on a related note...

i'm not a baseball fanatic, but the game has definitely grown on me. sometimes, though, announcer comments are a little... dumb? take for instance last night, when one of the commentators talked about how fans seemed to be wearing a lot of red. um. yeah. the game was in anaheim, and the angels' main color is.... not blue! duh.

and on a similar note, in an espn article today, one of the sentences included this statement regarding david wells' (who plays for the red sox, also a red-loving team) comments on steroids and the commissioner:"...the league wants to educate Wells on the sensitive nature of the steroids issue in baseball at this time." ummm. sensitive nature? how about steroids shouldn't be in baseball at all? that tests should weed out the cheaters from the honest players? that 10-day suspensions don't get at the root of the problem? that kids see these players are role models? that steroids are illegal to begin with? that by classifying steroids as sensitive, it establishes a hush-hush atmosphere in hopes the problem just dissipates? sure, wells' may say more than necessary at times, and most teams tire of him within a year or two, but to call him in for a special meeting in new york because he has vocalized his concerns? it's a waste of time and effort. might as well do research on why angels' fans wear red.

choose your verbs wisely

i got really antsy as huston pitched in the bottom of the 11th last night. so antsy, in fact, that i said something that didn't quite come out right. it went something like this.

"ugh. he's got three balls!"

i could have substituted just about ANY verb for "got" like "thrown," "spewed," or "projectiled." but as i'm always ever so eloquent, i went with "got." and just to clarify things, i was referring to his pitching and not his pants. nice job, becca, nice job.

growing up

i returned our smelly down comforter to macys yesterday. after major discounts, it went from being a $120 comforter to costing us $45, and the bedding man had assured me that the "smell" would wear off in a few days- it had just been sprayed with something to make it hypoallergenic. well, a week went by, and the entire apartment reeked of this pesticide or whatever it was. in fact, the cat looked kinda tipsy, and i felt high everytime i walked by it. but this post isn't supposed to be about the comforter, as there is no random quote at the top. focus, becca, focus.

after i returned the comforter, i decided to take the escalator down the 6 flights to the exit. this is big, as not only do i have a phobia of water, i also have a phobia of escalators, specifically going down them. i don't think i was born with this phobia; no, it developed thanks to my mom and the huge escalator at neimans. my mom would step on the escalator and pull back, saying, "you go first honey. really, it's safe." and then she'd hold onto the railings and her knuckles would turn white and from time to time she'd require cpr to help her get from the top to the bottom. ok, slight exaggeration. but she always insisted my sister or i go first, and then we pretty much didn't breath until we reached the bottom. as this continued, i starting looking over the edge of the escalator, seeing how high we were. then i noticed how quickly that specific escalator moved- if my foot didn't hit the step at exactly the right time, i thought it would fly out from under me and i'd go careening into the mannequins and perfume department 30 feet below. oh, and i'm right handed, so i always felt like i had to hold on for dear life and liberty with my right- the left wouldn't be strong enough to save me should godzilla smash through neimans and try to overtake said escalator on its way to play with the wooden train in the children's department.

now that i'm older (relatively, at least), i normally step onto the escalator carefully and just stand to the right. i don't walk down the left side, for that would require left-hand-holding-on maneuvers, and i'm not that advanced. but yesterday, i told myself to be strong. i stepped on the escalator and walked down. all 6 escalators. on the left side. and i didn't trip. but i did manage to slightly take out a family of tourists from guatamala and a rosie o'donnell look-a-like who thought it was customary to stand in the middle of the escalator. but that's ok because it was worth it. sigh. i'm growing up. or at least g(r)o(w)ing down.

gonna make you sweat.

this week, one of my tasks is finding a new gym. with a new job in a new location, the old gym will be just a little too far away. oh, i love the old gym, a club one with free towel service, decent non-communal showers, and lack of local creepazoids. this weekend i priced my two new alternatives, the koret center at usf and the jccsf.

first option, koret at usf:
i had a 15-use pass at koret a few summers ago, and the fitness center met all of my expectations: rowdy students, old professors, and satisfactory equipment. there's a pool that i, as a hydrophodic landdweller, would never use. but there are classes, all of which are included in the yearly fee of $600. location is ideal, as it's 6 blocks or so from my apartment.

second option, jccsf:
so this one was trickier, as they don't post membership fees or yearly rates on their website. they required me to call. and call. and call. it would have been nice if someone picked up the phone. once in a while. as i might be giving them all my money. now, i thought the rates couldn't be too high, as i paid $710 for a year at club one (with the membership fee/application fee waived), and they don't post on their website either, but of course, i was mistaken. the jcc has a $200 membership fee and then they rob $79/month from my credit card. no year-round discount, no lack-of-jewish-nose-but-have-jewish-heritage discount, no slave-away-at-a-local-non-profit discount, nada. and they're a non-profit! that's $948 for the year and $200 just for them to swipe my credit card once. $1148 total. i don't care if they have an unlimited number of classes in strange forms such as tantric color-coded yoga or that there's free daycare for my non-existant siamese twin children. it can't be worth the trekking up to presidio heights and shelling out a good deal of my paycheck, post-tax.

with all my new knowledge and enlightening information, i can now choose the gym that costs the least, as money somewhat dictates my choices in life. and i'm not sacrificing much, just some qualities and comforts that are not part of life's necessities. now if i had unlimited resources and an endless supply of moola, i'd build my own gym complete with jennifer garner's trainer, a roving juice bar that doesn't serve beet juice, supima cotton towels, and marble-enclosed showers. sweet. sweat.

i love sundaes. especially with hot fudge topping.

ah, sunday. the day of rest. normally, it's also the day of laundry, the day of grocery shopping, and the day of soft scrubbing the tub, but after feeling inspired by yoga class, i accomplished two of the three tasks yesterday. the other daytime activities i had planned for this weekend included having my huston street t-shirt made prior to the labor day game, hitting the icer ski show over on fillmore (saturday), going to jade bar for daniel's 30th, and visiting the renaissance fair in golden gate park (sunday).

the t-shirt cost $30, but i'm now the proud owner of probably the only "street is sweet" tee in existance. if you want one, just send me cash, all unmarked bills, to my superduper black ops p.o. box. so t-shirt, check. city hall, though, cancelled the icer show at the last minute. seems they (and others, including a nervous bride-to-be) felt uneasy about having jonny moseley and others haul in fake snow to jump off the fillmore hill in front of large swarms of unhappy residents and excited yuppies just to celebrate jonny's 30th birthday. hmm. now why couldn't daniel have done that... snow jumping in pac heights in august, uncheck. hit jade bar and drank sumojitos- yum. wish i could go in the men's room, as the mirror lets you view the bar while you wash your hands (among other things). and ALL men wash their hands. right. check.

now this ren fair thing. it's $15 admission. $15! why can't we use the barter system like they did in the old days? i'll trade you this 5 year old boy and a sack of potatoes for entry... you need more? i've got peppers, some twine, and a goat. really, i only want to go to see what one is like. i've never been, and the thought of carolers, jesters, and jousting just sounds crazy. perhaps not as crazy as the "we the planet" concert last year, where barefoot hobos sold magical brownies while andy dick yakked about pot for 20 minutes (why did i pay for that?), but still. is it worth $15? i could do all the research online (isn't that what al gore invented it for anyway?) and lie and say i went. nobody would ever be the wiser. but i don't lie. just like i didn't chop down that cherry tree.

downward facing... cat?

i enjoy yoga, and i love cats. but thankfully, i did not come up with these videos to combine the two interests. somebody else had the brains to do it.

you put your right foot in, you put your right foot out...

i think i have a case of mistaken makeup identity. cosmetic counters tend to overwhelm me, and i always either buy lipstick that looks like all my others (normally a nude-toned pink) or eye shadow in some obnoxious shade as pinkish red. but in high school, i loved makeup, and i wore bright colors like mint, sky, lilac, and gold on my eyes and brick and melon on my lips. while i had glasses on, which made it hard to see the makeup anyway, i still enjoyed playing the part of cosmetics extraordinaire. during performances (musical, dance, in the shower...), girls always raided my caboodle for pancake, eyelashes, and red lipstick. before a dance, i'd go to the bobbi brown counter, get my makeup done professionally, and take home a new eyeliner, blush, or lip gloss. i felt addicted to makeup, and if i didn't have any on, i wouldn't leave the house. i didn't want to spend a half hour on it though, so i developed a rhythm in the morning: brush hair, wash face, brush teeth, foundation, concealer, powder, mascara, lipstick, blush. and obviously in the humidity, my face dripped by 4th period, so i'd have to go redo the whole thing. or at least the basics: lips and concealer.

when i reached college, though, my make-up case dwindled. this could be because i wasn't "going out" as much- who needs a full face to go to the library or the rugby game? or maybe i was becoming more comfortable in my own skin; i didn't need face paint to make myself feel better about how i looked. i admit my nose hangs a little to the right, and one eye is two centimeters farther from the ski jump than the other. and i'm fine with that. i didn't feel a need to change anything, but i never quite learned how to enhance my features without feeling like a clown. minus the big round nose, as mine is more an un-isosceles triangle.

maybe it's because lasik took away my need for glasses, and now i can see the real me minus miles of plastic lenses, but now that i've hit my mid-20s, i realized that i feel slightly naked without makeup. not as naked as i would without clothes in the middle of the financial district, but still, there are some things i'd like to play up and others which could use some downgrading, and a little gloss and concealer doesn't get me too far. i need to play to my features and open up my green eyes and create a more pretty pout. i don't want to fade into the background. last night, susie and i tested makeup at both benefit and shu uemura. i would pick a boring color and susie would replace it with a better one, and this was what i needed. someone who knew my comfort zone (unlike scary plastic-lip looking woman at lancome in macys or chick-or-bro at the mac counter), but understood that i could push it a little to create a more adult me. i ended up with some very pretty colors, ones that i would never have selected on my own because they were either too bold (deep green eyeshadow) or pretty (peachy pink lip gloss). so maybe soon i can start taking baby steps, doing the hokey pokey, and pushing the boundaries on my own. for now, though, i'm happy to let my friends help me. that's one of the benefits of good friends.

bad move, abc. sniff.

this morning i was just too busy to blog, and what came out of my head? a big pile of nothing. ok. not nothing. a furball. and i had to do work. yes, sometimes work does come first. but now, i'm serious about blogging, and i want to share with you that i'm distressed about one of my favorite tv shoes. no. not shoes. shows. see, i'm traumatized to the point where i can't spell. that's HUGE.

ok. breathe, becca. breathe. now, if you're an alias fan and do not in any way possible want to be spoiled before the new season starts, close this window. now. really, this could ruin your day. or your week. in fact, you may decide to go back to bed, nosh on pringles and joejoes, order in a large deep dish or five, read pathetic romance novels with overly muscular and hairy men on the cover, go through 3 boxes of aloe lotion kleenex within the first four hours, and turn pale white from exhaustion and mental anguish. still with me? you sure? because you can still turn back.

alright. rumors have it that michael vartan is leaving alias. one of the sexiest spies (and men) on tv. is alledgedly leaving one of the best tv shoes. shows. and why? nobody knows. but this is sad. if it's true. and it might not be. but it could be. and that is awful. just the thought of killing off michael vaughn who is not really michael vaughn as sydney's secret-keeping yet incredibly sweet and hot fiance? did i just give away more potential spoilers? oops. go cry about it. and try the aloe lotion kleenex.

zzzzzzzzmeowmeowzzzzzzzzz.

do you ever wake up in the middle of the night to a low rumble, a pink tongue licking (and exfoliating) your forehead, a big piece of grey fur stuck up your nose, and sharply chiseled claws combing your hair to oblivion? no? do you want to? cause i'm sure i can work out some kind of deal with you. *sigh* just kidding.

A Veggie Tale (minus the religious connotations)

my mom has had a few boyfriends in the past year, the latest being a great guy with a dry sense of humor and a big heart. one day a few years ago, i asked her how she met these guys. i thought through friends, at a bar, maybe the gym, and her response was online. my mom picked up men on the internet! i imagined her on aol where she'd im someone saying "hey sugar, wanna meet up? i'm 53, blonde, and i drive a honda." ok, so that's probably not how it went down. after many prodding questions, i found out she's more of a match.com and jdate person. no craigslist for her; she's a lot more technologically savvy than us city people. with these dating boards, she's got some serious background information right at her fingertips like amount of hair remaining on head and favorite childhood pastimes.

so i was thinking about this last week because i went to fill out my ballot for the veggie awards (don't ask, just nod and smile). one of the categories was "best veggie website," and it listed veggiedate as one of the choices. so i was expecting a great website. a best of the best of the best. not the best of the best of the worst of the best. i went to the website, not for a man, as i have a great (and veggie) one already, but to see what it was about. maybe i was missing a great place to meet veggie people and learn more about how i should be protesting outside of neimans or not eating honey and cheese (separately or together). veggiedate, though, was pretty simple; i could enter age preferences (up to 90 yrs old), height requirements(4''8" up to 6'8"), and type of vegetarian level (vegetarianish-at-home, whatever that means, to raw). so, just for the fun of it, i entered some basic data and got a list of my matches... and they looked scary. or old. or both. the man with a receding hairline to his neck cannot be 28! i don't know what i can deduce from this. maybe the good looking (or even semi-good looking) veggies must have all found each other, created a natural/nuddist colony, hooked up already, and removed themselves from society. perhaps they know how to socialize with others and don't need a low-budget website to meet people. or they haven't seen veggiedate yet. or they're all asexual, thereby having no need for dates. or they're too busy passing peta leaflets out. or they've all been jailed for trying to free willy.

perdon. gommennasai. eu sou pesaroso. ik ben droevig. sono spiacente.

i apologize for my uninspiring post this morning. apparently, someone feels i was bragging about my jacket, when really i'm just happy i found something that i will actually enjoy wearing. from now on, i will try to write only about intangible things like love, life, and the pursuit of happiness minus material objects. or if i need to express my joy for a new clock radio, i'll post a disclaimer at the top, most likely some random quote that'll have nothing to do with the rampant post below. got it? just for todd, here's a quote for today's already published blog.

"I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed. I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it," said Marvin.

"And what happened?" pressed Ford.

"It committed suicide." Marvin

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

don't taser my blazer.

i rarely buy something at full price. perhaps it's due to my jewish heritage or many years spent at marshall's and t.j. maxx. i'm not sure what, but making a purchase over $75 on one item is normally unheard of for me, unless it's my wool/cashmere blend coat i got at macys last year for $110 (off from $300) or my super duper professional solano hairdryer ($89) which will last me for years and millennia to come. so this past weekend, i decided i needed a second blazer. the one i have is wheat colored and a light cotton. it's great for the not-so chilly days when dressier attire is required. but now that it's august, the cold has come in. that's right. we've whipped out the (new, yet practically free) down comforter, and i make homemade hot chocolate every night. ok, not so homemade, but i do scoop the cocoa powder out of the canister and into the mug... anyway, this weekend, i searched for the perfect blazer. most either had those 3/4 arms which just seem impractical, or they were a loud, boisterous color like sunflower yellow. but just when i was about to give up, i found it. the perfect blazer. it sang to me, accompanied by harp melodies, and i danced all over the store with glee and abandon. really, i just calmly walked up to the cashier and racked up the united miles... but mentally, i felt emotional ecstasy! i am now the proud owner of a $138 (not including the ludicrous california sales tax) navy velvet blazer from j. crew. and i'll never take it off. i will wear it everywhere, all the time, to get the most bang for my buck. to work, play, sleep, eat, etc. although i can't shower with it, which is probably a good thing. then i'd ruin it and have to go buy another. perhaps in dark green?

Things to take/have on Muni

on the 28 yesterday, i realized there are must-have items for the sunset bus rider:

• bus pass - check
• clean underwear - check
• heavy coat - check
• Husqvarna 20 inch chain saw - nope. forgot that one at home.

new shrubbery

we went to stern grove this weekend to see the dakah hip hop orchestra and not only was the group rocking, but sg had (and still has) a huge capital campaign to refurbish the grove. stone walls, better seating areas, and and revamped greenery really helped! we sat up on the hill and could see lots of improvements (the weather was not one of them). we also saw an older gentleman in his 60's sitting in the senior citizen section, waving his hands and hopping up an down, and we also saw up two girls' skirts. now, this was definitely not intentional. really. but when you go to stern grove, you normally expect lots of walking up and down big hills and sitting. so why wear skirts that, when you're standing, barely pass your underwear? and not only did i get a hairy view, but so did a shocked 6 year old boy near me who practically fell down the steep hill with elation.

the 411 on the 501's

jeans are probably the best piece of clothing ever. you can dress them up, down, wear them however you want. i got this pair from banana republic two years ago in boulder, and they were perfect. great color, cute seaming, hugged in just the right places... but now i've got a hole forming on the inner thigh, and it's making me face the fact that i need to find a new pair of jeans. br didn't have anything like these recently, and i'm beginning to rack my brain about it. i thought i found a semi-decent replacement pair from levi's; they were in the juniors department and made of stretch materials, which was great until they grew a size. even if i wash and dry them, they're too big and saggy. then i got a pair of long and lean from gap- seemed a good idea at the time, but they don't do much, there's no bootcut, and they just sit there, clueless as to the bane of their existance in my closet. guess that's what i get for buying $29 jeans from an overly perky salesgirl. in the past three months, i've tried on jeans at macys, nordstroms, levi's, br, gap, guess, lucky, and probably just about everywhere else in the union square area, and i have yet to find that spectacular pair of jeans that will change my life forever, or at least over the next few years, due to the sky blue rinse or incredibly slimming stitching. and once i finish this jeans expedition, i'll have to move on to khakis. ugh. it's like the cycle never ends.

righting just isn't quite write.

today's post is an attempt to get the ol' mind churning and spinning. one way i'm trying to spur this is via all lower case letters. susie posted recently about just writing what comes to mind, and sometimes that works for me, but other times i have to plan. in advance. like days. i either write what comes to mind, and then i save it for the appropriate moment, or i write down ideas and then try to (unsuccessfully) focus on them. then there are the times when i post twice in a day b/c something great or momentous or stupid came to mind, but then i'm stuck the next day with nothing to post about except which type of bra i'm wearing or how many pieces of toast i had for breakfast (today= two).

i was never good at writing; i hated most of english class, especially in lower school. classified as "language arts class," i dutifully learned about commas, underlining of titles, and the proper use of pronouns. there was even the test on all 52 or so prepositions. "the bird flies above the cloud. the bird flies around the cloud. the bird flies behind the cloud..." if you missed a preposition, you had to retake the test. total and utter humiliation. but even worse was learning cursive. my handwriting sucked. big time. it looked like a boy's handwriting but put in a blender and spewed out at random intervals. all my girl friends had big, loopy handwriting that looked all cute and swirly. mine was indecisive. certain letters were wide, others were long, some leaned to the right, others to the left. some letters i continued to write in print while others were connected. and it wasn't that i was dumb; c'mon, i was one of the only girls on the math olympiad-type team in 4th grade, plus i wore glasses in the pool: proof of nerd-dom. the whole point of passing the cursive test was to transition from pencil to erasable pen. throughout the final trimester of 5th grade, you noticed first all the girls using their new, bright blue pens with rubbery erasers, then most of the boys, then all of the boys, and who is left all alone to potentially suffer from lead poisoning and #2 boredom? me.

writing just didn't come naturally, at least not all the adjective usage and requirements of big words and connecting sentences. combine this with my fear of turning in papers that many times were commented on as "indecipherable" thanks to my habit of substituting print m's for cursive n's which then made my m's and n's pretty much the same letter by sight. then i tried using print n's to make up for this, but then they looked like my cursive r's. thankfully, though, by the time 7th grade came along, the keyboard replaced my defunct pencil, and clarisworks came with a useful thesaurus. i wrote papers in high school that seemed to be satisfactory, and my college papers, while never quite reaching the required number of pages, seemed to get my point across well enough to garner a's and b's. maybe it's the urge for succintness that's causing my problem. i don't like to go on and on and on and on about something that could easily be said in a sentence or two. or perhaps a paragraph. topics like why we are a divided nation or global warming (yes, it exists. stop trying to deny it, bush & co.) definitely deserve multiple paragraphs or pages of discussion, but the little dribble that emanates from my brain and ends up on a random web page within the vast space of the internet? it's just doesn't come naturally yet.

Best almost-pick-up line of the week

"Hey, did you buy that book at Borders?"
(corner of Powell and Post)

At first I thought that's an odd line to use to meet a girl. So I corrected him, saying that I got my used book from Green Apple. But duh, I really need to ignore random people on street corners because this J.Crew lookalike worked for Children's International (once I took a moment to let me computer-stressed eyes focus, the official CI binder in tow just gave him away) and was trying to strike up a conversation so that I'd sponsor some kid in Brazil for $18/month, where $8 of my gift would go towards the great conversationalist himself, $9.50 would go towards CI, and perhaps the leftover $.50 would actually reach that poor child in the form of semi-fluoride-filled water accompanied by a born-again Christian missionary on the warpath to spread god's word via holy lollipops and song. Thanks, but no thanks. I'd prefer to donate my non-existent moola to a worthy organization that gives away free livestock.

Sweet for Street

One of my favorite reasons to watch the A's is Huston Street, their rookie closer. You may remember earlier on when I composed an adoring limerick in his honor. Last week, I went to an A's game where I bought my new soft-cap A's hat, plus I convinced the merchandise seller (a lovely old man in his late 60's) to give me an Athletics sharpie for free. After the game, I tried getting an autograph, but the players were all boarded up in their bullet-and-pen- proof SUVs, so that didn't work. This was a paltry attempt, so I figured the next time I go, I'll get there right when the gates open, and I'll get close to the field and just ask and beg and plead and strip for an autograph. That is, until today, when I discovered that Street's favorite Texan is George W. Bush. Gasp. What about Alvin Ailey or Buddy Holly or Tommy Lee Jones or Dan Rather or even Ross Perot? What am I, an almost-Green and loving liberal, to do? Is this something I can put aside for good looks and performing well under pressure? Probably. It's not like I'm dating him, just drooling at him from afar.

Take two aspirin and call me in the morning

Just saw this report on the AP about the correlation between painkillers and hypertension:

Women taking daily amounts of non-aspirin painkillers,— such as an extra-strength Tylenol,— are more likely to develop high blood pressure than those who don't, a new study suggests.

While many popular over-the-counter painkillers have been linked before to high blood pressure, acetaminophen, sold as Tylenol, has generally been considered relatively free of such risk.

It is the only one that is not a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug or NSAID, a class of medications the federal government just required to carry stricter warning labels because of the risk for heart-related problems. Those include ibuprofen (sold as Advil and Motrin) and naproxen (sold as Aleve). Many had turned to those painkillers in the wake of problems with prescription drugs, such as Vioxx.

However, the new study found that women taking Tylenol were about twice as likely to develop blood pressure problems. Risk also rose for women taking NSAIDS other than aspirin.

Link for entire article

Now I wonder if this applies to men, too. When I was younger, my (currently very stressed out) father excitedly pushed extra-strength Exedrin on me like it was brussel sprouts. "Your head hurts? Have some Exedrin." "We're out of Diet Coke? Try Exedrin." "You got locked out of your email account? Exedrin." I tried to stay away from OTC's, unless it was Advil (for the knees) or a combination of Advil plus Sudafed (for the sinus headaches). Even now, I try not to overdrug myself, for fear of not realizing honest-to-goodness symptoms when they appear. Last year, I saw a new orthopedic surgeon for indefinable knee pain. After spending a good 3 minutes with me, she prescribed Prozac, saying it would numb the pain signals my knees were sending to my brain and allow me to accomplish physical greatness that I haven't been able to achieve in years. Um... Prozac? What, are my knees so unhappy they're depressed? Maybe she needs some Exedrin.

Eureka: Invented for the way you clean.

The trip up towards Eureka was incredible. We drove the Avenue of the Giants and hugged lots of Redwoods. The first night, we stayed in Ferndale, where the movie The Majestic was filmed. There, we went to the local county fair and saw lots of livestock look bored, little women comparing their oddly shaped items from the weaving/knitting contests, as well as the "Canonball Lady" take 3 seconds to go up in the area and land in a big net. Muy exciting. The second night, we stayed in a cottage (the boathouse) at this little B&B called the Coast Guard House Historic Inn in Point Arena. The coolest thing about this cottage was that it had a jacuzzi tub in the living area. But you don't care about that, you want something jolly, humorous, facetious, or finger-pointing obnoxious. I didn't take any photos of the national guard recruiting center at the fair or the large selection of children's fake artillery for sale. So how about some signage?

This sign almost ruined the trip for me. I really wanted to forge the river and play the live-action version of Oregon Trail. Just no typhoid or other deadly diseases, please.

How do I harass a goat? "Kid, yo momma so fat, when she gets on the scale, it says "To be continued..."

In Willitts, the town of maybe 1,000? We need a drive-through coffee stand more than they do.

Somewhere, Mulder and Scully are trying to figure out what garden nomes have to do with Bigfoot. (credit to Willits)

Does the ! seem misplaced to you? Blame this sign on Willits, too.

Out!

I'm off to Northern California for a few days for some well deserved R&R. Gonna see a woman get shot out of a cannon, go cow tippin, and climbs some redwoods. In the meantime, enjoy this link. See you next week.

Can iTune it all out?

Now that the iPod and various mp3 players have taken the world by storm, it seems that music blasting from our ears defines us just as much as, if not more so than, our brand of jeans (Banana Republic or GAP), hairstyle (long and layered with evil bangs, thanks to must-be-blind-as-a-bat [former] hair stylist), watch (Citizen eco-drive, rectangular, silver), or preferred afterwork place of refreshment (Fly or Zebulon).

This morning, I sat next to a clean-cut young woman in a tailored grey skirt suit, and she was listening to 50 Cent at full volume. Had I seen her w/out the loud rapping of bullets astray and surviving in the hood, I would have thought she was more of a Destiny's Child or Coldplay type of girl. Later on my second bus, there was a little man (who did not appear to be of Latino descent) listening to Mariachi music and swaying to and fro with the bus pole. I felt like I was in Taqueria Cancun in the Mission...

It's all a little perplexing. With all of this musical technology, are we branching out of our comfort zones? Am I missing out on this craze by sticking by my trusted CD player and Windows Media Player? As I am obviously guilty of this, would others define me by the notes emanating from my ears? And would I continue to listen to the Dixie Chicks, Gorillaz, Green Day, and pregnant Britney (sans Mr. Federline), or would I branch out into undiscovered territory and jive to the likes of Mozart, Nelly, and Toto Bono Lukua? Have no fear, though, I will never become a Celtic Woman.

From PC panther to making you pant

I grew up attending a PreK-12 independent private school located in the warm and elderly-infested city of Ft. Lauderdale. Sure, Revenge of the Nerds: Nerds in Paradise was set there, but that was in the late 80s when Spring Break in South Florida was at its height. Now people go to Daytona Beach, Cabo, and South Padre Island for their fun in the sun and spring break edition of TRL.

Ft. Lauderdale wasn't really cool or hip; instead, humidity followed you everywhere and "cold" was 80 degrees. Most of the kids in my school went on to "great" things, like becoming a lawyer, doctor, male clothing designer, Apprentice contestant, or NBC TV star (Kelsey Grammar, who returned for Homecoming one year and got trashed in the alumni tent), but probably the best known person from my school that I can think of followed a different path -- porn star -- and rechristened herself as Mary Carey. Ever heard of her? She went from leaping ballet dancer to gyrating porn star, California gubernatorial candidate, and Game Show Network contestant. Back in the day, she and I were in the same class and dance troupe. We'd go to Smoothie King together, I helped her with her algebra homework, and we both had a most unhealthy interest in dance, only my interest remains in the kind of dance where you wear clothing or costumes that are meant to stay on, and hers isn't. When I was home last weekend, I rifled through some old photo albums and found a few images of her pre-xxx stardom. Don't worry; they are all G-rated.

Just call me Naughty Smurf

Before I left, I had the urge to try on my sister's Crocs. She swears by them, and even tried to get me a pair for the holidays last year. Her feet are slightly bigger then mine, so I figured her shoes would more or less fit me. The Crocs were rubbery, smushy, and... really, I felt like I was wading around in a Smurf-like abyss. See for yourself.
To find out your Smurf name, go here.

Sunny day, sweeping the clouds away

I know when I get back to San Francisco this week, everyone's going to ask where my tan is. What most non-Floridians don't realize is that South Florida has some of the worst summer weather. It's excessively hot (yesterday was 95 degrees), extremely humid (extra Bumble & Bumble Defrizz is useless), and it rains. Every day. For at least 3 hours. And it thunders and pours. And floods. Lots.

I worked at a 9-week day camp 2 summers in a row here, and the outdoor activities like ropes course, paddle boats, and soccer were fun, plus they wore the kids out. Until it rained. For 3 hours. Everyday. Then we'd all have to do stationary activities like arts & crafts and movies. How can "movies" be an activity for 7 year olds? It's more like "young children locking themselves in auditorium bathroom stall to test counselor's patience level" activity. I crawled under the stall way to many times to count. Could very well explain chronic knee problem.

Yesterday at 6PM (Friday it was 11AM, Thursday I think it was sometime in the afternoon), huge black clouds rolled in and now it's pouring. Don't believe that my trip wasn't all triangle bikinis, shark attacks, and sand stuck to my ass? Here are some pictures to prove it.

Take a little trip, take a little trip, take a little trip and see

I admit it. I like mid-rise jeans, ones that come 2-3 fingers below my belly button. The low-rise hiphuggin jeans craze lasted me about one bus ride; I had these great Abercrombie (cringe) low-rise, boot cut jeans on, and I was walking around the city, having to pull them up every so often. They just kept slouching. I got on the bus and sat down, but to my dismay, I could feel my butt crack touch the seat. Ew! Who else's butt had touched there? Did this mean our butts had touched, too? And how many butts had my butt then touched? Hundreds? Thousands?

Low-rise jeans seam to only flatter the few. Those with stick-thin, curveless bodies and legs that seem to stretch for days. For those of us who have some curves, a hip or two, or a booty that is bigger than the size of my fist, we just can't pull off the low-rise trend. It makes our stomachs look too big, our torsos produce multiple waists, and movement becomes incredibly limited. Dropped your purse? Check all directions before you bend down; your g-string could become public news. Want to wear that cute, short tee? You might also be showing a lot more than a brush of skin; thus while it might be cute for a 12 year old, when you're older than teen, all that extra skin just looks like that: extra skin. Not attractive.

So why are low-rise jeans so popular? Do women everywhere want to feel like a kid again? Because if that's all it is, then I'd rather dress up like Sleeping Beauty and play "Princess for a Day." At least then I can justify my tiara, and no one will see my day-of-the-week underwear.

Quick! Take cover.

I flew home to Fort Lauderdale the other day and made a connection in the Denver airport. On my way from one terminal to another, I noticed this odd sign at the entrance to the women's restroom.

Can't read it from there? Try this:

That's right, the women's restroom is a tornado shelter. Made me much safer in there. By the way, the men's restroom had no such sign, so I'm pretty sure they're all doomed.

Things to do and NOT to do when Muni is running late

As I will be spending most of tomorrow in a cramped window seat on a plane staring out at the vast expanse we call the USA, I thought I'd post tomorrow's post today. Oh, and I've gotten a comment or two that my cynicism has gone a little too far. Because of that, I've chosen to focus more on what TO DO than what NOT TO DO. Enjoy!


Things to do and NOT to do when Muni is running late

DO:

• Knit all of your fellow waiters furry cashmere caps with their choice of ears or a poof on top. When the fog rolls in and you're still waiting, everyone will greatly appreciate you. Someone might even treat you to a hot chocolate with soy and a shot of caramel syrup.

• Form a MUNI-rider support system. "My name is Becca, and I've been a MUNI rider for almost 4 years. I depend on MUNI for all of my basic transportation needs: chasing bison through Golden Gate Park, exchanging pants at Express, going to the Balboa movie theater for the latest and greatest double-feature, and navigating passed the ice-cream sellers in the Mission."

• Determine how old that MUNI map really is. Does the 42 still service the Van Ness corridor? I don't think so, but let's grab our sleeping bags, some porn, and wait for it and see...

• Walk along the bus route (on the sidewalk, not in the street). You'll get exercise plus a change of scenery. In the Tenderloin, this might be a good thing. Just walk by the crackheads; don't stop, stare, or smile. But do smile at Stan, the guy with the "SMILE!" sign. He'll appreciate it. He also appreciates powerbars, soda, and cheese.

DON'T :

• Stand in the street, pace, cry, yell "Jesus Christ", roll around on the ground, gyrate, or scream obscenities for 25 minutes. Even if you're a schizo scary woman. In the Sunset. The MUNI Messiah might hear you, but he won't care. Trust me. And if you're carrying 6 bags full of toilet paper rolls while doing this, he might just scratch his head and say "Huh?" Oh, and if you yell at your bus driver when he arrives, expect him to yell back at you and put you in your place. You will have met your match. Remember, he has a monster bus and all you have is single-ply.

Learning to walk

When I go home from work, I normally take the bus that stops right outside our office building, out of convenience. The only downside is that then I have to take another bus south, but it's an easy commute and the transfer isn't too shabby. Once in awhile, I'll walk down Powell to Market and catch a more direct bus. In fact, I used to always do this. Christine, though, opened my eyes to the fact that Powell is not only a madhouse of tourists, but that people also don't know how to walk. Down a sidewalk. At all.

Yesterday, I walked down Powell to the underground, and it was horrendous. I had to swerve around a pack of Germans debating whether to eat at Sears or Lori's, dash through the legs of a mom who had stopped to reorganize her 6 children and husband, avoid a cyclist on a cellphone (hello, ride the bike in the street, please) who was also trying to read a map upside down, and sidestep some gawkers outside of DSW. I thought I was in the clear, until some kid (meaning 18-22 years of age) turned his bandana-ed head around and hocked a massive-sized lugey towards me. It was so crowded by then, I had nowhere to go, and the spit landed on the top of my cute little kitten-heeled shoe! Ew. Ick. So I had to backtrack and slosh into Burger King to wipe my shoe clean of disrespect. So wrong.

For some reason, Powell attracts the most oblivious people in history.

1. In kindergarten, we all learned to walk in pairs. If you disobeyed, you were sent to the corner. So why does everyone here walk in horizontal lines of 4 and 5? Is this how they do it in Germany? Because I'm sure they have kindergarten there. Proof: Arnold speaks German (although he's Austrian), and he has no problem saying "Keen-der-gahr-ten" Cop. He does, though, have problems saying that he's the governor of California. "Guv-uh-noh" of "Kah-lee-four-nee-ah."


2. If you're going to visit San Francisco, note that no one here wears shorts, unless their playing basketball or frisbee or, because of said events, are in a cast. In addition, no one wears shorts with an "I heart San Francisco" sweatshirt (the sight of which it's obvious you didn't plan accordingly), bright white socks with either white sneakers or sandals, and a fanny pack. These just mark you as a tourist and a moving target for all that Powell Street rage we locals bottle and sell on the side.


3. And really, if you are going to join the masses and walk down the street, keep pace. We're on a tight schedule. If you can't keep up, get out of line or at least merge into the far right slow lane of hell. If you don't, I'll give you a little push to help.
   

The main lesson I'm trying to convey is: Don't be oblivious to those around you. Oh, and next time, I'm listening to Christine and taking the long way.

West Wave Dance Festival: Program 9

Wild (yet) Mild West
West Wave Dance Festival
Program 9 at ODC Theater
July 30, 2005
Reviewed by Becca H.


A few weeks ago, I saw Program 2 of the West Wave Dance Festival, and while sparsely attended, the majority of the choreography infused originality with maturity. Last night at the opening of the two-day run of Program 9, the audience filled all of the seats and more. Perhaps this was a preview of things to come, as the works presented were not nearly as fulfilling as those of Program 2.

Two pieces stood out above the rest. With energetic and poignant music performed live by Sekou Alaje and Garno Da Paz (composed by Alaje and Ajai Jackson) and powerful vocals by Rhonda Benin, Kendra Kimbrough Barnes’ excerpt of Enduring Legacy, based on the death of her mother, combined traditional African dance with modern movement into an abstract retelling of a memory of her mother. Barnes’ choreography never stopped flowing, and her dancers’ (Shelley Davis, Clairemonica Dixon, Kelly Kennard, Latanya Tigner, and Barnes) ability to move from one genre of dance to another was quite impressive.

EmSpace’s Erin Mei-Ling Stuart presented an excerpt of How to See Red, a work that focuses on consciousness and the attempt to contemplate and understand what goes on inside of our heads. With costumes by Leigh Anne Martin that resembled an Anthropologie catalog, Stuart’s dancers, from a raised arm to sitting Indian-style, exuded a physical and emotional professionalism not seen anywhere else during the evening. Inventiveness, structure, and developed phrases tend to be Stuart’s strengths, and How to See Red proved to be a great example of this. While the overall work is still unfinished, I can’t wait to see the final product, which premieres later this October at Dance Mission.

Heidi Schweiker, a dancer in both Margaret Jenkins’ and Janice Garrett’s dance companies, presented the premiere of Come Rain, a solo for herself accompanied by an original score by local music extraordinaire Daniel Berkman. Her directional choices peaked my interest; she progressed from sharp and jagged to soft, sensual, and reflective, and her movements were focused, deliberate, and thoughtful. But Come Rain appeared more as a movement study than as a choreographic work. The debate between these two is for another day, however. Nancy Karp’s Trio Set, performed by Christy Funsch, Diane McKallip, and Anne-Lise Reusswig, felt like a placeholder. Based to some degree on the play Three Tall Women and with minimalist movement reminiscent of the early 80s, Trio Set focuses on graceful dancing that builds up and then POW, changes direction or focus. While some aspects are successful, I felt that the dancers never quite related to each other; instead, there were three separate entities dancing onstage instead of a trio. The first work of the evening was by Moving Art’s Michael Lowe with the premiere of Ghost, Life Unfinished, a fictional work that is abstractly based on the life and death of Teresa Teng, a popular Chinese folk singer. Lowe attempted to fuse traditional ballet with Chinese folk dance, but the outcome appeared superficial and unclear. Much of Lowe’s focus was on actual classical ballet positions and flexed wrists and not on the movements in between, and I felt uncomfortable watching the work, as though I were looking at pictures of Caucasian women dressed up as an American’s traditional image of a Chinese woman (black bob wig, white face, white cheongsam) with the addition of pointe shoes. Lowe has received a lot of praise for his choreographic skills, so I hope this work is simply a fluke of nature.

Overall, Program 9 presented some worthy choreography, but I feel that the expansion of the festival has caused some of the quality to be watered down. In both programs that I viewed, there was one piece of choreography that was clearly not up to the level of the others. Perhaps the festival needs to revamp how works are selected, who presents on the emerging choreographers’ program, and who presents at all. Even with the below-average selections, I believe that the festival as a whole offers Bay Area choreographers a supportive and intimate forum to present their work. Let's hope the festival is a little more focused next year.

Link to review