Rockets Red Glare

"Watch your step."

I stumble and slide as I make my way up the path. The people behind me are hankering to get ahead so I step aside to let them pass. It's almost dark and the narrow path we're on has us knee deep in ivy.

I can see dark shapes of people all around me. For some reason many of them have blankets wrapped around themselves.

"Shall we?"

I look up at Mr. Gryphon and then keep moving, but I don't say anything.

It's the 4th of July and other than a 7 foot tall golden imaginary gryphon, I don't have any other companions with me. I'm feeling a little excitement as I make my way up the hill, but at the same time my insides are churning. All day long I've been brooding, vacillating between anger and sadness. It wasn't a good day for me.

I reach a small area where many people are standing and sitting around. It's now almost dark and I'm thankful I have the key chain flashlight my brother insisted upon buying me. I see the dark shapes of people making their way to a still higher hill and follow them up.

It's a cold night. The day was glorious, clear and warm around 80 degrees. Weather like that spells paradise here in SF and I spent most of it indoors with the shades drawn. The wind is really blowing and I'm climbing steadily up the hill, Mr. Gryphon behind me. I reach a small path that skirts a concrete observation area. There are many people there, standing and milling around.

I make it to the top of the hill and move easily, anonymously among everyone. People are talking to each other and into their cell phones. I briefly consider making a phone call, but decide against it.

The view of nighttime San Francisco is wonderful. I can see the Bay Bridge, the lights of downtown. In the distance fireworks are going off in Sausalito to the northwest and Alameda to the east. Here and there are the bursts of fireworks all over the City particularly near City Hall and in the Mission. We are waiting for the main event and it's just about 9:30 pm. To the west, I can see our famous fog starting to roll in. Cold gusts of wind blow through us and I wish I had a hoodie on to keep my hair from blowing into my eyes.

"This was a good idea, Miss Turtle," says Mr. Gryphon. He doesn't look at me while he says this and again, I don't answer. People don't notice him as they move around and he manages, somehow, not to block anyone's view. We wait.

I try not to think too much, focusing instead on what a good idea it was to come up here. Wisps of fog float by us, but nothing that will obscure the view.

"There we go," says a male voice somewhere behind me. The fireworks have begun at Aquatic Park in the Marina and they are impressive. They have two sets going off at the same time. We oooh and ahhhh. Multicolored bursts fill the air to be followed by flashes of white, red and green. Then there's a blue flash and one that looks like a blue planet surrounded by a red ring appears. Then there's one that looks like a smiley face, heart shaped ones and green cube shapes, like a pair of neon dice. My favorites are the kind that look like big dandelions. They hang in the air for a long time afterwards.

We watch the fireworks. Occasionally a gasp escapes me or a little laugh. And even though Mr. Gryphon is standing there with me, I'll still all alone.

People start leaving, climbing over the concrete barrier in front of me, clutching their cell phones, each other, their blankets as the fireworks finale goes off. Then it's all over. People and the sounds of starting cars dominate. I slowly make my way back to the path that skirts the observation area and turn on my little flashlight. I walk slowly down, sliding a little.

I reach the road, crossing it to the next dark path, the one with the knee deep ivy.

"Dating is a discouraging business, Mr. Gryhon," I finally say. He nods at me and we continue on. I shine the flashlight behind me so he can see the path.

Tea Leaf Green at 19 Broadway, Fairfax, California

Trevor Garrod, keyboard player for Tea Leaf Green
Sat., June 22, 2007

I had never heard of this band before, but was invited to this concert. Apparently, the band has quite the following and this show is considered a real treat because the venue is so small. Well, they were great all right. They're considered a "jam band" whatever that means. Their music is mostly rock-ish with elements of country, jazz and blues. The overall sound reminds of what I think of as train music, that is the rhythm and "movement" of the music reminds of songs like "Mystery Train."

I took this picture with my camera phone and I'm surprised it came out so clearly. Usually my concert pictures come out as nothing but bunch of smeary neon lights.

Water District Land

7th Avenue. The Water District's land is on the right.

I take a two minute bus ride to Forest Hills station to get onto the MUNI Metro K, L or M most mornings. As the bus growls down 7th Avenue, I watch the dappled green of the Water District's land. No condos, no apartments, no houses. Just a hill of trees and, a little ways down, a small reservoir. A friend of mine told me the reservoir had been there since the Civil War. The Water District's land starts at the end of the block near my apartment. Signs abound about how no one should trespass and yet intriguing trails wind around the small hill. There's a community garden with signs about not picking the flowers and the large lot/dog park/pumpkin patch/Christmas tree lot.

Here's the little reservoir. If it weren't so late, I'd check to see if it has a name

People are always surprised when I tell them I see skunks, huge raccoons and possums, but then I remind them my apartment building literally rests it's back against a hill. The animals are always coming down for a meal from the dumpsters.

I wonder if this sign is a good deterrent.

I've wanted to explore beyond the no trespassing signs with my dog, but I'm always worried about being yelled at by somebody, encountering a large dangerous animal, finding a homeless city, being stalked, finding Big Foot and otherwise putting myself in danger so I refrain from checking it out. I might go with a friend. I might even bring my deluxe picnic basket with us.

Dappled green leaves, bright shafts of sunlight, cool green shade, flowers and pretty paths. I see all this wonder as I ride by on my bus in the morning down 7th Avenue. It's amazing that I'm in the City and so lucky to be near so much little used greenery.

MUNI MetroLand

"That gentleman won't stop muttering."

I look up from the book I'm reading "Out" by Natsuo Kirino about a Japanese housewife who murders her abusive husband and then has to figure out how to dispose the body. I'm on the crowded L Taraval train (two cars). Mr. Gryphon, my imaginary friend, is looking at a large man wearing white star shaped sunglasses with rhinestones. His cowboy boots match the sunglasses. He appears to be speaking softly, incoherently, and I have not noticed at all because this type of thing happens all the time on San Francisco Public Transportation.

"He's probably got some super tiny headphones on and is listening to Donna Summer," I say.

"He is not, Miss Turtle. He's speaking in tongues." There is a loud screech, a jerk and then a flock of small grey owls fly by. We all duck to avoid them. Well, all of us except the class of fifth graders who jump and grab at them. I wonder what the owls are doing up at this hour of the morning.

"Great, I can't stand when people have religious experiences in the tunnel. Makes the lights all strange and twinkly," I say as I watch the last of the owls flutter away. I can hear the odd babbling the man is doing now that I'm paying attention. It's a low persistent sound underneath the babble of the school kids. I sigh and hold the bar a little tighter after putting my book away.

At the next stop, the fifth graders get off clearly on their way to City Hall for a government field trip. There is a visible sigh of relief among the remaining people on the train as more room is made available. Mr. Gryphon opens his wings a little and stretches his long legs. Then we see/hear running for the closing doors, a herd of buffalo. Damn! That means we'll have to stop in the tunnel now. They elbow their way onto the car, smashing me up against the bar. Everyone else on the train gets out of their ways since the bulls have horns. They have that buffalo-y, manure-y smell that is somewhat pleasant. When all of them are on the train, we pull away from the station, albeit slower than usual. Mr. Gryphon strikes up a conversation with one of them. I half listen. At least if we stop suddenly, I'll have something furry to land on.

"Where're you all off to," asks Mr. Gryphon easily. He enjoys being around other beings that aren't supposed to be there.

"Ah, well, ah we're off to the unused parts of the tunnel for a good long run, then we're off to the Wharf, the little one here wants some chocolate, then we'll take the scenic route home via the Marina," he says.

"Sounds like a pleasant outing," says Mr. Gryphon.

"Ah, well, ah you can't beat the weather today. Gotta take advantage while you can," he says. Two of the calves are giggling uncontrollably while they poke at each other with their hooves.

"I heard wandering through the Presidio is a nice thing to do," I say. The buffalo turns and looks me, his ears twitching, his huge black eyes glossy and wet. He behaves like I've just butted in on their conversation which I have, I suppose.

"Ah well ah, yes, it is. I recommend it," he says politely. The train screeches to a stop in the middle of the tunnel sending me face first into his fur. He barely notices because he is shouting at the others, "We're getting off here! Everyone crowd round. Yes! Ah, well, this is our stop now!" The doors open quickly and the herd goes out in single file. I can see them moving easily into a dark tunnel. There are feeble lights and I can see the old rail tracks glinting in the distance. When the entire herd has exited, the train moves on, slowly.

"This explains why there are so many delays in the tunnel, "observes Mr. Gryphon. He moves closer to me. "By the way, Miss Turtle, they are Bison, not buffalo."

"Well, I like the sound of the word buffalo better, Mr. Gryphon, although I like how Bison looks with a capital B."

"And what is the point of this post, Miss Turtle?" People have been claiming the open seats as the train has moved along. We have remained standing.

"I guess I'm feeling a little lonely. I have a crush on someone I shouldn't have a crush on so I wrote a Missed Connection for him on craigslist.org just now."

"Why are you saying this here on your blog?"

"Hell if I know." At the next stop the train really empties out. We sit down on the red seats. I always check to make sure it's safe to sit down first. Sometimes scorpions and venomous snakes are on the seats. "I got an email from some guy right after I posted it. He told me I sounded defeated/lost and that I should stay away from the Golden Gate Bridge. I don't feel suicidal. Not even close."

"I'm glad you're not feeling suicidal. What if the person sees the post, the person it was written for."

"He'll just think I'm a nut job. I better go back and delete it now while I have a chance," I get up from my seat, climb over Mr. Gryphon and open one of the Metro train windows as we are zooming down the tunnel. I pause, getting the timing right, then leap into the darkened concrete wall....

(Miss Turtle is now sitting in front of her 32" widescreen TV that doubles as her computer screen. She has looked at, edited and thought about that Missed Connection post, but can't bring herself to delete it)

...then there is a woosh and I'm climbing back through the train window. Mr. Gryphon helps me through. Absolutely none of the other passengers notice except the man speaking in tongues.

He approaches me. "Thought you could get away with it, eh?"

"No," I say looking directly at him. It bugs me that I can't see his eyes, but his big star shaped sunglasses are interesting.

"You should just delete that post and march into that guy's office," he says, his curly dark hair has been streaked with royal blue.

"I'd rather launch a paper airplane at him, aiming for his desk," I say, drawing back a little. I feel Mr. Gryphon's hand on my arm.

"Who do you think you are? Amelie?" He puts his hands on his hips.

"And who do you think YOU are? Aren't you supposed to be speaking in tongues in this scenario?" He shrugs and marches back to his seat. After settling in, the odd mutterings resume.

"I suppose I better delete that post, Mr. Gryphon, but perhaps I'll leave it up tonight and get rid of it in the morning," I say sitting down on the too warm red seat again.

"Do what you will, Miss Turtle, but haven't you been dating around lately?"

"Yes, but it's a discouraging business, Mr. Gryphon. Far easier to fantasize about someone you can't have because you like his glasses."

"At least you're not suicidal."

"Far from it, Mr. Gryphon. Far from it," I say as he puts his arm around me. The lights have taken on a dreamy twinkle as the speaking in tongues man has finally gotten his way. Thank goodness we're almost at our stop.

A Record of a Dry Year, Part 1

View of Grant Ranch, A County Park in San Jose, looking West

Back in April of this year, my brother and I went on one of our drivearounds where we drive from San Jose over Mt. Hamilton into Livermore in search of wildflowers. We picked a beautiful day as you can see. Although most everything was green, all the plants were curiously stunted in growth. A dry year. There hasn't been much rain this year.

Grant Ranch is the first major landmark on the way up to Mt. Hamilton. We usually stop for a looksee, but decided to press on since we got started late. It's a good place to watch birds.

My brother says this is Purple Chaia, as in the tea, but he doesn't think it should be drunk.

Our practice is to drive around and then pull over on the side of the road when we see something interesting. That being said, we've done this enough times to have our favorite spots where we know we're likely to see some good plant growth.

Try as I might, I can't figure out what this one is called. I'll have to ask my brother again.

As we drove up the Mountain, pulling over the side of the road, avoiding bicyclists and SUVs alike, we were struck by how small everything was. All the plants were either smaller than usual and/or very late in their development for that time of year.

Even the Poison Oak was having a bad time of it. Without a doubt, that's the smallest Poison Oak plant I've ever seen.

Unlike me, my brother actually has a college education. While his degree turned out to be in biology, he started out as a botany major with a special fascination for our wildflowers. I think next time we do this he's going to bring a GPS so we can make keep of record of where we found the flowers via coordinates.

Douglas Wallflower. During some years there are whole carpets on the hillsides.

We're always on the lookout for animals, but we didn't see very many at all this year. We always see something big like a deer or a skunk family, but we had no luck this time.

This little valley is enchanting, as you can see.

An older guy on a bike wearing a bright yellow jacket (going downhill) stopped us on this ridge overlooking the little valley above and asked us what we were looking for since we were moving slowly along the side of the road and looking at the ground. When we told him we were looking at the flowers, he seemed mystified. As we moved away from him, he took out his cell phone, turned on his phone camcorder and recorded a little blurb about the valley. I wondered who he was going to send it to.

The sky was such a perfect color. I couldn't resist leaning against side of the mountain to take this shot.

When you're walking on the side of the road, the shoulder disappears so you have to lean against the side of the mountain when the cars go by. The rocks are plentiful, sharp, and in loose piles (easy to slip on). I spend too much time worrying about my brother when the cars go by because some of them are barreling down the mountain at high speeds, especially people who are driving SUVs and trucks. I used to try to hide that I was looking out for him, but then I realized he was doing the same thing for me.

Next up: even more wildflowers.

City Life: Heron

I was walking my dog in Golden Gate Park this past Sunday evening when I noticed a small family staring at something. As I got closer I saw just a few feet away, a Great Blue Heron. Great Blue Herons are impressive birds. Large and leggy, they stand up to four feet tall.

Oddly enough the heron was standing in part of a field, a part of the baseball field to be exact. Most of the time it seems that herons stick close to the water.

I shorted my dog's leash so we could walk past the bird without scaring it. As I moved past with my dog, the mother turned and looked at me.

"He just ate a gopher."

"What?"

"He just ate a gopher. We saw him do it. He's still trying to swallow it down. You can see the lump in his throat." She was blonde and grinning broadly with lovely crinkles around her eyes, obviously amazed. The entire family was transfixed. They were a friendly family, all wearing blue high-end fleece jackets.

I stopped and stared at the big bird, "Was it a big gopher?" She nodded.

Gophers in Golden Gate Park tend to be huge and fat. I wondered how the heron was able to get a hold of it. I know their beaks are formidable. A few years ago, there was a news report that a heron had stabbed a man in the heart with his beak, killing him, when the man got too close trying while trying to take a close up picture of the bird.

"Why don't I have my camera with me?" I wondered aloud in frustration. I would have liked to share that picture with all of you. A Great Blue Heron standing on the grass with a baseball game going on in the background. I watched him for a little while longer, but my dog was pulling me along so we moved on.

When I looked back the family was still standing there.

To the Border, Part 2 of 2

My adventure to the border continues...as I mentioned in Part 1, I had a serious problem to deal with because I had no idea how to get into Vancouver or the layout of the city or a map or guidebook or anything. While wondering what I was going to do, I took a turnoff and found myself at the airport. It was easy enough to find my way out again and it bought me some time to think about it.

As I got back on the road I saw a very small blue sign that proved to be my salvation:

CRUISE SHIP TERMINAL

It was such a small sign, very easy to disregard. There was a simple line drawing of a ship with some waves underneath in that road-signy style. Since I knew Vancouver was a waterfront city, I figured following the sign would at least get me to the water so I took the exit.

I found myself on a big wide street about six lanes wide. It was like a big expressway with traffic lights. No matter how much I looked around, I couldn't figure out the name of the street. I kept looking around at everything, then I noticed that at some intersections the stoplights were flashing yellow all the time. I had no idea what that means and I still don't. I know what the red flashing stoplights mean (treat this intersection like a four way stop sign - some of the lights here in SF flash that way late at night). Not knowing what else to do, I just kept barreling right through the lights along with everyone else. As I drove, I wondered if I would get stopped by the police. I wondered if I would get a ticket. I wondered if the officer would tell me where the city was. I wondered how I was going to attend traffic court in Canada.

I was on this wide expressway-type street for a long time. The little blue cruise ship terminal sign never failed me. Just when I would start looking around and wondering where I was I would see the sign again. I drove through a pretty part of the city. The trees were lit up with white holiday lights, there appeared to be many restaurants, and many people wandered to and fro. I thought about stopping, but pressed on.

Then at some point, there was a curve in the road and a slight rise...

and there it was, Vancouver! I was on a big bridge going straight into the city! It was lit up like grand magic. I could see the water and the huge buildings. It was so beautiful that I started screaming inside my car. I was so excited that I missed the turnoff to the Cruise Ship Terminal. No matter. I had made it to my destination! It was around 8:15 p.m. or so.

The bridge was quite long, so long that I was a little calmer when I got onto the island. At first I thought about trying to find my way to the Cruise Ship Terminal, but decided to make a right turn as soon as possible. I didn't know where I was going to end up, but somehow it didn't matter. I drove along the road, the buildings tall and twinkling around me. There was some major construction going on and I had to make several turns onto smaller streets. Since I had to use the loo, I resolved to find a place to park. This proved difficult as there seemed to be cars everywhere. Finally, I found a small parking lot that had a space and got out the the car. It was a fairly warm night and the cars were parked at an odd angle on the narrow street. Then I looked around and I was in the middle of a huge area full of restaurants, bars, sushi bars, Starbucks and pool halls. People were out walking their dogs. I found a bar and used the loo, and although I wanted to try one of the restaurants, I was too full still from eating that the Twin Peaks diner earlier that day.

Jeez. Seeing the waterfalls and that diner seemed like half a world away, but it was only a few hours earlier!

I wandered around some more and found the waterfront. It was dark, but I could see I was in a nice park. I kept to the streets in case it was a little unsafe there. The streets were very wide. I took a couple of pictures to prove I was there:

Okay, so it doesn't show the location, but I couldn't help but snap this sign that shows kilometers. We don't have signs like that here.

Yes, the proof that I was there. It was so dark that I couldn't see the park at all, but I have a feeling it's a pretty place.

Believe it or not, I was only in Vancouver for a couple of hours wandering around before I decided to get back into my car and make my way back to Seattle. I was worried I would have trouble crossing the border. As I drove back over the bridge towards the freeway (if that's what you want to call it), I resolved to visit this beautiful city for a long weekend.

The 30 or so miles back seemed to go very quickly. I was getting really worried as I got closer to the border. I kept wondering what would happen if they wouldn't let me back across. I took several deep breaths as I waited in the long line of cars. I thought about what I'd say to the border guard.

When it was my turn, the guard expressed dismay that I only had a driver's license. I kept apologizing. He was a middle aged Asian man with a slightly thick accent.

"How am I supposed to know this is really you?" he asked me, holding up my driver's license. "People make fake ones all the time and the fake ones are good."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't plan to make this trip. I don't even have a map," I said.

"You know," he said leaning a little closer, "People complain to us that our borders are porous, that we could have prevented the 9/11 attacks if we had been tougher on everyone who crosses into our country. Do you have any idea how that makes us feel? And then nice people like you show up with just your driver's license."

I looked at him without saying anything. I got tears in my eyes. I felt his frustration. Then I apologized again in a soft voice. We looked at each other without speaking and then he waved me on.

"Have a nice evening and don't forget to bring your passport next time," he said.

"I won't. I won't."

"And don't forget to tell everyone you know how important it is to have proper identification so we can protect our borders," he said.

"I will. I promise." I waved at him and drove on into the black night.

The drive back to Seattle and the hotel didn't seem to take that long. All along with way, the road was dark with some street lights there and there. I stopped for gas. Everything seemed friendly. The road and I had gotten to know each other well.

I got to the hotel after midnight. I had an early morning flight later that morning and I was going from SFO straight to work. As I lay in my hotel bed nodding off to sleep, I wondered if I'd really gone to Pike's Place Market in the morning to buy my Dad some smoked salmon, seen the Twin Peaks waterfalls and diner and then drove to Vancouver and back. It was all vivid and real, but seemed so unlikely.

Epilogue

Soon after my trip, the laws were changed. A passport or birth certificate is now required to cross the border from Canada to here. At least I'm keeping my promise to that border guard now.

When I got to work the first thing I did was Google "Vancouver." It was there that I saw my first pictures of the city in the daylight. I had no idea Vancouver was an island. I couldn't really tell in the dark.

Wheels Turn Slowly, But It's Good News Anyway

A short post tonight.

There's a crap load of stuff going on in my life right now.

I'm just emerging from coming face to face with my biggest (and long forgotten) childhood fear. A very close member of my family was in the hospital for a few weeks, and it was looking like they might not be coming home.

Plus work is kicking my ass.

What's the good news? (as my manager always asks me)

1. My close family member is going to be all right and is coming home tomorrow! I found out this critical information yesterday morning. I closed the door to my office and cried. Then I called a very good friend to tell her about it.
2. Work might be kicking my ass, but it's a good thing. My workload got moved around and I now have a renewed appreciation for my working life. My new work motto is "Get out from under the FUCKING radar and step up the plate!" Too many people are hiding and avoiding and pissing and moaning. I'm sick of it. Shut up and be grateful you have a good job for crying out loud!

I survived these last six weeks or so by cutting out some unnecessary stuff (like a he's-not-into-me dating situation and too many social invitations) and stepping up the stress relievers. I've been spending time at my family's and the hospital, something like three or four times a week, and doing a hell of a lot of driving along the way. One thing about a crisis is it makes you take a good hard look at how you spend your time.

Now I can breathe a sigh of relief and slowly start to add some of my creative pursuits. Plus I need to do my laundry in a big way. At least I remembered to pay my bills.

The next post will be Part 2 of To the Border. Thanks for reading.

City Life: Today's Lunchtime Photo

View of the TransAmerica Pyramid from Embarcadero 2

I see people taking pictures of this shot all time while wandering around on my lunch hour or during a break. People often ask me if I sneak out during work hours to catch a movie at the Cinema there. I would never do that. I'd be so busy checking my Crackberry that I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself. It is fun to go there right after work, though.

To the Border, Part 1 of 2

Last summer I took a spur-of-the-moment trip weekend trip to Seattle. In addition to wandering around and doing everything on the fly, I took some "Mascot" pictures of the trip. You can see them here from a previous post.

I arrived on Saturday and wandered around downtown. I saw Pike's Place Market (wonderful!), the Seattle Aquarium and took a locks cruise. I had a great time on the cruise. They talked about everything: the boating communities, the locks, neighborhoods we were floating past, the bridges we went under, the salmon running, the seals we saw, traffic laws on all the bodies of water we were on, the fishing industry, Puget Sound, the weather in Seattle, tugboats, the traffic in Seattle, the grain silos and the shipping industry.

Sunday, I drove out of Seattle for a look at Snoqualmie Falls and wound up on an impromptu Twin Peaks tour. The Falls are featured in the opening credits of Twin Peaks and I ate lunch at the diner featured in the TV show. I didn't realize it was the same diner until I went to the restroom in the back and saw all the newspaper articles and photos.

Here's a picture of the Falls. Aren't they amazing?

On the way back to Seattle, I missed a turn and ended up going in the wrong direction. I was going to find a place to turn around, but the traffic was so awful going in the other direction that I decided to keep driving for a while. It was Sunday afternoon around 5:00pm. I wasn't due to fly back home until early Monday morning. I kept driving, thinking I would find a mall or a place to hang out.

Then I saw a sign, a sign that beckoned me, a sign that shone with the lights of opportunity and curiosity. The sign said:

INTERSTATE 5 NORTH
VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

The sign didn't say how far it was to Vancouver, a place I had never been to, but the seed was planted and I kept wondering about it. Then another sign said it was only 140 miles to Vancouver. It was around 5:25 pm. I figured I'd get there by 8:15 pm. I could either go to the world famous jazz club that night in Seattle and see Manhattan Transfer or I could run to the border.

I ran to the border.

As I drove north in my rent-a-car, I experienced that giddy feeling of pushing the limits, of doing something so completely unplanned in a weekend full of spontaneity. I bought a guidebook just to get a layout of Seattle then I left it in my hotel room. I wandered and did everything completely on a whim including booking this trip only a day and a half before the weekend.

It was a good drive.

One of many pictures of the road signs I took. This is one of the few that you can actually read.

As I kept on driving, I became excited about crossing the border. I have never crossed the border in a car (not counting the time I was a toddler and my family drove to Mexico) so this was going to be a new experience for me.

I was counting down the miles as I went along and listening to the car radio. Seattle radio is much better than Bay Area radio, by the way. For all the diversity in this area, especially in San Francisco, the radio is so lousy that it's embarassing.

Here's a road sign showing "Customs and Immigration 1/2 Mile"

I got to the border in Blaine, WA right around sunset. As I waited in line with the other cars, I took in the site. The Freedom Bridge is located there which allows visitors to stroll back and forth between the two countries. It's a pretty little park.

When I finally got my turn, I handed the lady in the booth my driver's license. She stared at it, then looked at me.

"Is this all you have?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Well, we prefer you have a U.S. Passport with you," she said.

"Really?" I seemed to recall something along those lines, but didn't say anything about it. She asked me where I was going and what I was going to do. Then she said I could go.

"Do you think this will be problem when I come back," I asked, getting nervous for the first time.

"I don't know," she shrugged. Deciding not to let this put a damper on my enthusiasm I pressed on. Only 30 something miles to go!

As soon as I got on the freeway there was an immediate problem. Everything is in kilometers, not miles. I have no idea how to convert miles to kilometers and as long time readers of this blog know, I'm lousy at math. No problem. I checked the car's speedometer and...it was only in miles. This is very odd because even my little Hyundai Accent has kilometers. Then I remembered I was driving a CHEVY and I guess American Car Makers are so egocentric that they can't be bothered with putting kilometers on their cars!

As I wondered how much 100 kilometers an hour translates into miles (60 miles an hour, by the way), I set my car to go with the flow of traffic.

The sun had set and the road was flat. I worried briefly about whether I would have a problem getting back into the U.S., but decided to cross that bridge when I find it. As I drove along, I realized Canadian radio is GREAT! It's even better than Seattle area radio.

Then as I got closer to Vancouver, there was another problem. A serious problem. I had no map of the city, I had no idea how large it is, I had no guidebook. I don't even know what the city looks like. I only knew that it's a waterfront city and very beautiful.

Hm. How to solve this problem? I'll let you know in Part 2.

Food at Family Gatherings, Part 2 (Mexican)

Food at family gatherings on my mother's side usually meant going to my grandma's house. During holidays someone would bring turkey or ham (most likely that person would be my Dad). We would have refried beans, homemade tortillas, spanish rice and tamales. To this day, Mexican food is still my overall cuisine of choice.

The center of all this food prep, of course, is my Gram. First off, no one makes refried beans like she does. Her beans are a little less "mashed" and more whole than some of the others I've seen. My Dad makes great refried beans, but they aren't like hers. Secondly, there's nothing like real homemade, still hot tortillas, and we had lots of homemade tortillas for holiday dinners.

A large cast iron skillet of spanish rice would sit on the table, Dad would be standing at the head of the table carving up the main event meat and I would have to sit in the kitchen with the rest of the little kids, being too small to join the adults. As a child, I was very small so even my younger cousins insisted upon cutting my meat into small pieces for me.

The real centerpiece of the meal, though, were the tamales. Now I can safely say that my Gram makes the best tamales on the planet, but everyone says that about their grandmother's tamales. Gram spends days making tamales for her church and for family and friends. I've spent my fair share of time helping out with the cause. Both times I was given the task of husking the corn wrappers. That is, taking the dried wrappers and soaking them in a bowl of water and pulling all of the remaining residual corn silk out of the wrapper. After about an hour of doing this, your hands start to turn red. After three hours, your hands start to swell a little and sting from irritation. After three days of doing this task with very few breaks, I was howling. It seems Gram makes hundreds of tamales in this manner. My mother and aunts would be doing other parts of the prep: cooking the pork, making masa, smearing the masa on the soaked corn husks and assembly.

They taste sooo wonderful. My parents make good tamales too, but not like hers.

Every once in a while, Gram would make a really special soup for everyone: Menudo. I've tried it many times, but simply could not get past the fact that it's made out of tripe. Gram makes the red (rojo) version and it's smells really good. It's somewhat spicy. I'm told the preparation for this dish can take quite a while which explains why we didn't have it each holiday.

When I was a little girl (probably around 8 years old) sitting at Gram's kitchen table one day, she told me she was making a special sauce for the holiday meal. Then she told me there was a special ingredient: chocolate. I didn't believe her at all and told her so, thinking she was teasing me. My uncles and cousins confirmed this odd truth and I had my first taste of mole. I recall being surprised that it didn't taste at all like chocolate and it wasn't sweet. I thought I was going to be eating the equivalent of chocolate sauce. Since growing up, I have learned there are many different kinds of moles available, and it comes in a wide variety of colors. Gram's mole was a deep dark red. It tastes so rich and substantial. Difficult to describe. A cooking project I want to try is learning how to make mole which apparently takes many hours of prep and more hours of simmering.

I'm also quite fond of Mexican pastries. My uncles would bring them for us, usually for the next morning's meal. They all have a similar taste that I find comforting.

My parents make enchiladas regularly, but they don't make it like most people. No wrapping the corn tortillas up in rolls and putting it in the baking pan. They make the sauce, a deep rich red sauce, and then we soak the corn tortillas in the sauce for a short time then put them on each plate. After that, we put in meat, cheese, tomatoes, sour cream, etc. in an assembly line fashion. My brother is particularly adept at making enchilada sauce. Each time it's slightly different, but always wonderful.

Another family recipe that we make is Albondigas, a meatball soup. My Dad added the touch of mixing the meatballs with white rice (of course). It's one of my favorite soups to make myself and is great when it's cold outside. I've asked my mother a few times and she said the recipe came from my Gram, but I don't remember her making this dish.

Some memories for me relating to Mexican food or rather food at mom's side of the family:

• One of my most vivid memories is of being a small child sitting in my Gram's kitchen after the holiday meal. I would sit quietly, sometimes drinking a Shasta soda, listening to my mother, my aunts and my Gram all talking in Spanish while cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes. The men, of course, were all sitting in the living room watching TV along with my cousins. I don't speak Spanish at all, but I can understand it a little. Most likely, this little understanding of the language comes from listening to all the women talking in the kitchen year after year.
  
• My uncles would make marvelous floats for us on hot summer nights: 7 Up and pineapple sherbet. God! Just thinking of that combination of tastes makes my mouth water and takes me back to standing in Gram's kitchen while waiting for my uncle to scoop mine for me.
• A favorite luxury food of mine are what my Mom calls "Gorditas." Us kids would sit in the kitchen making thick patties out of masa and water, and then Gram would dip them in more masa before frying them in a cast iron skillet (in lard, no less). They would come out golden brown and lovely. We would pile on cheese, tomatoes, cilantro, sour cream, etc. tostada style. HEAVEN!!! I call this a luxury food because it's rarely made in my family although if I beg and plead, my parents will make it for me when I go over there for dinner.
• I have an deep fondness for Taco Bell although I hardly eat there anymore. Even though my well educated palate can tell the difference between homemade and canned refried beans (or worse, their spanish rice), I still enjoy eating there every once in a while. The first time I went there, I was astounded that food similar to Gram's would sold in a place that was a lot like McDonald's.

Too bad I don't have more food stories to post. It's been a fun topic to write about. The memories have been vivid and I am reminded that a lot people didn't grow up this way. I guess I'm lucky.

City Life: Sunset Outside My Sliver of a Living Room Window

My window again. If you look on the right side of the picture and squint, you might be able to make out the two towers of the pink church.

Food at Family Gatherings, Part 1 (Japanese)

I often get questions/comments about my ethnicity. I am a mutt: half Japanese, half Mexican. Even stranger is my father is the one who is Japanese, not my mother. Until recently, the father was always Caucasian and the mother Japanese.

When I was in Kindergarten, all the kids in my class held a contest during recess where they tried to figure out "what" I am. They finally settled on Eskimo. I was very pleased to be an Eskimo because it was one ethnicity. I also liked the idea of people looking at me and thinking about snow, igloos, polar bears and wearing those hoods with fur around them.

My growing up years were interesting, but I'm sure not anymore remarkable than anybody else's. The place where this is NOT true is food, especially at family gatherings.

We would typically spend time at one of my father's sisters and then go to my grandmother's house during holidays like Christmas. Full on Japanese food and then full on Mexican food.

On the Japanese side of the family everything was very aesthetic. We had a wide variety of foods like turkey or ham, mashed potatoes and salad. We also had sashimi and sushi. My aunt, who passed away a few years ago, made two types of sushi. I don't even know what they were called, but they were very simple. Perfect, really. One was a brown ball with rice and raw fish inside, the other was eel in rice wrapped with those green seaweed sheets (Nori) and sliced. My aunt spent all of her growing up years and a good deal of her 20s in Japan before coming here. That woman made sushi better than anybody I know. None of this California Roll stuff or sushi rolls made to look like caterpillars. My aunt's sushi's were a study of simplicity, taste and perfection.

When I was a child I was a notoriously picky eater. I was one of those kids you just wanted to smack around at dinnertime because all I wanted to eat was Chef Boyardee Mini Raviolis (I still love eating them, by the way). To add insult to injury, I would not eat anything with fish in it. I tried eating my aunt's perfect sushi, but I was so grossed out by the thought of it that I couldn't. When I got older, I came around and was able to enjoy it.

As a teenager, I decided to be more open minded and try new things at my aunt's house during family gatherings. I tried raw octopus (I ate one of the legs, I could see the suckers on it), crab guts, my cousin's sushi (wrapped in grape leaves) and sashimi. I didn't really start to enjoy sushi and sashimi until I tasted super fresh raw tuna. Heaven.

The first time I tried crab was at my aunt's house on New Year's Day. My uncle had bought the just-pulled-from-the-water crabs at Fisherman's Wharf here in the City earlier that morning. My cousins were working on the crab legs with those little forks and nutcracker looking things. Intrigued by the process, I asked them what they were doing. They were amazed that I'd never had crab before and made me taste it. Yum! We spent the rest of the afternoon taking apart crab legs, dipping the meat in that sauce and chowing down.

To this day, there are other dishes that show up at each family gathering, but I have no idea what they are. They're definitely Japanese. I'll have to ask someone next time.

One odd thing I've notice about myself is I no longer say "shoyu." I say "soy sauce." I was raised from when I could talk to refer to Kikkoman soy sauce as shoyu even if I had to explain to everyone what I meant. Somewhere along the way in last few years I stopped saying shoyu. It's time for me to reclaim shoyu even if no one knows what I'm talking about. Perhaps someone will learn something new from my efforts.

My parents used to take us to a Japanese restaurant run by family friends. I didn't eat much, but I love Miso soup. They always included a lot of tofu in the soap for me because they knew I liked it so much. I was always disappointed that there was no Miso at my aunt's house with a huge block of tofu in it. Miso really reminds me of my childhood, as does rice and anything teriyaki.

Some odd things about me relating to Japanese food:

1. I didn't learn to use chopsticks until I was in my early 20s when my ex-husband taught me. Everyone in my family always made fun of me because I had to eat with a fork. I think this partly explains by I really enjoy eating with my hands.
   
2. Although I've been eating tofu since I was a very small child, I had no idea what edamame was until just a few years ago. I'd never eaten it before although it looked oddly familiar the first time I saw it.
   
3. I used to enjoy eating Nori (dried seaweed used to wrap sushi) from time to time. We'd get it in a can and I would nibble on it here and there.
4. My Dad loves eating kokos, some kind of pickled yellow vegetable. I still don't exactly know what they are. I like to eat them too with rice. The smell is bad, like smelly feet. They have a satisfying crunch to them, though, that goes great with rice.

I've strayed off the subject somewhat. Later this week I'll talk about the Mexican side of Miss Turtle's food growing up years.

Paris Hilton's Pillow

I was waiting at Forest Hills MUNI station while on the way to the Aquarium yesterday. My energy was low so I was sitting quietly on one of the benches.

An older man stood at the platform. The trains were running late so a lot of us were standing around. The older man was wearing a uniform that suggested he works at AT&T/Pac Bell/whatever the name the Giants ballpark is now. He and an Asian man struck up a conversation. The Asian man was also older and wore white shorts, tan ball cap, t-shirt and carried a backpack. He had good sized calves and a lot of spots on his skin.

The men talked about the Warriors (very exciting what's going there), working at the ballpark and why MUNI runs all the trains in one direction and no trains in the other sometimes.

Then the older man started rattling off some jokes:

"Paris Hilton's going to jail. When she gets there, they're not going to put a mint on her pillow."

"When Paris Hilton's in jail she's going to have a bunch of bad hair days."

The older man then explained that he writes stand up comedy. He was just getting warmed up. He proceeded to launch into a series of very bad jokes. So bad that we all just stood/sat there without reacting. Throughout this entire exchange, I sat on the bench looking steadily at the floor. When the guy first started talking I could sense something like this was coming and I didn't feel like pretending I cared. Sometimes you don't feel like talking to people you genuinely aren't interested in.

Next to me was a kid about twelve or so. She was wearing a yellow hoodie and reading "Sabriel" by Garth Nix. I'd see that book around and wanted to ask her about it, but decided not to. At one point, she looked up at the older man as he cracked his jokes and then went back to reading her book in that dismissive kid way. The Asian man moved to the wall and stopped pretending to chuckle. We just waited for the older man to stop talking. He finally did and then the train came a little while later.

Looking back on this incident now I wonder about my apathetic reaction. There are so many lonely people in this world. When I was younger, I used to be a magnet for them. People would seek me out and talk my ear off. A lot of them were strangers, people I didn't know and would never see again. I got tired of pretending to care, I got sick of pretending to chuckle so I make a conscious effort to avoid these situations. These people just wanted to talk and talk. They weren't interested in me, or my opinions or thoughts at all. I can spot these folks coming at me from a mile away so now I completely ignore them.

I wonder about myself, though. Will I be alone someday, even more alone than I am now? Will I seek strangers out just so I can have a conversation with someone, anyone to assuage my loneliness? Will the tables turn and will I find myself there in ten, twenty, thirty, forty years?

"Long shot of that jumping sign, visible shivers running down my spine..."

Elvis Costello and the Imposters at The Warfield, SF

Just back from this concert. I had a wonderful time. I almost didn't go, but a new friend set things up for me.

The Setup

I was a member of this online group that had a large number of events you could sign up for such as hikes, wine tastings, plays, etc. It's a good group; they place a high value on attendance, they ding you if you cancel an event. I signed up for a large event taking place three hours from SF. I was really looking forward to going, but then I got sick and slept through the deadline for a refund. I got into a very unpleasant email exchange with the host (someone I had never met). He was angry, I was angry. He managed to secure me a refund, the source of our dispute, but told me that I was rude and insulting and to never RSVP for any of his events again. I informed him that wouldn't be a problem because I was leaving the group.

The last event I signed up for was this one. Several of us were supposed to meet at the Warfield for this concert. I'd already bought the ticket and had no one to go with. After I canceled my membership, I realized I didn't want to go alone. I mentioned this dilemma to my new friend and he told me he knew the guy hosting and he would ask him if I could still go (not the same host I got into the email fight with).

Well, the guy said yes and he was just as laid back and relaxed as my friend told me he would be even if I was "crashing" the event. I really enjoyed myself at this concert and I enjoyed meeting the other people who attended. They asked me why I left the group just because of one bad experience with one host. I told them it was because the emphasis on attending events was a little heavy handed for me and had always rubbed me the wrong way. I feel very strongly that if you RVSP for something you need to do your very best to attend, but I don't need to be hit over the head with it all the time.

The real reason I jumped ship was because I didn't want to attend the same events as that unpleasant host and I didn't want to have to constantly monitor my RSVPs to make sure he wasn't going to sign up for the same events as me. If he did, I would have to cancel and that would suck and be a pain in the ass.

The Concert

We managed to secure seats at a table in the general admission area. I was amazed at our good luck. The seats had bright red folding chairs packed tightly together. Directly above us was the "Reserved" section. We ordered drinks and settled in, getting to know one another.

The door guy told us Elvis would be performing from 8:15 - 10:15 pm that night. Sure enough, he came right out at 8:15 pm and just started playing. Better yet, there was no opening band. Very nice indeed. The Imposters are The Attractions, but with a different bass player.

Although I'm not as familiar with Elvis' music, I recognized almost all the songs. As soon as one song was over, they launched into another one. He didn't talk much at all. He wore a dark grey suit, tie, shirt and sunglasses. He's so cool.

Directly above us, in the Reserved section, a guy was chain smoking doobies. I don't where he secured that stash, but it was some powerful shit. We had pot smoke blowing over us all night long. Several of our group complained about the smoke. I wondered if the smoke was really that bad or if I'm just getting old. Then at one point the smoke was so bad my lungs started burning each time I took a breath and I got a pounding headache.

Being slightly stoned with a headache failed to put the damper on my enjoyment of the evening, however. My favorite song of the night, as you can tell from the title of this post, was "Watching the Detectives." An ex of mine has the 7" EP of Elvis Costello and the Attractions Live at Hollywood High (1978). The version of "Watching the Detectives" on this EP is so great. It's very different from the reggae version we usually hear on the radio. Elvis sang the song more like that Hollywood High recording and it was dripping with cool.

Other notable songs were a lovely acoustic version of "Alison" and a killer version of "Hey Bulldog." Chain smoking doobieman kept yelling/croaking out "Hey Bulldog" during the wrong parts of the song. There were other great songs, I just didn't know their names. Many times I settled back in my chair, smiling. I felt myself easing into the music and I was feeling a deep sense of satisfaction and gratitude. He finished with "Radio, Radio" "Pump It Up" and "What's so Funny about Peace, Love, and Understanding?" in that order.

I'm so glad I went. I'm so glad my new friend set this up for me, and I'm so glad the host was open to letting me attend.

Postscript

While taking the 6 Parnassus bus home, I overhead the following conversation. The two young men speaking had just come from seeing Elvis too.

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: "So yeah, do you know what happens when you leave vinyl records in the sun? Have you ever seen that happen?"

Guy with Dreadlocks: "No man, what goes on?"

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: "They get all warped and shit."

Guy with Dreadlocks: "Whoa."

Both men couldn't have been more than 23 or 24 years old. The Guy in the Yellow Rain Slicker was tall and thin. He spoke slowly and deliberately. The Guy with Dreadlocks was African American and wearing black rain jacket with white piping on the sleeves. Both wore really baggy pants and very large sneakers. The conversation continued.

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: "So? My favorite record got all warped and I decided to fix it. Ever try that?"

Guy with Dreadlocks: "No. How'd you do it?"

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: "I turned my oven on really low and put the record in there with some books on top of it."

Guy with Dreadlocks: (laughs) "Did it work? How was it when you played it again?"

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: (his voice gets a little lower, softer) "No, man. It just got even more warped. I put it on the turntable and the whole thing was wavy."

Guy with Dreadlocks: (laughs again)

Guy in Yellow Rain Slicker: "Hey, at least I didn't try using an iron."

Guy with Dreadlocks: "Whoa! Why didn't you try that, dude?"

At this point, they both got off the bus at Haight and Fillmore. I'm sitting here at my desk at home, my lungs are still sore from second hand pot smoke. I feel like laughing my ass off when I think of these two guys, but I refrain. I refrain because we all have our own warped vinyl stories.

Poetry Reading at Work

This month, as many of you know, is National Poetry Month. A co-worker of mine put together a Poetry Reading at work which many of us attended. It featured soft music, poems hanging on the walls of the conference room, poems strewn on the table, poetry books, pictures of poets, wine, cheese, crackers, grapes and chocolate.

Many of us who attended read poems we liked or read our own work. I read my favorite poem "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll and two of my own.

First, I'd like to comment on Jabberwocky. The Alice books are my favorite books of all time and Jabberwocky is so sublimely perfect, it makes me shiver. It is one of two poems I've memorized in my life (the other was Green Eggs and Ham). I've always enjoyed reading it for it's playfulness and humor. And although I love reading out loud, especially my own stuff, I should have taken my brother's advice and practiced first. I didn't realize I was going to be as nervous as I was and Jabberwocky is a difficult poem to recite.

Still I had a great time. I enjoyed hearing other people's thoughts and feelings about poems near and dear to their heart. I loved hearing people read their own poetry, sharing themselves like that. For me it was all about putting myself out there even if I don't consider myself a poet. I learned that poetry is an expansion of self, like all writing is, but this form of writing goes straight to emotion, memory and to your body because it is rhythmic and visceral.

Good times. Kudos to Mr. S.M. setting it all up!!! Below are the poems I wrote and read for this event.

Three O'Clock in the Morning

We sit on opposite ends of the spectrum
He and I, watching the empty spaces
Sirens go off like errant smoke detectors
Startling and annoying these tender ears

The old ghosts from the Past slink by
I've taken to ignoring their empty wisps
They boo and hiss and puff up for attention
I swat them away like the gnats they are

Traffic reports blare in the the background
Lights flicker from almost dead televisions
At night the neighbor's car alarm goes off
The house dog barks, snarls at everything

Sometimes we send each other smoke signals
Sometimes I wave and yell "Hello! There!"
He cups his hands to his ears while it rains
While I toss and turn the night away


People in the High Tower

Back when we laid the ground with tracks
The hot sun and dusty smoke stinging eyes
We ran along those backbreaking roads
Just ahead of the train

I did not run the marathon of death
Nor would I settle for mere appointments
Or words stretched out across the page
Even at six minute intervals

Inside is the vast storage of imagination
Outside is everything else in the world
Here we have banker's boxes and .pdfs
Thoughts made visible

The days fan out like unnecessary copy jobs
The nights a banquet of leftover pasta dinners
They sit in their offices always one step ahead
Time to go home

Dating Life: Don't. Touch. The. Pictures.

I met a guy a few months ago. It was our first meeting and I'd picked a fabulous venue for our first date, if you want to call it that: Stanford University's Cantor Arts Center. It was a beautiful day and I was going there to not only meet this guy, but to make small dream come true.

Richard Avedon's book of portraits In the American West is my favorite photography book of all time. I have it in my office at work, open and propped up on a shelf, and every week or so I change the pages so I can ponder and be amazed by yet another portrait. The photographs are uncompromising and challenging. I can look at them for hours. I even wrote a short story based on one of them.

Stanford's Cantor Arts Center was exhibiting half of the portraits from the original show shown in 1985. I couldn't wait to see them. Avedon had chosen to blow the portraits up to huge size so they were even more in your face.

As I met the guy, I managed to be fairly reserved, but I was jumping out of my skin with anticipation for this exhibit. When we got to the room with the portraits, I felt like I was going to pass out from giddiness.

Oh my God! They were all just as marvelous and moving and wonderful and disturbing as I thought they would be. They featured some of my favorites, including the one I based my short story on. We talked about each photograph, about the subject, about the details we could see in the pictures. Things were going well. I was really happy.

And then...he reached out to make a point about one of the portraits and he touched the photograph.

I flinched where I was standing. Then I kept flinching because he kept doing it as we moved around the room. I didn't know what to do. I knew I should tell him to knock it off, but I was worried he would think I was too uptight. Then I realized anybody who felt that way about something I said didn't deserve to spend time with me, especially in that place. I was about to tell him to stop when a security guard showed up and told him to back off. I breathed a sigh of relief. He made a snide comment about how he "broke the rules."

Now you should know I had a similar attitude about touching art when I was much younger. I worked at a children's museum where everything was interactive and had an arrogant view of "regular" art which you weren't supposed to touch. In fact, I almost got booted out of the San Jose Museum because I insisted upon sitting inside a 3-D piece of art. When the security guard came up and told me to remove myself or I would be asked to leave, I sneered much in the same way this guy did. I explained to the guard that the best way to experience the piece was clearly sitting inside it and it was his loss if he didn't see it that way.

I have since learned more about art, what makes art special and why I love it so much. I still like to get close to pieces, but I don't try to touch them anymore. Getting close is one thing (sometimes the guards still have to ask me to back off), but touching those pictures is quite another. For crying out loud they were from the original show and Avedon is dead!

The guy did give me a nice compliment. He said he hadn't been with someone as intellectual as me in a long time, and that I had a lot of depth. Still, it didn't work out. He wasn't into me either.

The 1941 First Edition Steinbeck

I'm into natural history, that is, wandering around, looking at plants and animals, making sketches and notes. Over the years, I've collected field guides and other books on the subject.

When I was much younger I heard about a book called "The Log from the Sea of Cortez" by John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts. The Log (ship's log) is only the first half of a book they did together chronicling a marine collecting trip they took on a boat down the California coast to the Baja peninsula. The second half of the book are notes of the animals collected, all carefully made by Ed Ricketts (who provided Steinbeck with inspiration for characters like Doc in Cannery Row, among others). Both Ricketts and Steinbeck contributed to the Log.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a used bookstore in my neighborhood and saw a turquoise green book in the rare books section of the store. It said "The Sea of Cortez." I asked the bookstore clerk to take it down for me and I carefully opened it up. It was a First Edition, a little damaged on the spine and missing its dust cover, but the pages were all intact including the plates of the animals collected. Steinbeck and Ricketts published this book in 1941. Only 7900 copies of the first edition were made.

The book was $200. I bought it anyway.

Missing the dust jacket.

Here, you can see the damage to the spine.

This is one of two or three first edition books I have been casually looking for my entire adult life without hopes of ever finding one. When I opened the book up and saw that it was $200, I winced, but then I kept turning the pages and knew I had to have it even if it wasn't in pristine condition.

Title page. Isn't it beautiful?

This book has lots of photographs of the animals they collected and cataloged. What? You didn't know Steinbeck was interested in marine biology? We learn something new everyday.

Of course, I haven't read it yet. I've never read the Log from the Sea of Cortez, but will do so as soon as I find one in a used bookstore. I don't want to read this one. Need to keep it as clean as possible.

Here's a picture of one of the color plates.

There are only eight color plates, the rest of the species catalog is in black and white, but I assure you they are all splendid. Many of the pictures also have a ruler so you can see sizes of things.

One of my friends at the Aquarium, Biologist 4, was kind enough to give me a fourth edition of Between Pacific Tides by Ed Ricketts to go along side of The Sea of Cortez. Although this 4th edition is out of date by now, it's still a groundbreaking book by Ricketts and directly relates to one of my favorite activities, tide pooling.

Last time I checked, a pristine copy of the "Sea of Cortez", including the dustcover, was going for $1,500 on eBay not that I'm in it for the money. Still, it's nice to get an idea for how much these things might be worth. This book isn't worth $1,500 but it's probably worth more than $200.

Just thinking about that book sitting silently on its dark shelf where no sunlight can get to it makes me very happy.

Over the Door, Electrostatic and Cherry Pie

Time for another three beautiful things post:

1. I finally got one of those ironing board over the door thingies. My bedroom was dominated by my California King size bed and my ironing board. Now there's all this lovely space where the board used to be. :-)
2. I finally found one of those electrostatic brushes for taking dog hairs off my wonderful red couch. I'm soooo happy!
3. Left over cherry pie from Baker's Square.
   

City Life: View From My Sliver of a Window, Looking West

I have a small slice of a side window that looks out on this view. I live in the Inner Sunset neighborhood. That bunch of trees there is Golden Gate Park. The area on the other side of the trees is The Richmond neighborhood. If you look closely past the trees you can see the grey/white of the Pacific Ocean. The big pink church is St. Anne of the Sunset Catholic Church.

Upper

Today I asked about the compartments scattered around here. They pulsate with light and color, gently changing in mood. They said the compartments were fine as long as they remained soft and easy to move around. Their walls are like squishy smooth well kneaded dough. They smile at me, wink sometimes.

I am usually surprised these days.

I spoke to a man earlier about our film reviews. While I'm merely reviewing Kurosawa or Weimar cinema, he's embarked on a years long review of every film that's won in every major category of the Academy Awards. This year he started on the Best Foreign Film category. I'm enthralled, amazed. Hell, I might even be turned on a little.

He says he sits in the darkened theater of his favorite places, eating fresh popcorn with real butter and salt. He gently sips Coca Cola out of a straw, no chewing straws for him. His eyes are big and very wide open. He loves Orson Wells.

My little workshop in my living room beckons. I was going to do some drawing tonight (I need a scanner so I can embarrass myself by sharing my drawings with you), but I lifted some weights and got entangled while doing clean and jerks. The lunges are what get me. I don't mind the endorphins, though.

Mr. Gryphon and I are here at my desk. He sits behind me on my lipstick red couch. I talk about my recurring psychic vision of a man driving up my hill late at night and parallel parking. The man calls me when the engine has been turned off, asking if he can come up.

"That vision is an overlay from a parallel universe," Mr. Gryphon suggests. The couch is big enough to be really comfortable for him and he's completely relaxed, leaning back with his eyes closed.

"No, it's not from another universe, " I say, "It's happening here and now. Everything is happening now."

I've realized this truth and I didn't have to smoke any illegal substances, listen to another math lecture or ingest any hallucinogens. Sometimes I expand my awareness far enough just so I can tell which direction the bus is going to come in the mornings. I've only been wrong once so far and my mind has only gotten larger with each foray I take it on.

The Middle Ground

It's the spaces that cause all the confusion for me. For in between the words, the rushes of emotions, the nucleus and the electrons is a world of emptiness.

It may seem empty, but it's not. It's full of secrets, HD radio stations, UFOs, real feelings, the real things you want to say to another person, the meaning of life, quantum leaps. Each space is pure potential and a Big Bang is about to occur.

I used to think that finding the manual for living a great life was what I needed, but now I know that it's reading between the lines that will get you there. It's the space between the ones you love and yourself that makes you feel it most acutely. It's the longing to say something when the words won't come.

It's the place of boundless energy and deepest silence. It's the place to come when you need to rest or rejuvenate. The middle ground will make you whole. It's not about not tipping the scales. There are no extremes.

Downer

Today I brooded and slumped by those elegant divas getting my courage up. Stomach churning, eyes dry, contacts like sand paper.

No Video Game Boss in sight.

I ran through all the scenarios in my mind and none of them were good.

"No, I don't want to be around you." That was the same conclusion I kept coming to. "It's not working, it's a style thing," I keep saying.

I get monosyllabic answers and slamming doors. Why should I be surprised? Now, no one is talking to me. I can only hope these conclusions will blow over.

I have a feeling that none of this will fade away. Sometimes standing up means standing alone. Perhaps forever. Then again, I could just be mistaken, full of myself or simply full of shit.

I'm sure it's all three, but the funny thing is I'm definitely not mistaken.

Choka Poem

Just posted the following poetic blurb on The Choka and I really like it so I'm reproducing it here.

Time crawls parallel to me
Where did you go, love?

Reach across the nothing void
Barely touch your hand

Other dimension splits us
Or just the cell phone

No matter what you're still there
Fading in and out

Flashes and glimpses of you
Somewhere in the world

I like how it reads. I like the time, reaching across and missing each other thing. It felt really good writing it. It feels like everything flows naturally, like it was already part of the landscape; I just happened to make it visible.

Like Sunday, Again

"Write whatever you want. Who gives a damn what anybody thinks?"

Mr. Gryphon and I are sitting on a vast greyed out beach. The sand is the color of slate with flecks of black, the ocean the color of cold steel. The sky hangs pewter above our heads. The red blanket we are sitting on looks like a pool of blood in all this grey.

"I worry too much. I reveal too much of my own stupidity in matters of love, Mr. Gryphon." I have just finished reciting a post I did called "Triangular." It's about, you guessed it, a love triangle.

"That post is real and true," he says not looking at me. His feathers ruffle elegantly in the wind. "The best writing is about truth even if it's fiction."

I sigh. "I know, I know." I examine my chewed up fingers.

He looks at me finally, his great yellow eyes a comfort. "That post is as real as The Coda, Miss Turtle, as real as the story you wrote about April where we all kill each other."

I trace my finger in the sand before replying. The sound of the sea rolling stones as it rushes up towards us on the shore is another comfort to me. "Yes, it is, but I didn't post any of The Coda or the story of April on this blog and I doubt I ever will."

"So why not be content with leaving 'Triangular' off this blog, Miss Turtle?"

"Because I love it so much. I went straight for the jugular on this one, holding nothing back. I was exhausted when I finished it and it still brings me to my knees when I read it."

"Then post it. Just do it and don't look back," he says.

He's right, but I get all worried. I shouldn't be saying these things here. I shouldn't be whining. I shouldn't be exposing my starting-to-heal broken heart like this all the time.

I worry that all of you, good folks who come here, will think I'm a nut case because God knows others feel that way about me.

Mr. Gryphon and I say nothing else. A blinding spotlight of white sunlight lands on the sea as the clouds open up. It looks like an angel is about to drop out of heaven carrying a divine horn. It better not be Gabriel. If it is, he better not blow that horn.

Portable DVD Player, Fourteen, Pieces

It's late but I still wanted to do a post. Three beautiful things:

1. A portable DVD player with 10 inch screen. It's my luxury splurge since I got a refund on my taxes. At work during lunch I watched DVD commentary for "The Lower Depths," a film by Kurosawa. I prefer to watch the full length film at home, but I don't mind watching commentary or documentaries in pieces and now I can do it at lunchtime!
2. Fourteen (14) men I'm communicating with on eHarmony. There's gotta be the potential for a couple of dates in there somewhere.
3. Doing things I love in pieces. I have now learned that even writing a paragraph or for 10-15 minutes is better than not writing at all. The same thing with drawing a picture or taking a single picture. It all adds up in the end.

Hope everyone had a good Monday.

Dating Life: Online Dating Update

Since I came here four or so years ago, I've had some experience with online dating. I've been on Chemistry.com, Match.com, eHarmony.com and Craigslist.org, plus some weird site where you and your dog are matched up with someone and their dog. I have to say I like Craigslist a lot because of its democratic nature, plus I can exercise my good writing skills there. That being said, I think the chances of finding a long-term relationship on Craigslist are only a little better than finding a long-term relationship on MUNI. I'm not knocking MUNI. I love our public transportation system, warts and all, and I've heard of people meeting on MUNI and getting into long-term relationships, but I still think the chances of that happening are very slim.

A friend of mine commented recently that she felt her choices for men were far better on BART than on any online service. I don't commute on BART so I wouldn't know.

Supposedly, your chances of finding a long-term relationship on Match, Chemistry and eHarmony are much better. I tried Match.com and it was a complete bust. Sure about 650 men looked at my profile (picture), but the only ones who contacted me lived in New York. somewhere in the Middle East (I forget where) and London. I terminated my account with Match because I thought finding someone who lives on the West Coast might be a good place to start.

Chemistry is similar to eHarmony in that you fill out a lengthy questionnaire, they come up with a personality profile then they "match" you with people. Like eHarmony, they have a "guided" process where you can send questions to the person, they respond, and you go from there. I didn't have much luck on Chemistry either. Several months of that yielded me the conversation I had below "All he could say was 'Oh.'"

In all fairness, a friend mine met her boyfriend on Chemistry. They are doing very well. Her success gives me hope that I might do just as well someday.

A couple of people I know are either on eHarmony or have had good luck there so I thought I'd give it a shot. Maybe I'm being too optimistic, but one thing I do know for sure is you will not meet anybody, least of all the love of your life, if you stay in your apartment and do nothing. Okay, there might be times when you call the repairman or the cable guy shows up and it's all flowers and stars, but I think those times are unexpected, few and far between.

At this juncture, I'm really trying to keep an open mind. I've decided that casting a wide net is best. As long as the guy's picture doesn't make me go "ARRRGGH" and his profile is reasonable, I'm going to start communicating with him. I would like to be in a long-term, healthy relationship (emphasis on the word healthy), but for now I think it would be best for me to take things one step at a time and just find someone interesting who lives in the Bay Area who would like to go to movie or museum or something else low key.

It's as good a place to start as any.

Dating Life: All He Said Was "Oh"

This past weekend I spoke to a guy I'd been communicating with via email for the first time. It was a strange conversation and I don't mean that in a good way. I can overlook the fact that the guy seemed nervous/socially inept even with his nervous, hyena-like laugh every couple of sentences. He seemed to relax only when talking about his work with lasers. I asked him a couple of questions about lasers, and was able to keep up with the conversation, but I was so bored.

He asked me about the spontaneous drive I took to Vancouver in the summer when I visited Seattle, then told me he used to live in Seattle and had never been to Vancouver. He couldn't think of any decent reason to go there except maybe to see the aquarium and that wasn't a good enough reason.

???

Vancouver is a beautiful city and clearly there's a ton of stuff to see there, but if it's not your scene so be it.

Things took a strange turn when he kept talking about aquariums. He said he'd been to world class Monterey Bay Aquarium, but didn't like it much. I mentioned that I volunteer at an aquarium. His reaction was silence. Usually someone says something like "Oh, do you take care the fish?" or "What do you do there?" Not knowing what else to say I said something like "Yeah, I work with the penguins. I've been doing that for a long time."

"Oh," he said. In the almost 20 years that I've been working with these animals, I have never gotten a reaction like that. The reaction is always one of amazement and curiosity. Questions usually range from: "What do you do with them?" to "What are they like?" or even "Is it cold in their tank?"

All he said was "Oh." He asked no questions about penguins or the aquarium. This was not a good sign. In fact, other than obvious signs of psychosis and violence, I would say this is the worst sign of all.

He ended our conversation with "I think I might want to call you on Sunday." He might want to call me? Perhaps I was being oversensitive, but it sounded really arrogant to me. Thankfully, I haven't heard from him again. Clearly he wasn't into me and I'm certainly not into him.

Aquarium Life: Introducing Howard

Now that sufficient time has passed, I can tell you all about Howard. Since a picture is a far better introduction, here he is:

Howard, Approx. 10 Weeks Old

Yes, that is a genuine (almost) baby penguin you are looking at there. Actually, Howard is on the verge of becoming a juvenile penguin (where they become old enough to lose their baby down and get their new feathers). You can see Howard still has a bit of his baby fuzz left, but only on the top of his head.

At this point Howard is just about adult size. Indeed, he is the largest (and fattest) juvenile penguin I have ever had the privilege of helping to raise. You can't tell in this picture, but Howard's flippers (wings) and feet are proportionally larger than his body. Penguins at this age always have some more growing to do. Howard is no exception.

Here's a picture of Howard at a little over five weeks:

Howard about to be weighed and fed for his afternoon feed

You can see Howard still has all his baby down in that picture. Also, to give you context about sizes: Howard is now just about adult size, that is he comes up to my knee.

Baby penguins are notoriously cute and smelly from birth to about five weeks because they have been fed regurgitated fish from their parents. As time goes on, they are given more whole fish which cuts down on the smell.

As you can see from the top picture Howard is a lovely shade of blue/grey. When juveniles lose their baby down, they start out with this coloration. After about a year and a half or so, they molt and get their adult coloration (tuxedos).

Howard is generally a sweet bird, but he's properly defensive and wary when he needs to be. He started out nervous around me and trying to bite me here and there. Last Saturday, I spent some time with him and we had a long talk. We're much friendlier now. Overall, his being defensive is a very good thing because when he finally gets introduced to the main display and the adults, they are going to kick the crap out him to be sure he knows his place in the pecking order. This is not something to worry about. Howard can bite really hard when he wants to and seems to be able to stand his ground with no problems.

We may or may not have more baby penguins in the hopper. Time will tell.