So my British fixation has morphed into the be-all and end-all of all good geekdom. Doctor Who. Now, I have been aware of this show, it's cultural importance in both geek culture and basic Britculture since I was old enough to know that PBS was on channel 9. (For reasons still not completely clear to me even now, up and down the west coast, channel nine always seems to be the public broadcast system network. i know basically, the allocations to major networks, sort of like football numbering, go to most important stations, and that there usually are the big three, two locals and then it gets iffy, with nine always seeming to host the shows I adored: Zoom, and the Frugal Gourmet.
At any rate, as a kid in Seattle, via antennae (look it up, it should be right there next to "dial tone") we could also get canadian stations, which meant I could watch not only SCTV on weekends, but reruns of the Monkees on weeknights. I lived for that shit, and, in my twirling of the knobs also found Monty Python on PBS (pretty sure it was pledge week the first time) - and was mesmerized. So many things being made fun of, so witty, and: cardinals! They were making fun of church people! And dead parrots. Anyway. Amongst all that, I would occasionally happen upon Doctor Who episodes. I am not gonna (nor am I capable, actually) sugar-coat it: the production value stank, and in a way that wasn't easily dismissed like it was in Monty Python or even, later, the Young Ones. Nope. I'm pretty sure it was my lack of passion for Sci Fi that kept me from latching on to the shaggy haired, long scarf wearing Brit who seemed to always be trapped in a plywood garage with blinking light machines. So, for years, and years, and years, I dismissed it as the kind of canon, like Star Trek (aside from New Gen, which at least caught me for a little bit in its peacenik story telling, until it went all Borg=God=doom thingy stuff and Whoopie as a bartender in space. WTF???) just something i wasn't ever gonna get.
Until a brash former footbally player in a bowtie and a writer/producer who wrote Queer as Folk took the reins and rebooted it. And they were able to up the production value to at least make crazy sci-fi nonsense look good.
So, yeah, Matt Smith is my Doctor, and I'm fortysomething. However. He (and Mr. Merchant) have led me to watch the whole reboot from 2006, and i get it a lot more. I hesitated with Tennant, because to be honest, I wasn't sure anyone that good looking could be anything other than...well...sort of like John Barrowman. However, the tenth doctor is amazingly well written, and David Tennant is a better actor in most of the situations (save when he's rising christ-like in golden rays, then, ick) than almost all sci-fi actors I've ever watched (which, admittedly, isn't many). But Eccleston, he's frigging gold. So good at capturing the inner mayhem that if you really think about that life, the life of a timelord, what that must be like. He's cheeky, sexy without being full of himself (tenth...) and puts a spin on that blonde botox queen chav companion that is missed in the next 2 series.
Yeah, I'm not a Rose fan. In fact the whole series could do without the pining for Rose nonsense that really dampened the Martha stories. She was an amazing character, and to leave her in the dust is kind of a continuity glitch.
But whatever, apparently in sci-fi fandom, you let that shit go.
So. Anyway, I like Donna, and Micky and find Captain Jack a nice camp distraction, though can't make it through a whole episode of Torchwood because his fucking jacket is ridiculous.
It's tv. It's winter. This is what happens during the interlull. Good news: we beat Norwich, and I'm going to be back on 3 games a week until christmas, yay! less sci-fi, more footy!
Yay. Also, Brits. Enjoying learning more and more about them all the time, and not just on TV. More about that next time, if I can keep calm and carry on.

Previously on social networking sites...

You can have this social networking nonsense. This week the big blue F did a number on my head twice. The first time it was with the most bizarre coincidence and piece of evidence that the world is far smaller than we think it is, ladies and germs. Check it: a very old punk rock pal who I knew casually in DC through our bands playing together and what not. Yes, he was a drummer, but that goes without saying right? Anyway, he was the sweetest of the bunch and a unique kid whose name stuck with me long after I left DC. Also, his band was crazy fun, smart, and yeah, even, after much effort, became part of the big D. Anyway, flash forward to reconnecting with a bunch of those same DC folk (though he was originally from Little Rock, and was currently in Austin) and truth be told, he didn't remember me at first, but when reminded was very nice and we occasionally exchanged comments on posts, etc. This week I woke up, checked my fb account and was shocked to see photos from his somewhat blitzkreig wedding - that is, he fell in love and they got married almost immediately. That wasn't the shocker. The shocker was a photo of the happy couple with a woman who looked oddly familiar....glancing down at the tag, it appeared this best friend of the bride had the same name as my ex-husband's replacement wife for me. Turns out, it was her. What, I ask you, in the name of all that is cool in Gallifrey, the hell? How is that possible? Of all the people in the world for him to marry off the cuff? Of all the people in the world for her to be friends with? Of all the people to be married to my ex-husband who appropriated my punk rock life story to impress the very woman in the photos? Oh, for crying in the night. Then, minding my own business (because really, it's the only business I should mind) I again peruse fb to see what's up...and there is a brief mention of happy birthday to a former coworker and pal musician from DC posted by a good pal. Turns out the person died 4 years ago, at his own hand. I think I knew he had died (or had suspected based on some mentions by others) but officially found out that one of my sweetest most honest crushes from that era had not so easily shuffled off this mortal coil. I immediately went to a photo I had of him, a lovely one (like many I took at the time, back when I had fire in my eyes and a darkroom in my basement) and scanned it and sent it to the friend who made the post - I asked how/what happened? How could this beautiful, talented, sweet-hearted guy be gone?
And I got the news. I have to say, neither of these things is singular, there have been other reasons to unplug from the sham that is thinking that fb is actually manifesting actual friendships (though I know of people who have created whole new lives by surfing to find their old flames, and it's worked out for them, so...you know, all right for you two) but I think I'm done. I think it was better when I left a place and time, and didn't revisit it until it was meant to happen. This social networking feels like a crutch...maybe I'm doing it wrong or something, but I feel like I'm ignoring real people, real experiences...I miss the days when phones were attached to walls and tv was something you used to drown out the housemates.

I'm gonna do this early, because I'll be at work on the day. Also, because I'm in that place. It's been a long week. A week of being so painfully homesick for a city that I breathe, a dog that I cherish, and a life that I left behind. Not to mention the people. Oh, the people. Yeah, the people. The people I let fall out of touch. The people I couldn't make it work with. The people I ran away from. All of them.
This, kids, is not a trite blog about an episode of Saturday Night Live. It is also not a breakdown of amazing drama withstood in the face of tragedy. It is also not a vain attempt at a Home Improvement Lesson.
It is, for me a record, that exists in the ether. A way to shout in an forest with no one listening, in an attempt to fucking...find...my...mojo. You know, the one I left on a corner with that Navajo guy in the International District in Seattle, or at Microsoft, 2 floors below Bill Gates while TMCWDITW invited me to lunch and regaled me with tales of Uncle Tupelo and a guitar player I both loathed, and, ultimately, loved.
Yeah. It's about that. Its about my exhusband. That's right, I had a husband once. Like many parts of my life, I'm willing to give most things a shot...even marriage, though I didn't believe in it beyond the Disney aspects. How can you, when it too, exists in multiples? Even my father married twice - my mom was his second wife. My best friend's second marriage, WAAAAY better than the first which was a...what, an excuse to move out of single barracks, really.
Mine? It was for the Kid. The kid...that's funny too - she's now 18, and just got married herself. She doesn't give me much weight in her life. She thinks I can eat 3 cheeseburgers in a sitting, if you believe Facebook (which, admittedly, I do). Whatever. I tried as hard as I knew how with that kid. In 2001, before she came to live with us, (it was that Xmas that he brought her home) it was just he, me, the dog, and his crazy 6-toed cat (which he got rid of, just like me). We were in the car, headed to work - it was when we still both worked at the same repro house. He would later leave there to go build harps and dulcimers, a dream job that he would also leave in just 3 more years (the lying, the anger, the inability to maintain a sensible personality among creative peers seems to be an issue. He's fine, it appear,s with people who don't have legitimate emotional expectations. Or, I'm a jerk, and so is Dusty Strings, but whatever.)
That morning though, we were headed down Admiral Way, about to hit the West Seattle Bridge, listening to NPR as we did every morning. And they announced that one of the twin towers had been hit by a plane - there was still much confusion, and when we got to work, the internet was locked up (we were lucky to be in a tech company, but the outlets still didn't work as well as they do now). we pieced it together, and I'm pretty sure we were sent home early. We spent it camped out in each other's arms in front of the TV, amazed, astounded and profoundly (I still feel, dunno about him) astonished at what had transpired. That night, we went to Alkai, where people were lighting candles and standing vigil.
I was alone and angry when my dad died. I wanted so much to be able to have someone to hold me. There was no one, when I needed it so, so very much. On 9/11, I had it, and it happened. And, while I am glad that I was able to share my astonishment and grief with someone I loved, there was (and is) a bit of me that was so incredibly pissed off. My father died by a second heart attack on the car lot where he spent his retirement days talking and dealing in classic cars. I loved him, and when he died, suddenly and without warning - sure there were condolences, but...he was simply, in the end, dead.
Do not misunderstand me. I am not saying that 3000 innocent inhabitants of the twin towers, planes and Pentagon on that day weren't victims. However, they also were not martyrs. The died through a cruel twist of fate, as most of us will. Seriously. who plans death? other than the critically ill? the fact that the US loses more people to natural disaster than terrorism or political violence is due only to our relative wealth, and our staggering entropy.
I'm not saying we deserved retribution for wonton warmaking, but, it was certainly, due to happen.
Previously, the violence had been done on our soil by our own people. Finally, we joined the ranks of the big boys and became subject to the panic and fear that most other nations live with (the same fear that Norway experiences now, though of course, they are only at the level of Oklahoma City, wait til they hit the Big Leagues).
Ok, I'm derailing. This was supposed to be about SMRGE. But I can't. I still can't. Amazingly, it still aches. It still hurts to admit I was wrong....or that I fucked up a great thing. Either way, it hurts, and for me, that's what 9/11 is. Oh, except for Arlie, and his posts from ground zero - that was transcendental.Maybe next post I can get to that. That inspiration that...that still works when I remember to work it.
Like everything else.
Wishing much strength and goodwill to all who read this, and to all who remain behind those amazing NYFD and others who tried to save their community. You are missed. Just like my dad. We miss those who are gone from our lives in whatever way they were part of it..

(note to self) Ok, am ready to go to Great Britian now. Specifically, London, Islington, Emirates Stadium. Also, would like to seek out Jonathan Creek goofiness, some recent Dr Who stuff, and y'know, meet a nice Gooner Boy. That is all. Ken says 2013, but if I can do it in 2012, I will.

real-life homicide episodes

Admittedly, I think about writing more than I do it lately - constantly thinking: I should sit and write about that. Then, getting back to the computer and finding excuses (not reasons, mind you) not to do it. The ideas evaporate and I am left, not creating, just consuming.
That said - it would be hard NOT to write something about the West Memphis 3's release this week. Not because I was a massive rabid supporter, I mean, as an active member of the DIY/punk rock/weird looking young adult contingent, it goes without saying that I was aware of the case. I also felt as if the outcome, the guilty convictions, were inevitable. Even though one look at the defendants, one cursory glance at statements and anyone who knew anything about culture, about what trenchcoats, black dye and of course, metallica mean, would know there was no real chance those three teenagers had committed a crime of that nature.
I didn't keep up on the case though. I remember when the first documentary came out, mostly due to the Metallica song(s) being included, but still didn't think all the musician notoriety would make a difference.
People, do not underestimate the power of Eddie Vedder, and I suppose, that Peter Jackson guy.
That isn't what interests me most at this point though. It's the DNA testing. The testing that wasn't done by the Arkansas police. Sure, many of the tests weren't available, but the scene was compromised (shades of Deliverance and Barney Fife) and evidence wasn't apparently collected. But thankfully enough did make it through, and enough money WAS raised (thanks to all the good rock and roll types who wear black t shirts, and that one country chick) to do the testing. I mention it because it was that kind of new testing on old evidence that solved a crime no one thought would ever be solved: Mia Zapata's murder. Through the tenacious work of detectives and lawyers, they got DNA work screened and compared and found a killer. The WM3 are free today because the state of Arkansas, presented with no DNA evidence that matches the convicted, and apparently some that matches someone else (not including a stepfather's hair that was dismissed not on scientific terms but as existing from daily contact. Interestingly, Arkasas police get to determine the provenance of evidence off-th-cuff, on heresay, like much of the case) decided to hedge their bets and free the wrongfully convicted, and at the same time, deny any responsibility to bring the actual murder(s) to trial.
It's kind of amazing to think about how many people may have been wrongfully convicted and killed based on just the lack of science, not even factoring in the misuse of power and authority that is standard procedure in law enforcement (especially in rural areas where news travels slow, if at all). One of the things that interests me is how in the space of 20 years, so much has changed about how investigations are done, that so many TV shows center on forensic investigations, that it would seem the sort of nonsense that happened in West Memphis would be much more difficult to achieve. Though I suppose, any time a jury is involved, and minimal evidence is available, the ability of a persuasive lawyer will still be vital.
I dunno, it just is amazing to me that so much has changed in the way we view these sorts of crimes, and that the means to investigate them has moved forward to such a degree that occasionally, good does win out. I'm really happy the 3 are out, jail is a horrible place; and prison, much less death row and solitary must be, as Damian says, hell on earth.

dad stuff

Father's Day is easier now in most ways - as I was laughing with my Mom today - it's been a relief not to worry about getting the card or a "good" gift for my dad - and it hasn't been an issue for 16 years now. Amazing that it's been 16 years, or that my dad would have been 74 this year. He, like Elvis, was probably wise in just making sure he didn't hit 60. I can't even imagine what 70+ Dad would have been like. Hell, I can barely remember what he was like, which is the hardest part of Father's Day. Every year, people waxing nostalgic about their pops, and me, I have like 6 whole memories, a handful of photos...and that's about it. I didn't know much about him, except he loved basketball and cars. He was funny, worked well with people, drank like a fish, and had charisma to burn. He also was dark and twisty with a previous life and horribly tragic childhood. He was lucky to have wandered into the computer trade in the early 1960's and was a creative force in a nascent technology field, though not a programmer, really. He liked meat and potatoes and drank Coors. I had a pretty tense teenage relationship with him as I wandered the liberal boundaries, not knowing that he was actually the democrat in our family. My mother doesn't seem to know much about him either - or is she does, she chooses not to let any of it out. She assures me that he loved us, though neither she nor I can remember a lot of demonstrable events of that love. For me, lunch with him while visiting his work, riding horses, and ultimately, shooting baskets in the front yard are the closest he and I ever got. He never met my husband, and only knew me to be what I've always been: a drifter, good at a lot of things, but not great at anything. He never met my brother's wives either, much less any of their kids. It's so strange, he left us with the one legacy he brought to family life: the early loss of a parent.
What prompted me today wasn't just the weekend "holiday" but a meme on NPR's music site about listing your dad's favorite song when he was your age. I have NO idea what that would be. If there even was a song he liked. He seemed to be completely removed from music...I mean there were tapes in his cars, but nothing he seemed connected to. However, when I was a kid...a little, little kid, he loved some wacky shit that hinted to who he either was, or ultimately, as I think all our music choices tell us, who he wanted to be.
My dad, apparently wanted to be Jerry Reed. And Tom Jones. This isn't shocking. His resemblance in the 70's to Burt Reynolds was something he obviously exploited (I guess who wouldn't?) and his soundtrack was all about that: Smokey and the Bandit redeux. However, the first record I even really tangibly remember seeing in our house was the LP of the "What's New Pussycat?" soundtrack. That is what I hear when I think of my father, though it was supplanted later by Kenny Rogers and other ridiculous shite, but ultimately, that cocktail loving suave dude who drove a Lotus and wooed my mom lurked forever within him. It is so hard not to be able to talk to him and ask questions about who he is, what he believed, liked, dreamed. Kids, don't be so pissed at your parents, don't wait to figure out that they are who they are because of where they've been and THAT is the valuable wisdom you need from them. Meet your parents, while you can.

I am a good cook. Which makes sense, since I spend the majority of my waking hours doing it. It is, and honestly, always really has been, my hobby and more recently; my profession. Today, in a kitchen bare of a lot of ingredients (payday is Monday, and money is tight lately) - I made a fantastic tortilla soup, which I just upgraded to black bean & tortilla. Made the stock from scratch, which I do regularly now, accumulating carcasses from the inevitable rotisserie chickens I buy (back to spending money on them, but the emotional cost of getting them for free made everything I made from those Roti chickens taste like doom) every week. I've got the method locked in, and I think HRH Keller would smile on the fact that I literally cook this stock for 48hours - at a bare simmer, adding water when the pot cooks off to half way - typically three times. Carcasses (including wing tips, pope's nose & neck) go in first alone for the first round of cooking down 50%. Then I add water back to the top, add carrots, celery & onion (though not mirpoix, just rough cut of all of them) and back it goes to the low, no bubble, just steam rising and movement below surface simmer. Overnight usually. My landlord would probably freak if she knew, and I often wonder if she notices any difference in the gas bill...at any rate. I always do it on my weekend, starting on my "friday evening" day and cooking through to my "sunday". I use the stocks for lots of stuff, but mostly soups, and usually I buy produce specifically for them, but this week, I was a little short of cash (yes, even for produce) and it was raining like crazy, so I did a cupboard dump. Cumin (no cilantro or coriander in the house, need to fix that last issue, also no oils, either olive or canola, though I did have duck fat, so I sweated the onions in that), paprika, garlic, cayanne, a little tapatio, some oregano (italian seasoning, but just a pinch) salt and pepper. Fresh toms that were about to turn, and an onion. can of tomato sauce, and then patience. I will never stop loving the delight when I taste something that I scrape together like that. Didn't do any baking this weekend, but brought a lot of the stuff I did at work home, so no reason to heap piles more sugary shit onto my shelves.
Just wanted to get that down. Nothing earth shattering, just a note to self about how I'm getting through the Arsenal off season. Watched horrible USMNT vs ESP, ouch. But, on the other hand: Iker!! in the US, but he only played a bit of the last half so that was unfortunate. Though at least the tv cameras knew to keep him on camera as much as possible :)

Apartheid

It's amazing sometimes, to stop and think about how much the world has changed in the last 20 years. I guess this happens to everyone once they pass the old #40 in the rear-view mirror, and more and more I find myself thinking about how different "the kids today" are. Not just in that they don't know the power and excitement of receiving a letter - I just recently started a pen-pal exchange with my 10-year old nephew, and he had no idea what a post card was. Today though, it was an exchange with my 25-year-old coworker. She's a firecracker, and loves the punk rock (as she knows it, though she continues to blaspheme my generation's leaders, but whatever) and considers herself political: vegan, environmentally conscious, female-powered ("i spell woman with a Y" etc)...however there's this thing about history. In passing we were talking about our banks, and I mentioned that I was with Chase currently because they had bought out my previous WaMu, and was headed to Bank of the West because I wanted a smaller entity, and she told me she left WaMu and went to BofA, and I, as a reflex said "Oh, I left them when they refused to divest." Because I had. 20 years ago. Of course I changed a lot of stuff, stopped drinking Coke, protested our campus into not buying IBM computers, etc. But it was her blank stare and her question: "What do you mean, DI-vest?" And I replied, "From South Africa."
Still nothing. "Because of Apartheid, you know?" She did not, and seemed sort of perplexed. I haven't really talked much about this, about my politics, in a long time (when I talk politics, I generally do it to an audience who already knows where I sit, unless it's on the internet, and that I gave up a while ago, though I think I've tossed a few rants in here from time to time). I didn't want to rant so I just gave her the cliff notes. "So back in the late 80's when South Africa was having a financial crisis and trying to sell off their gold and get countries to invest in their country, back when Nelson Mandela was still in jail, there was, and had been in place for a long time a..." I genuinely hesitated, though why I don't know; "a policy called apartheid, separating the races systematically...and we, we protested it. We took the view that if we refused to participate in helping South Africa succeed financially, that would affect the people who were benifiting the most from apartheid, and ultimately, couldn't affect the victims as their lives were already desperate and horrible. We refused to buy things from companies who did business in that country...we protested to keep our campus from spending our student monies with those companies."
She seemed astounded that it would make a difference, though she didn't say so. She did say, how's that work? And I responded, Imagine if the Chinese decided to pull their money from America because they thought the US policy of allowing states to outlaw female reproductive services, was a civil injustice (not that the Chinese government would ever do anything even remotely like that, but I needed a broad example)? All that money just gone, Poof! Like that, sorta. The subject died off quick, and I didn't get a chance to say my favorite sentence in the whole world: I never ever expected to see Nelson Mandela walk out of prison, Certainly not become the president of the country that jailed him for 33 years, and yet, he did.
I know Leonard Peltier will not get that chance in THIS country. I didn't expect to see the Berlin Wall come down (didn't really expect it to be an issue at all, really). Some stuff you just do because you believe in it. I didn't believe I'd ever vote for a candidate for president of the US who would win. Even that has happened. What comes next? As crazy and depressing as things get, there are these, focused, blazing moments that make you feel like it's worth hanging around...so I do.
But the kids, what the hell are we gonna do about the kids? 20 years and apartheid is forgotten? Even last year as I watched the World Cup I was kind of awed by how distant it all seemed, was it really not a victory for humanity that they don't teach it in History? Or is it because historically it's linked to our own racial segregation and so we bury it?
Ok, that's enough for now. Sleep tight.

Oh, and there was an earthquake today - it was also supposed to be the Rapture, and to be honest, I was kind of hoping something would happen. Have been waiting for the baking system to collapse for a looong ass time, and when the house shook at about 7pm tonight I got a little tingly. But of course it was just a Caliquake, typical, but my first in this house. No angels, no fire, no brimstone. Sigh. I'm happy to go if the world ends, I have had a decent run and since the last couple years haven't been too productive, i'm ready to go. But I guess not. So: continue with the book idea and keep showing up to work. Maybe get another dog. At least until whatever day NEXT year it is that the world is supposed to end.
Again.
Also, shout outs from favorite DC drummer and ex-Roli New guy today, and of course, the delightful Arsenalboy so that was nice. Sad that the season is almost over, and not sure what I will do this summer to keep myself amused without a World Cup to organize my days by.
Ah well. Continue planning UK visit I guess.

So, it was inevitable that the Universe (or, The Life, as my good pal Dario calls it) would pair me up with a 25-year-old female vegan punk rock baker as my new coworker. Yep, it's as if every cliche I hoped to avoid has come crashing back. However, it's led to some interesting introspection on my part. Not that I haven't waxed on about how punk rock has evolved and become mainstream as I've watched it happen. Hell, I remember the first time I heard Green Day on the normal radio and was pretty sure I was hallucinating. Now, I mention that to the Vegan Bakeress (VB?) and she tilts her head like the RCA dog (wow, could I pack entries with more outdated references? sheesh), and doesn't quite understand how that could be earth-shattering.
No, not the damn music, the fact that there was actual punk rock being played on a normal radio station in a place of business. Granted, it was a Kinko's in Seattle (Capitol Hill no less, but still) but that it was followed in close order that week by the debut of a Bad Religion song about blew my doors off. Oddly though, the fact that it must have been old news by the time I heard them on the radio (as I really didn't listen to a lot of radio save for what used to be KCMU and is now KEXP) it still made be take notice. Our bands were getting played. Bands I'd played with. That it is normal for every little band to kick out into the stratosphere tells me something about the change in the Universe. What that change is, I'm still trying to wrap my head around. But it's odd. To hear VB talk about how she owns a house and is vegan and loves Henry Rollins. Then tells me how her "childhood idols" like Kev seconds are "fat and old." Childhood idols? I got a little tense and warned her not to take Kev's name in vain around me: her childhood idol? My frigging hero. Role model. Something like that. Then she shares her inside knowledge that Ian Mackaye (which she mispronounces, just like all good West Coast kids) once drank a beer. I can barely contain myself...and my mind wanders to years spent at d.c. space, reading MRR, playing crappy little shows, spending months of my life in vans....of group houses, and community center shows...of band arguments, practice space payments, and various retail jobs with other musicians. So much of my life, as we were living it, feeling so out of the loop, so outside of the norm, even in Seattle at times, unless you were on the Hill, it's amazing to me now how normal it all is. I'm still having a hard time putting it into words (having a hard time with that a lot lately. kids: don't do drugs) but there's a strange sense of achievement and disconnect. These kids, with their stretched earlobes and neck tattoos, having no idea of their own history. Of not knowing a time when being punk rock was not about a look or a style, but the lack of said thing. A quick browse of facebook or youtube and you look at old show videos from back in the day and you see such a cross section of types going to see shows, all unified by the fact that they simply didn't fit in anywhere else. As if punk rock was the Ferris Bueller of sub societies in youth culture. Now, thanks to the internet, everyone has a niche and they get to celerate it, but it makes me kind of sad too. There isn't a lot of romance in it. In trusting mailorders to europe, penpals you wrote to three times a week, writing letters at all. Buying actual records. Sitting and listening to them as you paged through MRR or Factsheet 5. I want to be more eloquent - I wonder how many other not-famous-but-once-active d.i.y punk adults are out there struggling with this. Why am I struggling? Shouldn't I be delighted? Stoked that we clearly made a difference at some point? Yet, Republicans still want to yank Planned Parenthood funding and reality TV is all the rage.
Progress?

So. The more things change, the more they stay the same. New kitchen and I'm settling in. It's an interesting set-up, we cook after the restaurant closes so it's just a couple of us bakers, and lately, just me & an intern, as my 25-year-old "boss" has taken a sick leave (and she's only been on the job for 3 mos), reminding me a lot of 5, and we know how that worked out. Better news still is that when my pal gets back from Germany, things could get even better, and the Manager of All Locations (let's call him: Mac) has already expressed interest in my gallettes. Which would be awesome, but right now, in production mode, I don't see it happening very easily. Plus, transportation could be an issue. Last night, all alone closing, I ran into a massive time crunch and realized I left a roulade in the freezer.But, you know what? I'm human, and at least nothing was burnt. Yeah. It's a good kitchen though, very SF MexiMafia, but I'm getting a feel for it. Not having my own transportation blows though, as I would have stayed as long as it took last night if I didn't have to catch that last train. Anyway, it appears so far so good. I just need to focus on shit. As per usual. Really miss the dog like crazy right now, but it's better she's not around really, because the hours are kind of crap. Well, actually, maybe not. She'd sleep all night anyway. Whatever. I'm just a little lonely. Had a brief discussion with CG while he was on the road, but it was, as per usual because he was lit up like a pumpkin. Many things were said and promised (as usual) and then 4 days later, he has no recollection of any of the conversation and texts me asking the same questions he asked when we spoke. Typical. Why I fall for this routine time and time again is just another indication of how useless that relationship is. Whatever. I know how I feel, I know what I believe in, and if I can just keep my standards to the level he instilled in me, that will be fine. It's perfect: he can't bury me at work anymore because he isn't there, but he can inspire me, because my recollection is obviously better than the actual product. So glad I'm not involved in the crazy chicken business. All those markets open, what a nightmare.
So glad to be done with that. Today: big production, long, long night, but then, I'm off!
Payday is tomorrow, but I think I will just leave it until Monday - better not to spend it anyway, yeah? Hope it's enough. Otherwise, back to the EDD.
Also, Schwartzenagger thing is funny. Once upon a time I would have written an entire post just on that. I'm kind of glad they are getting divorced, as I never believed in that marriage to begin with, and his inability to honor it is pretty classic. It's amazing that no one seems immune to having shit fall apart.

Aaaaannnnd, seven days later I'm fired. Over a disagreement about my management of CG, but ultimately, about Boss not liking the way I work, or more to the point, the way I interact with him in conjunction with the fact that I'm not a desk jockey of any merit. So when he told me to leave, I did. I probably shouldn't have, from a purely financial standpoint, but, emotionally, I was a disaster and getting worse. I couldn't focus. In fact, in record time (as usual) I found myself in a kitchen again via a pal I made while managing hot dogs, and my almost 3 years of random drifting has clearly taken a toll on my ability to focus. Which is ridiculous, because I literally HAVE NOTHING else to think about, and I'm still doing stupid, stupid shit. But tomorrow will be better. It's just amazing how far removed I feel from everything, and that I let so much stuff frigging blow my plan. At any rate, I just need to DO this for a while, get back in the swing of things. Realize that the 5 years I had of "dues paying" really wasn't. I wrote mostly my own check and got really fricking lucky so now it's go time. Production Go Time. I just can't help but wonder if CG is now comparing notes with Boss on what it's like to try and work with me because I'm so "intense". Whatever. Intense. As if. I never felt comfortable in that job and it simply was not getting any better no matter how hard i tried to do things. Sure, he was kind, on the back of being a total jerk, but whatever. Now it's an almost all-female group (!) and it seems like it will be ok. I hope. Yeah.

This is the part where I regurgitate the feel-good platitiudes...sorry, affirmations. One day at a time. Keep your head up. When a door shuts a window opens. Nothing good comes easy. Through pain, we understand what joy is (I kinda free-formed that one), etc. Not gonna lie. It's been a rough week. Two weeks. Month? Even an awesome pen pal can't take the sting out of a soul-sucking job. There is light at the end of the tunnel (ooh, another one), maybe. Have been launching resumes out at a steady clip, trying to get back into a kitchen. Not gonna wimp out this time. Gonna go for it. Might be getting it through a contact I made at the hot dog thing. So I don't suck. Which is nice to remember, because I have felt totally like the peasant standing in the river as it rises to just at her nose...she can't swim, because the water might cover her. She just tries to stay in place while it flows past, hoping it doesn't rise any further. It's going to get worse over the summer if I stay here and Owner2 has made it clear he has no confidence in me. Maybe I should have fought harder for the festival today, but ultimately, why? So I can watch it go to hell? Sure a victory would be nice, but I'm kind of at a cut-my-losses stage. They won't fire me, and that's their mistake. I won't just storm out, and I will fucking milk it if i have to. Because ultimately, I'm alone, I have to look out for myself. So many moral issues I have. So many tedious issues. The saddest part is having CG come into the place, and I won't be able to stay. But that's part of it too - it breaks my heart to be around him. Again. All the scar tissue that had formed is gone, and it's just another raw nerve to go with the trauma of hot dogs, the death of the real dog and the loneliness of being so far from family and other than the big K2, friends who really know me.
I miss Seattle. Though if I take another new job I'm not going anywhere. Crap. i really wanted this to work, but it hasn't ever felt right. At all. MUST make it right.

Dammit. When I say i love food, i'm not kidding. i love making it, eating it, shopping for it, reading about it, breaking it apart, and hell - it turns out, i even kind of like serving it (matt and christian are spinning uncontrollably; not in their graves, but possibly in place, as I type this. i am, in Mia Zapata's famous refrain "NOT a (server)". But yeah. it's becoming crystal clear to me, with the help of CG in his reprisal of the role of "Chef Guy" that I need to get back with the food. Sweet or savory, but as I waxed on about my Caprase at Lantana, seriously, I missed it. I miss building those salads every night. As I spoke the words I felt this low-level rush of adrenaline. of that push of service, that joy of Craig coming back to tell me how blown away the table was. How I KNEW it ruled., When you finish a plate that is spectacular - I fucking miss that sooooo much, and cannot express it to anyone other than CG, and he can't hear it , because his life is so much more complicated now. Which I get, and which is good, in that his razor sharp anger isn't targeting anymore, and that is nice. I like him so much now. It makes going through all the nonsense before ok, and I'm glad, because all I ever wanted was to work with him on a level playing field. And we are almost there. Maybe. if I don't get all dragged into some sort of crazed pen-pal relationship with a guy I might just talk to on the phone for the first time soon. It's all so "Gavin & Stacy" but subbing out the Tottenham for Arsenal, and the Wales for the Bay Area. Odd, but ok, I guess. It's gotta happen somehow. I just...am torn, and can't talk to my old pal in the F-no right now. It's outside that realm, and she's seen me fall so many times, I don't want her to offer solace. I need to do this without her, though it's odd to even type that, much less accept it as fact.
I'm aware I'm self-involved, and when we broached the "mama" issue in a drive-by conversation today, fucking CG was ON. It was amazing. Where he would have previously pounced for blood he let it go. Awesome. Aces. Him=happy, pretty awesome. Him with the SwissTasmanianDevil for a week - who knows? Whatever, just keep gettin up every day. When I told him my brother told me to "keep my head up" he had an interesting repsonse, and it made me hesitate.
I'm amazed at the caliber of people I get to meet. Sure, sometimes it takes a bit to get to them, but it's never uninteresting. Currently dealing with my Commissary manager, A, and things are taking an odd turn. If it was the A(dolpho) from Lantana, I might understand.
Wait. Maybe it is. Wife, Kids, christian. Blow job in the walk-in next? Yikes. See, you can't make this shit up, and I need to get back to work on the manuscript. Or spec script? Hrm....

It's true - I don't watch the news anymore. Not even CNN (which used to be on continually when I was dating SMRGE, though we toned it down when the child came to live with us...oh, so much of that gawdawful japaneseinspired cartoon tripe...what was her name? can't remember now, but it will come to me shortly, surely *sailor moon, it's name was sailor moon). But I do watch the Daily Show, which is like news, but with my filter on, so that's nice. And, of course, Jon Stewart is DREAMY. More dreamy than Cesc, yes. Right. So. I've been absent for most of the Libya debacle, save for the moments when my INSANE swiss boss starts using it as a metaphor for management styles. Holy crap. I literally stood back and let my internal monologue go into great detail as he rambled on, and on, and on. It was a typical anti-American screed. Which always makes me smirk because HEY! SWISSGUY! WHERE YOU LIVE NOW?...WHY??? if it's so goddamn great elsewhere (and of course, you'll get no argument from me, christ, if I could figure out a way to decamp to anywhere in Europe and live, I would be on the first plane out of here) GO. I am tired on the constant berating of my poor, sad countrymen (and of course, women). Tired of your ridiculous ethnic tirades, especially about the Mexicans who are the backbone of your company. Seriously. You, and your ridiculous Japanese wife, need to stop with the racial slurs already. It is going to come to a point where I will have to draw a line. I am already feeling a moral twinge, and it's getting worse. You calling people by your secret "Jalapeople" name isn't helping. You enabling flawed Kenyans, is only making it more painful. You treating me like a small chimp with cymbals is irritating, and makes me wish, for the first time in 7 years, that I'd never left reprographics. Nice work, Swissguy. Nice work
Wait, this was going to be about my lack of media consumption. Ah well. What I should actually write about is the guy, locally, who is hanging the "Free Leonard" signs in my area. The guy who I hope will be back on the overpass once the weather improves. The guy who is still committed to the fight. I mention it because I miss being committed to something, to change, to helping change come about. I almost feel like I'm not sure how to make it happen anymore, I'm so consumed and depressed by all these people having babies and turning the world in on itself on themselves, so that everything is about them, the wonder of their child.
And it seems they lose sight of the rest of the world. Which I guess is how it goes. And it means I need to remain sober and vigilent becuase who the hell else will? How does this work now>

I forget sometimes. That I have experienced some amazing stuff, come across some individuals who have touched me, and in turn, have let me know that I have touched them. I am a habitual leaver of people, of contact, of assuming that less is more, or that if they aren't reaching out to me, they don't want to be reached....yeah. What's got me on this tangent? A little light housekeeping (as, let's be honest LIGHT housekeeping is really the only kind I do) had me sorting through cds, and I found a compilation that Peter, the Lantana bartender had made for me. Now. I'm a sucker for mix tapes, and in this millennium have learned to accept cds as a reasonable (barely) facsimile. I love that I know how to spell facsimile because I worked at Kinko's. I gained so much from those years...
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, Peter. He of the knowing glance and stories from volunteering in Tanzania, though, like so many of us misfit toys who ended up at Lantana, he was docked in Fresno for the moment. We had a good rapport (as I recall - though it's misty, I was pretty constantly pickled through much of that experience; including, but not limited to the evening of our official opening, when I was so literally hung over that I found myself on all fours on the brand new tiles of the women's restroom hurling my guts out, and staggering back to my station to work the shift pale and shaking, but finished it nonetheless. Imagine how amazing my work would have been, had I been sober).
Yeah, so, Peter. He was forever playing amazing samba and latin jazz stuff in his 2001-space odyssey bar. It struck me particularly because I had worked with a guy from Brazil (or so he claimed) named Fernando at a record store called Nobody Beats The Wiz when I was in WDC. Fernando wore a slick eurotrashy suit to work every day and sold cds like a mofo to yuppies who wandered into our Georgetown store during their lunch. In the passing hours of the day he introduced me to everyone from Sade to Gilberto Gil. it was awesome, and as has often been the case in my musical education, I learn best from people who are passionate about what they listen to. To the point of even listening to and appreciating TOOL, but that is another story altogether.
The pre-service trips through the bar I would make - generally to communicate the specials of the day, as I reigned over both appetizers and desserts and took an odd and bizarre pleasure in making sure the front of the house could explain my shit, were always punctuated by a lively conversation with Peter where he, like Ryan and a few others, would quiz me about the food. My compatriot, the Executive Chef, the delightful Ray, wasn't quite as intense about that, though he was certainly intense about his food and getting it done. He also looked great in his whites.
Again, another story for another time. My point, if there is one, is that there was a cadre of young males (my favorite demographic, in case that was in doubt...) that were interested in food, and looked to me as their source - and, while I had only so much experience, what I lacked in actual miles logged I had more than made up for in passion and an adaptability with recipes. I tweaked the hell out of everything I was curious about: French Laundry ideas? Yup. Chez Panisse inspired? Yup again. Both Ray and I were skating along, making it up as we went, and getting away with it for quite a while (well into a year plus before I bailed), and honestly, all I was trying to communicate to the FOH boys was my passion for amazing food, great produce, for caring about what you do versus the shit you sling at Claim Jumper (not that it's bad to do that, after all, you gotta pay the rent sometimes, but for us, then, it was all I lived for, and since I couldn't be working at those dreamy restaurants, I was bound and determined to create the experience for myself, as best I could anyway). It worked, and Peter seemed quite taken with my rabid devotion to the farmer's markets, and made me several cds of the Brazilian music he favored. Later, when I moved on from Lantana, he gave me a fantastic book about heirloom tomatoes (the holy grail for me, which I expressed eloquently in a fantastic caprase that still makes my heart swell, just thinking about how beautiful those plates were, how fantastic they tasted....argh). So I was reading his inscription to me in the book and it, like so many similar things made me wonder about subtext, about my inability to act on things. There was an amazingly drunken evening that finished at his house - I awoke in a room I could barely remember being in, and I was alone...it was typical of the time. We were so close all of us, when the restaurant started, and then like so many relationships it all fell apart. Ah well.
I still have the book, the cds and warm thoughts again.
I was going to wax on about the significance of mixtapes/cds, but maybe next time. You know, I've only made one for anyone else (CG, of course) - didn't even make one for SMRGE...but have had many made for me. Kind of miss music as communication. Remembering now the FOH guy at Pangea who until he heard me listening to the Get Up Kids while prepping one afternoon, kind of hated me a bit because I was pretty rough on him - and he immediately opened up, and a day later came in with not one, but 3 cds for me. Funny, really. When I get all wigged out about being alone, and about not being very successful with personal interactions (which is easy to do when everyone you have an actual relationship with ultimately leaves you and goes on to find their actual soul mate & true happiness, and yet you continue on, wondering what the hell it will take to understand the reality of what is going on around you...) it's good to remember that some people do dig you, or HAVE dug you. That every now and then, you'll get a phone call from a long lost pen pal, or an email from someone you love a ton but think has forgotten you...it's why I keep getting up every morning, even though my dog is gone and my job is lacking and I'm struggling to find that outlet, that thing that will let me fly again. Or something like that. If you've never lost, never hurt, never failed, how can you know what success feels like, right?
Yeah.

Turns out i'm still a pretty good pen pal. Arsenal fan and now new pen pal (ok, not pens, but email, but it's the same sort of exchange, and we do actually send packages in the mail too - which is awesome and fun) Simon is all that's keeping me in the mix right now. Haven't mentioned it to anyone, seems a little goofy. i mean, sure, I'll tell my best pal, but otherwise, it'll stay on the DL (except for shouting it here, into the ether!) until it manifests itself. But for now, he's funny, smart, loves Nasri & Sagna, lives not far from Emirates, and...at least in the photos, nice to look at. Haven't spoken on the phone yet, and I'm completely happy about that. In no hurry, enjoying the flirting, the mystery, the discovery. That part where everyone unloads all their baggage in one longwinded night, that's bullshit, and I'm glad for there being thousands of miles for now, something to look forward to is good now. It's what I need, because I'm floundering here and need something to take me outside of that seems to be this spiral. My goal is to meet, there, not here.
Not here, not now. There, not too far from now, though.
*sigh*

It was a whim. Like most things I do, it was impulsive, and the immediate rush when I received a phone call 7 minutes after sending off my resume clearly blinded me. Or, I have effectively lost any and all ability to focus. To set goals. To fucking STUDY, and PREPARE. Jeezus. I had to call back within 5 minutes because I realized I had neglected to remember the caller's name, being so blown away by her immediate response. So, that clearly set the tone. I tried to convince myself last night that it wasn't a big deal; "Well, at least she'll think I'm honest and can admit if I've left something out or don't know something." But tonight, at the interview. Who have I become? Stammering, unable to string together coherent thought, unable to effectively communicate what desserts I like to make most? What inspires me? What doughs CAN I make? She says "pate brisee?" and I fumble around like a 15-year-old at her first kegger. Pathetic. Then, have the temerity to say what I want out of my job is to "be happy" jesus christ, that would put the fear of god into any interviewer, me especially? WARNING: highly combustible ego ahead. Yeah. Top that mountain of shite off with a ridiculous monetary demand (which isn't, really, or shouldn't be, but in Berkeley where surely there will be a 26 year old with 4 housemates who can live on $12 an hour, i'm toast). I felt it going down the drain as it was happening and began grasping at straws, but she let me down gently. I don't expect to be asked back to stage, and so, all I can do now is to take this experience into the next one. PS jackass, don't just BRING your book, REVIEW it. Prepare for the interview for the love of Kevin Second's mother!! On that note though, she did seem to be amused that I was in a punk rock band for 15 years. Yeah, big whoop. I am going to die alone in the gutter, penniless, wishing to god I spent less time reading twitter and more time in the sun. What the hell is wrong with me?
Also, back on the wagon again. Well, mostly. No spirits, and am 2 beers away from being clean and serene, AGAIN. Well, clean at any rate. serene? yeah, got one day of SRM in before that went to hell. Tried to meditate in the morning, and all it did was almost make me fall asleep on the drive in. Nonsense, it's all nonsense. Also, should have accepted the offer of a sandwich from potential employer. WTF? I just didn't want any of them to have to make me anything. Ah well. Nice neighborhood though - I suspect it's where my boss and his delightful japanese wife & child live. Ack. how awkward would THAT be?

Ok, so that was getting things off to somewhat of a morose start last night, but what the heck. So. We've got apocalypse stuff going on all over the world, and so I'm taking refuge in British sitcoms, and British football. That's right, I'm gonna be that girl. If I lived in England, it'd be really scary, but luckily (?) I don't, so it's just a mild obsession, though, granted, one that doesn't have a really positive outlet. That is, that I could physically attend games with other humans, go to pre- & post- match gatherings. As it is, I can only join other american fans for live broadcasts in pubs at 7am. Which is excellent on matchdays i don't work, and was wonderful for the first part of the seeason at my other job when I was typically off on Tuesday and Wed, both midweek days that games usually were broadcast at 11:30am - Guiness for lunch and breakfast - how can you not love a game like that? sadly, I changed jobs, and rarely am free on a matchday, and don't have enough seniority to be able to duck out. Boohoo. Anyway, the boys (the Adorkables, check //kickette.com for more fun stuff like that) are having a rough go at the moment, but I hope to be able to ramp up some useful commentary soon. Currently, I'm still pretty new to the whole endeavor, and so I refrain from a lot of ranting.
Leaves time for the whining about my job, and being lonely in the Bay Area, as well. Yeah.
So anyway, British TV. Liked Skins more than I should have (being as I'm 3x the age the target market is, but so well-written, hard to pass up - plus: teen binge drinking and drug use, how is that not entertaining? Plus also, british teen slang, yay! So there's that. gavin & stacy, of course. And then Peep Show, which then led inexplicably to a barrage of Brit panel quiz show - the most epic starring one of my favorite Gooners, Alan Davies. So that's fun. And of course, regular doses of Top Gear (oh, the Hamster makes me all gooey!) and an older show, Green Wing, that features two of the main actors in the new show Episodes. Yeah. Loving it. Loving the fact that "fuck" is used easily, that slang is creative, and everyone, even dim soccer players like John Terry sound more intelligent with an accent. Better still are the international players, like my favorite, Bac, who are, say french, but have adopted britenglish. Love it!

in memory of Hopey

Just a quick note to try and jumpstart this brogmess....still miss the dog, and though insensitive jerks who try and tell you that certain forms of life are more valuable and meaningful than others - here's what I know: that dog became a part of my life, intrinsically when she was 7 weeks old, 17 years ago next month. I spent her entire life with her (save about 3 weeks when i was away, when she either stayed with my mother, or with my housemate, but never in a kennel); walking her for real twice a day, playing with her every day, rain or shine, horrific life circumstances or no. She was with me when my father died, when I got married, when I got divorced, when I was diagnosed with cancer, when I received my DUI, and every other epic moment. She was the bridge that transported me from one life to another. And now, she is gone. You can think that her life was worth less than that of a child, but for me, she was the center of my world, and to lose her is still heartbreaking, almost 5 months later, I can barely write words without completely dissolving into tears. I write this for everyone who has chosen not to have children because they wanted circumstances to be ideal, and understand that to take responsibility for another being (canine, human, or otherwise) is a real and honest undertaking.
Yes you can leave a dog alone in a house. People do it to kids all the time too. It's not rightin either case. We should celebrate everyone who values companionship, responsibility and love. Let's stop belittling people who have chosen not to have kids as not "experiencing the greatest joy in the world" - there are great joys for everyone, and that definition is limiting and often hurtful.
I'm sick of watching people blunder into parenthood and then lord it over others, when those of us who have chosen not to follow that path have to constantly explain themselves, as if we are defective.
Anyway. This morning, I miss Hopester more than ever, her wise acceptance and steely perseverance is missed night and day. I am glad she is out of pain, and hope that soon, the pain of being without her will fade as well.