some of my best debates at times like these, and whilst I haven't been moved to navigate my way across a country with a kitchen appliance, or try to find my namesake 54 times over, sometimes the soul of the idea flutters around me biding its time.
All this is very nice, but what I wanted to say is this. Despite the fact that we invented the sandwich, and are pretty much known for it across the world, the US has raised us two and matched us two (this may or may not be a gambling phrase but it sounds about right to me). I believe that it is part of the constitution which says that soggy, pathetic, bland and dubiously filled with a limp lettuce afterthought, sandwiches are just not allowed. I haven't found one yet; but I find myself still looking for a good sandwich which isn't the same price as a week's rent in the UK. One thing which we will take back home with us is the art of a good sandwich. They pile them high and stuff them with crunchy and squidge in correct proportions on good hardy bread (well hardy anyway, I'm worried I am getting use to the sugar overload) and use mustards and pickles and sauerkraut and things which I really don't like, but which raise the piquancy of these sandwiches to levels hitherto unexplored.
By the way, it's raining. It was promised but I didn't expect it and was out in my shirtsleeves all day, but now, its quarter past eleven and the smell of the air has changed. The rain is pouring continuously and soaking everything in its path, and despite the fact that everything we have planned for the weekend is outdoors, it feels wonderful. I should have expected it of course; today was the day that our windows finally got cleaned. As predicted ( I really could write this life stuff) there were big dirty marks left all over, but now, the rain will wash them all away, and I really could not be happier.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
'Happy Hour'
I fear I spoke too soon. I sit here listening to someone with absolutely no talent (but worse, no shame) belt out karaoke classics. He isn't an amateur, that would be more-or-less OK. This man has been paid to do this, presumably anyway. It's part two of the Block Party. I have another hour of this to endure.
There are happy hour specials in the 'wine bar' but I am afraid that the price is too high for me. Tap water is very underrated, particularly when it can be enjoyed in private, albeit in a stifling apartment with the windows firmly closed.
There are happy hour specials in the 'wine bar' but I am afraid that the price is too high for me. Tap water is very underrated, particularly when it can be enjoyed in private, albeit in a stifling apartment with the windows firmly closed.
The Devilish Aubergine and the Cake of Doom
I admit I have been a bit mean about some of the policies of the place I now reside and the people who enforce them. It's time to redress the balance today on this first day of October (by the way there is now exactly two months for you to start planning my 30th birthday gift) as today is the day of the Block Party, and wait for it, I'm impressed.
The Block Party is a celebration of the first anniversary of the opening of the retail space here. I'm sure I have mentioned before how limited that is, but obviously a cause for celebration for some. I am pleased as a Bank of America ATM has opened here. I bank with Bank of America and all the banks here charge you if you dare to take money out of another bank's cash machine. In fact, your bank charges you, and the other bank does too, usually $2 each. That's $4 just for taking out some cash. As you can imagine, I refuse to pay that. I would rather walk that extra mile to get to my nearest ATM, so imagine my joy, now I can get cash out whenever I want (so easy to please you see, so there is no need to overly worry about my birthday gift...)
However, I haven't quite worked out how to get into the building which houses the ATM, and the person who I squeezed in after even though she tried desperately to break my arm in the door, wasn't very pleased to have to share her precious ATM moment with a 'devilish aubergine' (Copyrighted to MC 01/10/08.)* Nothing was going to deter me though and it wouldn't be the first time that I had to use my sharp elbows as weapons.
So, the Block Party. The usual quiet waste land just outside the 3 shops (Subway, Peasant Pies, and a cafe-cum-wine bar) had been transformed with music, balloons, stalls, and people! Yippee. There were queues coming out of the door of the food shops, owing to the special offers, of which, of course, I partook. $2 for a peasant pie? Even with the exchange rate as it is, that is still only £1.13. I bought 4, not to eat, but to keep for later on in the week. People were buying them to eat then and there, the fools. I wanted to buy more but the shame cut me down. I am thinking though if I change tops, I can go back and buy however many are left.... we'll see.
I can get a pie any day though, the stalls were the real draw. Honey, Fruit, Veg, Bread, Cakes, all winking at me in the 29 degree heat. Today was pay day but it is meant to last the entire month so I settled on a Zucchini Almond Raisin loaf, spending what I had saved on the pies and then some. It weighs more than a brick so I would say it is worth the money. We have a visitor a week today so I thought it might be nice to have some tea and cake when she arrives. I asked the seller, who looked like a more fervent member of the WI whether it was freezable. She stated, loudly, 'honey, yes it is, if you can freeze it that is.' I raised an eyebrow arranging my face in the international quizzical look, wondering whether that was a reference to my extra few stones, mentally sharpening my tongue, then realising this is her sales pitch. I know that I am going to buy the cake, or bread as it is called, but she doesn't yet have the dollars in her grubby little paws (I actually hope they weren't grubby, and hands and workspace were adequately sanitised). The pitch continues, 'because it tastes so good, I doubt it will get to the freezer.'
She carried on with some tale of how she wanted to freeze a cake once but ended up eating it all. She means this to be the best advert, but of course it isn't. I hope there isn't crack in this cake, as I fully intend it to get to the freezer, and after what happened last time, well.. I paid the money, and she instantly moved to someone else. I had felt so special too. Then I struggled to carry my brick back to the flat. I actually had to stop halfway in the twenty steps to the door to adjust my grip.
I think I have actually put myself off this cake now having made it sound so unappetising; made with the unwashed hands of a charlatan, extra dense to break all your teeth, and full of crack. One slice or two Holly?
* I cannot take the credit for this wonderful turn of phrase - it is Mike's. I am dressed from head to toe in purple like a priest at Easter, clashing violently with my pink flip flops. Nice.
The Block Party is a celebration of the first anniversary of the opening of the retail space here. I'm sure I have mentioned before how limited that is, but obviously a cause for celebration for some. I am pleased as a Bank of America ATM has opened here. I bank with Bank of America and all the banks here charge you if you dare to take money out of another bank's cash machine. In fact, your bank charges you, and the other bank does too, usually $2 each. That's $4 just for taking out some cash. As you can imagine, I refuse to pay that. I would rather walk that extra mile to get to my nearest ATM, so imagine my joy, now I can get cash out whenever I want (so easy to please you see, so there is no need to overly worry about my birthday gift...)
However, I haven't quite worked out how to get into the building which houses the ATM, and the person who I squeezed in after even though she tried desperately to break my arm in the door, wasn't very pleased to have to share her precious ATM moment with a 'devilish aubergine' (Copyrighted to MC 01/10/08.)* Nothing was going to deter me though and it wouldn't be the first time that I had to use my sharp elbows as weapons.
So, the Block Party. The usual quiet waste land just outside the 3 shops (Subway, Peasant Pies, and a cafe-cum-wine bar) had been transformed with music, balloons, stalls, and people! Yippee. There were queues coming out of the door of the food shops, owing to the special offers, of which, of course, I partook. $2 for a peasant pie? Even with the exchange rate as it is, that is still only £1.13. I bought 4, not to eat, but to keep for later on in the week. People were buying them to eat then and there, the fools. I wanted to buy more but the shame cut me down. I am thinking though if I change tops, I can go back and buy however many are left.... we'll see.
I can get a pie any day though, the stalls were the real draw. Honey, Fruit, Veg, Bread, Cakes, all winking at me in the 29 degree heat. Today was pay day but it is meant to last the entire month so I settled on a Zucchini Almond Raisin loaf, spending what I had saved on the pies and then some. It weighs more than a brick so I would say it is worth the money. We have a visitor a week today so I thought it might be nice to have some tea and cake when she arrives. I asked the seller, who looked like a more fervent member of the WI whether it was freezable. She stated, loudly, 'honey, yes it is, if you can freeze it that is.' I raised an eyebrow arranging my face in the international quizzical look, wondering whether that was a reference to my extra few stones, mentally sharpening my tongue, then realising this is her sales pitch. I know that I am going to buy the cake, or bread as it is called, but she doesn't yet have the dollars in her grubby little paws (I actually hope they weren't grubby, and hands and workspace were adequately sanitised). The pitch continues, 'because it tastes so good, I doubt it will get to the freezer.'
She carried on with some tale of how she wanted to freeze a cake once but ended up eating it all. She means this to be the best advert, but of course it isn't. I hope there isn't crack in this cake, as I fully intend it to get to the freezer, and after what happened last time, well.. I paid the money, and she instantly moved to someone else. I had felt so special too. Then I struggled to carry my brick back to the flat. I actually had to stop halfway in the twenty steps to the door to adjust my grip.
I think I have actually put myself off this cake now having made it sound so unappetising; made with the unwashed hands of a charlatan, extra dense to break all your teeth, and full of crack. One slice or two Holly?
* I cannot take the credit for this wonderful turn of phrase - it is Mike's. I am dressed from head to toe in purple like a priest at Easter, clashing violently with my pink flip flops. Nice.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
