There's little to report at the moment, not that I have any readership that actually cares. For some odd reason I got the notion of completing an MBA stuck into my head. Of course getting accepted into a program requires sitting the GMAT, a test that I can only recommend if you're really hell-bent on this whole "business" thing.
The GMAT—and getting into business school—has become all consuming of late, and that's probably not a healthy frame of mind in which to exist. Having tried a practice test on the weekend I realized that when it comes to the maths component I'm kind of underdone right now, despite what I might have thought a week ago. I lack sufficient familiarity with the problems which in turn gets me bogged down. In short I'm slow when it comes to the number crunching, although with a lot more practice I ought to be able to turn that around. Just like any sport or skill, it all comes down to practice in the end.
Beyond that just how much time should I really be dedicating to this pursuit? To what extent is it really worth the bother? My career is doing well—so long as you discount the fact that I haven't worked professionally for more than one company—and in most respects my life is chugging along just fine. At the end of the day what's it really going to accomplish? Will I suddenly attain a heretofore out-of-reach degree of career mobility? Will I be catapulted into the upper echelons of high-tech corporate structures? Nah, I seriously doubt it. Perhaps I'm better off not worrying about it—pull back, chill out, take a break.
Whatever the case I've hit the point where some perspective is needed. Tonight I'm home early with the books and study materials stashed safely at my desk at work. Tonight it's all about skipping the gym, sliding off the shoes and relaxing for a while. It feels good, doesn't it?
Monday, April 30, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Grindhouse: Thoughts
Julia and I caught Grindhouse last night and I feel compelled to offer a few comments. Firstly, Robert Rodriguez turned out a great effort with his guns-and-gore fest, Planet Terror. Robert's got a sound understanding of what makes trash cinema so enjoyable. Planet Terror dishes up the perfect measure of violence so over the top you have to laugh, comical, pustule-squirting gore and troubled, buxom women. I'd swear the cinema management was pumping the scent of tasty barbecue ribs into the theater in order to heighten the experience. I'm serious, the smell of barbecue. See the movie and you'll understand why it makes sense.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
Then there's Tarantino's entrant, Death Proof. There's no question that Tarantino can make good films—Pulp Fiction; Reservoir Dogs; even Kill Bill; they're classics—but this time Quentin has let himself go to seed. The output of toils in this instance reflects the character he self-consciously plays in the film: sleazy, lecherous and altogether too self-impressed. Death Proof runs about 45 minutes too long—it's a 90 minute movie—due to forced attempts on Tarantino's behalf to jam in protracted scenes of his now-famous dialog and a general incoherence of the plot—what are the drivers motivations? Why should we care about Jungle Julia and her slutty cohorts? Ultimately Death Proof plays like a mildly amusing, and admittedly viscerally enjoyable, female revenge masturbation fantasy of a tired, old man. I expected more.
Friday, April 20, 2007
New Tunes
Add the following new tunes to the collection...
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Guns & Drums — Low
Noumena — The Drift
Loney, Noir — Loney, Dear
Mosaic — Love of Diagrams
Here are the early impressions.
Guns & Drums - Low
Everyone's favourite Mormon snorecore band step away from their The Great Destroyer signature-sound departure and return—sorta—to whence they came: expansive, wankst-ridden, introspective songs peppered with Alan and Mimi's distinctive harmonizing croon. But this time it comes with bleep. I guess Low got the indietronic memo and have now added a layer of circa-1994 ambient synth sound to their product. This one's going to take some listening, as Low usually does.
Noumena - The Drift
They're a local act who were brought to my attention by one of Julia's colleagues at the LAB gallery. Their brand of post-rock/freeform-jazz crossover is wafting out of the speakers as I type. Unlike most of the post-rock ilk—throw the likes of Mogwai and their stable-mates, Explosions in the Sky, into this category—they're given over to heavy use of brass, especially trumpet, which has the effect of distinguishing them from the rest of the pack. Still, they've evidently spent long enough swapping song writing tips with their more guitar-crazed peers; tracks clocking in over a healthy ten minutes are more the norm than the exception. That's fine with me, there's a lot of layered complexity in their music—more than enough to keep me engaged for the next week.
Loney, Noir - Loney, Dear
This one's the crowd-pleaser. The first few bars of the disc reveal Loney, Dear to be ear-candy: a kind of aural confection that is so easy to enjoy so quickly that you're left feeling slightly cheap for being persuaded by its charms without so much as a fight. I'm waiting for an internal backlash to start but so far there's no sign. Despite near-constant rotation in the car CD player, the shelf life of Loney, Noir seems to be getting extended with each listen. That's what I suppose anyone should expect from an act that sounds like a helium-huffing Simon & Garfunkel.
Mosaic - Love of Diagrams
I caught them the other night at Slim's and they put on a good show. Perfect it wasn't, but in the context of the environment and where they were listed on the bill I thought they performed more than admirably. Mosaic picks up where their debut Matador EP left off, even promoting two of the EP's tracks to fully-fledged album status. Love of Diagrams wear their influences on their sleeves and I'm cautiously waiting for it to become a tiresome shtick; so far they're holding on. Early listens of the album haven't hit me square in the face with raw energy the way the EP did. For whatever reason the album seems more restrained, and that acts as a detriment. A few more spins are required here before final judgment falls, but at this stage my position remains neutral.
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Sleep Debt Payoff Cycle
There's a thing in my life known as the sleep debt payoff cycle. The way it works is during the week I run myself into a sleep-deprived state courtesy of a schedule that has me arising at 6am to leave for work. If we lived in an ideal world I'd get to bet at no later than 10pm each night, affording myself a comfortable and doctor-prescribed eight hours of rest. In reality that never happens. Invariably there's something else I find myself doing that keeps the clock ticking way past the witching hour, whether it be updating my iPod or ensuring Julia gets a bit of my attention (she deserves it). So come the weekend I want my rest and a I want a lot of it. Sunday morning swings around and bed seems like the best place in the world. I'll let myself drift in and out of sleep for hours on end, allowing myself to be just plain lazy. It's great and I know it's going to come back and bite me the arse eventually. That "eventually" is Sunday night. I couldn't get to sleep—not for hours. I spent most of the night barely dipping deeper than a light slumber, awakened by any slight movement of the cats who routinely park themselves at the end of the bed. The alarm goes off at 6 but I'm already awake. The new week has begun and the cycle starts anew. It's a cruel joke.
The hours I keep are largely a function of my job and for that I can really only blame myself. Nobody forces me to get up at 6am and nobody forces me to drive 50+ miles to work each day. There's a huge element of personal responsibility immersed in this problem and it's incumbent upon me to fix it. I'll just stop going to work.
The hours I keep are largely a function of my job and for that I can really only blame myself. Nobody forces me to get up at 6am and nobody forces me to drive 50+ miles to work each day. There's a huge element of personal responsibility immersed in this problem and it's incumbent upon me to fix it. I'll just stop going to work.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Love of Diagrams at Slim's
Smile a smug grin of self-satisfaction if you're hip enough to be at the venue for the warm-up band. Last night Ted Leo and the Pharmacists played at Slim's, but I was there for the backup act, Love of Diagrams. Any of my cooler-than-thou hipster credentials weren't really all that well earned since I've never heard any song by Ted Leo and Pharmacists in my life; I wasn't snubbing them; I just don't know about them.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Our arrival was timed perfectly. Not more than twenty minutes after we had our tickets checked and hands stamped in verification of our age did Love of Diagrams take the stage. "We're from Melbourne," the lone male member of the group, Luke, called to the crowd eliciting a small chorus of acknowledging cheers. Those were probably the other Aussies.
Scruffy hipsters, scruffy hipsters—the group looked typically ramshackle, sporting the kind of urban-trendy look you'd find anywhere on Brunswick Street: unkempt, greasy hair and recycled boutique clothes. They fit the mold. But when they opened with the first few bars things fell into place. You could accuse them of being too aware of their image and you'd probably be right, but they've even got a woman beating the skins and that wins big extra points. Rarely do you see a woman behind the kit belting out the rhythm. There are too many male drummers in this world and it's time that changed.
So what about the music? Love of Diagrams do a great knockoff of early eighties post-punk—all heavy bass riffs, discordant guitars and half-screeched vocals. It's clearly a conscious effort on their behalf to resurrect one the superior musical eras of the past and for the better part it works. On stage the approximation to their recorded material more or less hits the mark, they're more raw and more energetic. Notes get missed, the balance on the vocals is off kilter—probably more a function of the cruddy acoustics at Slim's than anything else—and they fumble a couple of songs. None of it really mattered all that much and the now-full venue seemed to side more with acceptance rather than rejection. The set was short at around forty minutes, leaving barely enough time to rip through a catalog that really could use a longer airing on stage. Perhaps their best song, No Way Out, remained inexplicably absent from the playlist and that's a loss. It would have made the perfect closer.
There was no point sticking around for the headlining act; I'd got what I came for and besides, the Great Organiser was about to fall over from tiredness. Getting older will make you do things that your twenty year old self would hate you for: stand at the back of the venue and admire the band from afar; have only one beer; leave early. If that's what being a 30+ attendee at a rock gig is all about then I can live with myself.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
SF - Highway 101 - Southbound - 2am
The Great Organiser's got a position on whether or not you should take any of the freeways feeding into or out of San Francisco after midnight: don't do it.
We were both about ready to fall asleep. I'd had almost no rest the night before and the plane flight from New York was delayed, causing the Great Organiser to drive laps around Oakland airport for 45 minutes before I eventually emerged from the terminal. All we wanted was to get home and get to bed.
Being able to drive up to the toll booth on the east side of the Bay Bridge is a rare treat, so we thought we'd dart over both spans in record time. And we did. But approaching the Potrero Hill crest of southbound 101 our decent clip was arrested by a swerving cop car acting to bring us all to a near-halt. The Great Organiser immediately began remonstrating about the drunks that tend to take to the road around this time of night, and how had she had her wits about her she'd have exited the freeway at the first opportunity. She was right. We should have ditched the 101 as soon as the chance presented itself.
We slogged our way through the congestion until the Cesar Chavez exit came around. Not far before it lay the scattered bodies of two cars: one a large white SUV and the other a silver Camry, their front ends nicely mangled. The cops had cordoned off the area with their usual pink flares and every passing motorist gave it all a good stare, us included. The scene smacked of a DUI.
When we finally made it home I poured myself a glass of wine and went to sleep.
We were both about ready to fall asleep. I'd had almost no rest the night before and the plane flight from New York was delayed, causing the Great Organiser to drive laps around Oakland airport for 45 minutes before I eventually emerged from the terminal. All we wanted was to get home and get to bed.
Being able to drive up to the toll booth on the east side of the Bay Bridge is a rare treat, so we thought we'd dart over both spans in record time. And we did. But approaching the Potrero Hill crest of southbound 101 our decent clip was arrested by a swerving cop car acting to bring us all to a near-halt. The Great Organiser immediately began remonstrating about the drunks that tend to take to the road around this time of night, and how had she had her wits about her she'd have exited the freeway at the first opportunity. She was right. We should have ditched the 101 as soon as the chance presented itself.
We slogged our way through the congestion until the Cesar Chavez exit came around. Not far before it lay the scattered bodies of two cars: one a large white SUV and the other a silver Camry, their front ends nicely mangled. The cops had cordoned off the area with their usual pink flares and every passing motorist gave it all a good stare, us included. The scene smacked of a DUI.
When we finally made it home I poured myself a glass of wine and went to sleep.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Airport = teh sux0rz Part 3
At least on JetBlue they give you actual snacks. Weird, isn't it, how the so-called "full service" airlines now offer a lower grade of service than the budget airlines? Riddle me that one, Batman.
Airport = teh sux0rz Part 2
So now I'm back in the departure lounge, this time I'm parked along a worn-carpet pathway, heavily trafficked by the kind of floe of humanity that makes up most of the people you find in any given airport. Well, this is JFK so you're likely to get just about the broadest cross-section going. And it's ugly. JetBlue purports to offer free WiFi, but it's free only for a certain period and the download speeds are glacial; a harsh-voiced service representative is barking orders to the oblivious to make their way to Gate 10 lest they miss their flight to Ontario. That's Ontario, California. Yep, there exists such a place. Screaming children are pestering their tense parents for more of the high calorie, low nutrition "food" that is supposed to constitute a meal here in the departure lounge. The kids are pacified with an offering instead of snacks, and the mother and father wonder aloud whether or not they should use an offering of juice to coerce the kids to use the toilet. The child offers a response in the form an open-mouthed cough, ejecting a spray of god-knows-what into the air. Lovely, huh? And I haven't even tried to board the plane yet.
Label Me Weaksauce
Label me weaksauce if you must, but I'm not sure I could handle living in New York City. Perhaps it's too many years living in San Francisco, enjoying something that approximates a dense, urban lifestyle without the oh-so-New York need to hip-and-shoulder everyone in the path in order to make passage across a busy street. Perhaps it's because I was stuck in the tourist-infested hotel district of Midtown, swarming with overpriced delis and enough gullible tourists ready to fork over the exorbitant prices. Either way I'm not sure I'm cut out for it—at least not at this stage of my life. Being squarely on the wrong side of thirty has shoved me into a social set a few degrees removed from the ambitious twenty-somethings, scrambling desperately to leave their mark on the most important city in the world. With the burning desire to remodel the shape of the planet fast seeping out of me, I think I'll take the lazy facsimile of the urban jungle and cool my jets in San Francisco. I'm not strong. Give me a greasy burrito from the local taqueria, a couple of alcoholic transsexual bums sprawled on the sidewalk and a stiff bank of fog rolling in off the Pacific.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Airport = teh sux0rz
Why do airports have to suck so much? Right now my arse is parked in the waiting lounge at Oakland Airport, forced to share personal space with a couple of sullen looking teenage latinas and an elderly gentleman who seems to feel the need to have the speaker on his mobile phone turned up loud enough to share his cute-talk conversation with his granddaughter with everyone within a 20 yard radius.
It never used to be like this, did it? There must have been a period somewhere in the past when travelling on a plane didn't involve being herded like cattle into holding pens, undergoing borderline rape by the security staff, being stuck in a cramped and overstuffed tube in the air for hours on end while the surly flight attendants "treat" you to a half-filled cup of water and a shitty bag of peanuts. They'll tell you it's service. There's huge opportunity for the rail industry here—huge.
They're calling us to board now. I can hardly contain my excitement. The carrier is JetBlue, and whilst I'm sure they're going to offer me 36 glorious channels of DirecTV, I might also be lucky enough to get stranded on the tarmac or upwards of 10 hours with now way to get off.
All hail the airline industry.
It never used to be like this, did it? There must have been a period somewhere in the past when travelling on a plane didn't involve being herded like cattle into holding pens, undergoing borderline rape by the security staff, being stuck in a cramped and overstuffed tube in the air for hours on end while the surly flight attendants "treat" you to a half-filled cup of water and a shitty bag of peanuts. They'll tell you it's service. There's huge opportunity for the rail industry here—huge.
They're calling us to board now. I can hardly contain my excitement. The carrier is JetBlue, and whilst I'm sure they're going to offer me 36 glorious channels of DirecTV, I might also be lucky enough to get stranded on the tarmac or upwards of 10 hours with now way to get off.
All hail the airline industry.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Art Brut Is Good Stuff
Every now and then there comes along a band or an act or a performer that really knows how to command the limelight and entertain the crowds amassed. Last night Art Brut flooded the stage at the Bottom of the Hill with an aural assualt of ramshackle, punk-infused British brattiness and it was simply lovely. Forget for now the two barely-dressed men whose sausage-sharing antics and programmed rhythms passed as a support act, Art Brut were the stars of the night and they shined. The set was short, as described, but sufficiently energetic and earnest to leave the audience anticipating the next song even if it was one of their newer efforts and not one of the polished and well-rehearsed moments off the album.
Thanks for a good time, and on a school night too.
Thanks for a good time, and on a school night too.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Giving Comfort to Terrorists
I love a self-righteous rant and few people are better at getting red faced and strident than Bill O'Reilly. In the wake of last week's local elections Bill had the presence of mind to state, "Fine. You want to be your own country? Go right ahead, and if al Qaeda comes in here and blows you up, we're not going to do anything about it. We're going to say, look, every other place in America is off limits to you except San Francisco. You want to blow up the Coit Tower? Go ahead."
Thems is fightin' words. Bill's opinion of America's preeminent hotbed of lefty, lezzo, homo, pinko liberalism has never been in any doubt, and for that reason the urge to dismiss his remarks out of hand as those of a loud-mouthed flame-thrower are made that much easier. Never the less, another Bill—in this case his last name is Maher—was dragged over the coals in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks for thinking beyond the knee-jerk reaction of let's-hurry-up-and-kill-a-pile-of-Muslims by actually suggesting that perhaps US international policy might have played a part in fomenting the kind of sentiment that ultimately steers extremists in the direction of the World Trade Centers. He was apparently "giving comfort to terrorists".
Now it's Bill O'Reilly's turn. Inconsequential? You betcha. Hypocritical? Right on.
Thems is fightin' words. Bill's opinion of America's preeminent hotbed of lefty, lezzo, homo, pinko liberalism has never been in any doubt, and for that reason the urge to dismiss his remarks out of hand as those of a loud-mouthed flame-thrower are made that much easier. Never the less, another Bill—in this case his last name is Maher—was dragged over the coals in the aftermath of the September 11 attacks for thinking beyond the knee-jerk reaction of let's-hurry-up-and-kill-a-pile-of-Muslims by actually suggesting that perhaps US international policy might have played a part in fomenting the kind of sentiment that ultimately steers extremists in the direction of the World Trade Centers. He was apparently "giving comfort to terrorists".
Now it's Bill O'Reilly's turn. Inconsequential? You betcha. Hypocritical? Right on.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
San Francisco Real Estate Part 3
The hallway is done. There's only one more room left to paint.
I really couldn't be happier. This protracted business of shifting into my first proper home is one that should really reach its conclusion sooner rather than later. When I open the door when I come home at night I want to see not a haphazard arrangement of partially unpacked boxes left to gape back at me as a reminder of all things not yet done; I want to kick of my shoes, grab the cat and plonk down on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand. That day is coming soon but I'm not there yet. Just one more room to go.
The noise dynamics of the place are just now being revealed. Currently the sounds of a party that's been going on across the back fence for the better part of five hours is wafting up through the cracks around my door. They're mostly women, lesbians by the looks of things, and they're fusing Mission hipster fashion sense with a healthy dose of "que onda vato" cumbia. The booze, sucked down from the piles of beer bottles that litter the area around the party-goers, has worked to throttle up the amplitude of chatter and laughter. My neighbour, Jill, let me know via a yell across the back porch last Friday night that the noise generated by Far Cry was too much to allow her to sleep. I wonder what she thinks of this.
But that's a dense urban environment for you and it's one of the aspects to life in San Francisco that I thoroughly enjoy. We're all in it together. As hackneyed and cliched as it might seem, black, white, gay, straight, whatever, we're all piled on top of each other, forced to endure the racket and stench we all generate and yet somehow we get along, minor squabbles aside. Unlike the masses farmed out in the secluded, fenced-in fortress homes of suburbia, urbanites tend to learn a kind of acceptance that comes from jamming in the ear plugs to dull the noise of the dog downstairs and not worrying about it. Generally speaking we're not afraid of the "other" - anyone dramatically different from us. Those sloppily dressed punk lesbians with their home cut hair and too-loose jeans, they're okay; in accordance with their stereotype they're usually pretty good at keeping the local bars alive and ensuring that the organic produce market gets business. And the hippy looking guy with the dreadlocks next door? He runs the daycare during the week. What's not to like about that?
So I've settled in now, I guess and the neighbourhood has had its predictable effect of making me spout a tired retread of the old "can't we all just get along" spiel. I couldn't be happier about it.
I really couldn't be happier. This protracted business of shifting into my first proper home is one that should really reach its conclusion sooner rather than later. When I open the door when I come home at night I want to see not a haphazard arrangement of partially unpacked boxes left to gape back at me as a reminder of all things not yet done; I want to kick of my shoes, grab the cat and plonk down on the sofa with a glass of wine in hand. That day is coming soon but I'm not there yet. Just one more room to go.
The noise dynamics of the place are just now being revealed. Currently the sounds of a party that's been going on across the back fence for the better part of five hours is wafting up through the cracks around my door. They're mostly women, lesbians by the looks of things, and they're fusing Mission hipster fashion sense with a healthy dose of "que onda vato" cumbia. The booze, sucked down from the piles of beer bottles that litter the area around the party-goers, has worked to throttle up the amplitude of chatter and laughter. My neighbour, Jill, let me know via a yell across the back porch last Friday night that the noise generated by Far Cry was too much to allow her to sleep. I wonder what she thinks of this.
But that's a dense urban environment for you and it's one of the aspects to life in San Francisco that I thoroughly enjoy. We're all in it together. As hackneyed and cliched as it might seem, black, white, gay, straight, whatever, we're all piled on top of each other, forced to endure the racket and stench we all generate and yet somehow we get along, minor squabbles aside. Unlike the masses farmed out in the secluded, fenced-in fortress homes of suburbia, urbanites tend to learn a kind of acceptance that comes from jamming in the ear plugs to dull the noise of the dog downstairs and not worrying about it. Generally speaking we're not afraid of the "other" - anyone dramatically different from us. Those sloppily dressed punk lesbians with their home cut hair and too-loose jeans, they're okay; in accordance with their stereotype they're usually pretty good at keeping the local bars alive and ensuring that the organic produce market gets business. And the hippy looking guy with the dreadlocks next door? He runs the daycare during the week. What's not to like about that?
So I've settled in now, I guess and the neighbourhood has had its predictable effect of making me spout a tired retread of the old "can't we all just get along" spiel. I couldn't be happier about it.
Monday, November 07, 2005
San Francisco Real Estate Part 2
One month has passed and untold cans of paint later the place is starting to feel like a home. The operative word in that sentence is "starting". Anyone with half a brain will nod a head in knowing agreement when reminded that this whole move in bizzo is at least a six month process. One down and five to go.
The colours chosen to eradicate the reminders of a cheap and shoddy interior spray by the previous owner are bold, and that's nearly an understatement. The obnoxious green in the hallway has been plastered over with an equally obnoxious greenish yellow, the living room is now a radiant orange and the bathroom honestly glows red. That, and a so-hip-it-hurts Formica table is about all I have to show for one month's worth of night in, night out labour. Where has the time gone?
A visit from my father, of course. Parents are obligated to fuss over their children whenever they take any kind of grand leap up the ladder of maturity. Purchasing this place was no exception. Dad, affectionately known as the Rog, made his first landing the Friday I moved into the property - 14 October. His stay was part of the inbound leg of a journey that would take him across the continent to DC, New York City and Princeton. I immediately put him to task.
A house guest with a vested interest is a wonderful thing - nearly as wonderful as a girlfriend with vested interest. With the work day comfortably in the past you can swing open the front door and take in an eyeful of the changes that have miraculously taken place in your absence. Usually my dad would be standing there, a little soft around the middle and bald headed, peering back at me with a wet paint brush in hand.
When all the work stretching out before you seems endless and insurmountable even the smallest accomplishments completed during the hours in which you're away count like evolutionary steps. There's one more job struck off the list, one less coat to be applied that night.
There's still a lot more to go. There's a cat that won't shut up and that way too trendy Formica table sits out in the kitchen area with no chairs to make it feel important. And I don't own a vacuum cleaner. But I've got a cat tree that came for a bargain, more cutlery than I've ever seen in one location and a vintage Danish lounge set that smells like stale urine. Care to pop over for a visit?
The colours chosen to eradicate the reminders of a cheap and shoddy interior spray by the previous owner are bold, and that's nearly an understatement. The obnoxious green in the hallway has been plastered over with an equally obnoxious greenish yellow, the living room is now a radiant orange and the bathroom honestly glows red. That, and a so-hip-it-hurts Formica table is about all I have to show for one month's worth of night in, night out labour. Where has the time gone?
A visit from my father, of course. Parents are obligated to fuss over their children whenever they take any kind of grand leap up the ladder of maturity. Purchasing this place was no exception. Dad, affectionately known as the Rog, made his first landing the Friday I moved into the property - 14 October. His stay was part of the inbound leg of a journey that would take him across the continent to DC, New York City and Princeton. I immediately put him to task.
A house guest with a vested interest is a wonderful thing - nearly as wonderful as a girlfriend with vested interest. With the work day comfortably in the past you can swing open the front door and take in an eyeful of the changes that have miraculously taken place in your absence. Usually my dad would be standing there, a little soft around the middle and bald headed, peering back at me with a wet paint brush in hand.
When all the work stretching out before you seems endless and insurmountable even the smallest accomplishments completed during the hours in which you're away count like evolutionary steps. There's one more job struck off the list, one less coat to be applied that night.
There's still a lot more to go. There's a cat that won't shut up and that way too trendy Formica table sits out in the kitchen area with no chairs to make it feel important. And I don't own a vacuum cleaner. But I've got a cat tree that came for a bargain, more cutlery than I've ever seen in one location and a vintage Danish lounge set that smells like stale urine. Care to pop over for a visit?
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
San Francisco Real Estate Part 1
I've bought a house, or rather I've bought an apartment in part of a TIC in San Francisco which constitutes one quarter of a house. TIC stands for Tennancy in Common, which is kind of like a co-op in New York City and essentially means that while I'll have my own apartment, all four TIC members are mutually responsible for the one loan. What that basically means is that if one or more of the other people on the loan decides they're too strapped to cough up the cash one month then the rest of us have to find some way to cover their delinquent arses. Welcome to San Francisco real estate. Ultimately the goal is to get the house through the condominium conversion process, but that involves a lottery that can take upwards of eight years to pass. We're chained to each other now, married together by our idiotic desire to buy a chunk of dirt in one of the most overheated housing markets in the country, if not the world.
Coughing up large sums of money is nerve-racking. Yesterday, as part of the closing process, a wire transfer was made from my Morgan Stanley account to some mysterious number at Wells Fargo. It really could have been anyone's. I'm giving them over $100,000 - nearly all of my wealth - to some nameless money grubber at Wells Fargo. Holy shit, it shouldn't be that easy to gut yourself of everything you earn. Well, I suppose it is. That's why we have casinos.
Coughing up large sums of money is nerve-racking. Yesterday, as part of the closing process, a wire transfer was made from my Morgan Stanley account to some mysterious number at Wells Fargo. It really could have been anyone's. I'm giving them over $100,000 - nearly all of my wealth - to some nameless money grubber at Wells Fargo. Holy shit, it shouldn't be that easy to gut yourself of everything you earn. Well, I suppose it is. That's why we have casinos.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Ikea = Hell
Don't ever try to return anything to Ikea. Just don't do it. If you have something in your hand that you think might be nice, say a lamp that looks like a block of Lush soap with an LED and a plastic monkey pulled out of a bag of chips shoved up inside it, then don't get it. You'll only have to return it a month later.
Tucked away in the far reaches of the Swedish tundra lies a bunker filled with bald-headed scientists devoted to analysing the extent of human endurance when placed in a stark, white room furnished with pine slat benches, staff trained to move with the exact oppose of the type of efficiency promised by the McDonalds-of-Furniture Ikea system, and no clock. No clock. Its absence couldn't be more conspicuous. If you had a clock ticking away in front of you you'd be acutely aware of the fact that the line simply isn't moving, and that number 47 has been sitting up there on the display for the last half an hour! And that's at 8pm on a Saturday night! Why does it have to be so hard? Why can't we just get our money back in a few minutes and get back to what we really want to do: shop! Those bunkered dorks high up in the Gulf of Bothnia need to pull their heads out of their collective arses and realise that if we weren't sitting around on our numbing butts we'd be back in the store shopping for shitty pine furniture with names like Plopp and Farrt. Ikea can take its bland, generic contemporary bedcovers and production line art for the masses and shove it up its arse.
Next time I'll go to the Container Store.
Tucked away in the far reaches of the Swedish tundra lies a bunker filled with bald-headed scientists devoted to analysing the extent of human endurance when placed in a stark, white room furnished with pine slat benches, staff trained to move with the exact oppose of the type of efficiency promised by the McDonalds-of-Furniture Ikea system, and no clock. No clock. Its absence couldn't be more conspicuous. If you had a clock ticking away in front of you you'd be acutely aware of the fact that the line simply isn't moving, and that number 47 has been sitting up there on the display for the last half an hour! And that's at 8pm on a Saturday night! Why does it have to be so hard? Why can't we just get our money back in a few minutes and get back to what we really want to do: shop! Those bunkered dorks high up in the Gulf of Bothnia need to pull their heads out of their collective arses and realise that if we weren't sitting around on our numbing butts we'd be back in the store shopping for shitty pine furniture with names like Plopp and Farrt. Ikea can take its bland, generic contemporary bedcovers and production line art for the masses and shove it up its arse.
Next time I'll go to the Container Store.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
I'll Do What You Tell Me
Since moving to the USA back in 1998 my writing efforts have taken a slide. Such a slide in fact that I haven't really done much at all in the past eight years aside from write a few scathing emails to coworkers and attempt to woo unknown women on Nerve.com. Well that's all changed.
Two weeks ago my 32nd birthday swung around and my girlfriend, the Great Organiser, decided that as a gift she'd invest in my personal betterment. She enrolled me in a creative non-fiction class at UC Berkeley.
Each minute of my days seems to be carefully measured, starting with my 6am wakeup routine and ending when I finally drop the landing gear and climb into bed sometime around 10pm. A class over in Berkeley was the last thing I needed. But I'm a dutiful boyfriend and despite The Great Organiser's offers to cancel the class and exchange the gift for something else I kept my holy crap, when will I ever find the time comments to myself, smiled and told her not to worry. I'd do it. Offers of that kind are never actually meant to be accepted. They're the cheques you're never supposed to cash, at least not unless you want to go home alone when the birthday party's done and wank over that oversized collection of porn you've downloaded over your 3Mb/s cable modem connection.
The issue at stake here is complacency. The holy crap reaction is precisely the kind of reaction that's been going on ad-infinitum ever since corporate America got a hold of me and beat out the spontaneous creative drive. All the best intentions were never going to overcome the signup fee and the commitment to drive back early from San Jose to San Francisco, quickly change, scoff some hastily-prepared food down my gullet, charge down 24th Street and then jump on a Richmond-bound BART train. If an external motivator comes in the form of a girlfriend with my personal development interests in mind then I'll take it. She's only looking out for me and in a way that I can't seem to do for myself.
The part about finding the room in which the class was held is not worthy detailed description but uncovering its whereabouts took a while and involved repeated trips back to the Union office where I was treated nicely but given just enough information to make a real cockup of each successive attempt to find the classroom. But I found it of course.
Wandering in with a nervous wave of my hand as if to absolve myself of my tardiness I quickly surveyed the room - lots of women, almost all women, and there's the instructor, presiding over the class from behind her desk. In an effort to reinforce her status amongst the hip she was wearing those 1950's grandma type glasses with the pointy cornered rims. They've got a proper name, I expect, but I'll be buggered if I know what it is. Spilling out around her shoulders was a frizzy mass of hair that might or might not have been set that way by design. In any case it matched her image and with that settled in my mind I sat down. Almost directly opposite me sat a man sporting the mulligrub beard, the kind of shirt sold to tourists too self-conscious to pick up the Red Bull t-shirt at a flea market somewhere in South East Asia and socks with closed-toe Birkenstock sandals. We're in for a beauty, I thought to myself.
It's introduction time and around the room the conch shell gets passed. There's the young Indian mother who wants to write a childrens book that explains Hinduism. She's got her four year old daughter in mind and the instruction, Heather, seems to think there might be a publishable buck or two in there somewhere. I'm inclinded to agree. Kids are suckers for multi-armed, elephant-headed, blue-skinned gods. The other ladies are an assortment of overly ambitious types, all seeking to set the world ablaze with their literary genius. "I know I'm gifted," yep, thanks for telling everyone here. If you were truly gifted you probably wouldn't be resorting to after-hours classes. Women struck with a starry-eyed sense of grandeur about themselves never seem to be in short supply at places like this. Pump a couple of undergraduate years worth of Simone de Beauvoir and Dostoyevsky up their arses and they come out the other side thinking they're the female Arthur Rimbaud. "I'm interested in genre-bending. I want to write an existentialist piece from a woman's perspective because I really like existentialism but it's never been done from a woman's point of view. I studied literature at college and I consider myself a feminist." Okay, so maybe she sees herself as more of the XX spin on Jean Paul Satre and I saw myself as running for the door. Full points must go to the instructor, Heather, who in the most polite yet excitable way possible told her that existentialism left the building with Maynard G. Krebbs.
Sitting last in the ring of soon-to-be-recognised creative non-fiction giants was a blonde-haired women, garishly dressed and fresh from a flight from Virginia. As her story was told - and yes, fist raised to the air, she's a feminist too - she recounted the tale of her aunt murdering her six year old niece (or nephew, I can't recall which). It was genuinely riveting stuff and Heather seemed to agree. "That's a book," she was told by Ms. FrizzyHairPointyGlasses. No shit. There'll be more about this basket-case of a family situation as the weeks unfold.
So the homework? Write about my birth. Some of that was done back in 1987 when I wrote my "autobiography" for Mr. McKinnon in year 9 English. It go me an A back then so I don't see why it can't stand for a friendly reconsitution some 18 years later. The other thing to do is get back into the discipline of writing, something that's been sorely lacking in my life for those afore mentioned eight years. Start writing a journal, I was told. Well, if you consider blogging a journal here it is.
I'll do what you tell me.
Two weeks ago my 32nd birthday swung around and my girlfriend, the Great Organiser, decided that as a gift she'd invest in my personal betterment. She enrolled me in a creative non-fiction class at UC Berkeley.
Each minute of my days seems to be carefully measured, starting with my 6am wakeup routine and ending when I finally drop the landing gear and climb into bed sometime around 10pm. A class over in Berkeley was the last thing I needed. But I'm a dutiful boyfriend and despite The Great Organiser's offers to cancel the class and exchange the gift for something else I kept my holy crap, when will I ever find the time comments to myself, smiled and told her not to worry. I'd do it. Offers of that kind are never actually meant to be accepted. They're the cheques you're never supposed to cash, at least not unless you want to go home alone when the birthday party's done and wank over that oversized collection of porn you've downloaded over your 3Mb/s cable modem connection.
The issue at stake here is complacency. The holy crap reaction is precisely the kind of reaction that's been going on ad-infinitum ever since corporate America got a hold of me and beat out the spontaneous creative drive. All the best intentions were never going to overcome the signup fee and the commitment to drive back early from San Jose to San Francisco, quickly change, scoff some hastily-prepared food down my gullet, charge down 24th Street and then jump on a Richmond-bound BART train. If an external motivator comes in the form of a girlfriend with my personal development interests in mind then I'll take it. She's only looking out for me and in a way that I can't seem to do for myself.
The part about finding the room in which the class was held is not worthy detailed description but uncovering its whereabouts took a while and involved repeated trips back to the Union office where I was treated nicely but given just enough information to make a real cockup of each successive attempt to find the classroom. But I found it of course.
Wandering in with a nervous wave of my hand as if to absolve myself of my tardiness I quickly surveyed the room - lots of women, almost all women, and there's the instructor, presiding over the class from behind her desk. In an effort to reinforce her status amongst the hip she was wearing those 1950's grandma type glasses with the pointy cornered rims. They've got a proper name, I expect, but I'll be buggered if I know what it is. Spilling out around her shoulders was a frizzy mass of hair that might or might not have been set that way by design. In any case it matched her image and with that settled in my mind I sat down. Almost directly opposite me sat a man sporting the mulligrub beard, the kind of shirt sold to tourists too self-conscious to pick up the Red Bull t-shirt at a flea market somewhere in South East Asia and socks with closed-toe Birkenstock sandals. We're in for a beauty, I thought to myself.
It's introduction time and around the room the conch shell gets passed. There's the young Indian mother who wants to write a childrens book that explains Hinduism. She's got her four year old daughter in mind and the instruction, Heather, seems to think there might be a publishable buck or two in there somewhere. I'm inclinded to agree. Kids are suckers for multi-armed, elephant-headed, blue-skinned gods. The other ladies are an assortment of overly ambitious types, all seeking to set the world ablaze with their literary genius. "I know I'm gifted," yep, thanks for telling everyone here. If you were truly gifted you probably wouldn't be resorting to after-hours classes. Women struck with a starry-eyed sense of grandeur about themselves never seem to be in short supply at places like this. Pump a couple of undergraduate years worth of Simone de Beauvoir and Dostoyevsky up their arses and they come out the other side thinking they're the female Arthur Rimbaud. "I'm interested in genre-bending. I want to write an existentialist piece from a woman's perspective because I really like existentialism but it's never been done from a woman's point of view. I studied literature at college and I consider myself a feminist." Okay, so maybe she sees herself as more of the XX spin on Jean Paul Satre and I saw myself as running for the door. Full points must go to the instructor, Heather, who in the most polite yet excitable way possible told her that existentialism left the building with Maynard G. Krebbs.
Sitting last in the ring of soon-to-be-recognised creative non-fiction giants was a blonde-haired women, garishly dressed and fresh from a flight from Virginia. As her story was told - and yes, fist raised to the air, she's a feminist too - she recounted the tale of her aunt murdering her six year old niece (or nephew, I can't recall which). It was genuinely riveting stuff and Heather seemed to agree. "That's a book," she was told by Ms. FrizzyHairPointyGlasses. No shit. There'll be more about this basket-case of a family situation as the weeks unfold.
So the homework? Write about my birth. Some of that was done back in 1987 when I wrote my "autobiography" for Mr. McKinnon in year 9 English. It go me an A back then so I don't see why it can't stand for a friendly reconsitution some 18 years later. The other thing to do is get back into the discipline of writing, something that's been sorely lacking in my life for those afore mentioned eight years. Start writing a journal, I was told. Well, if you consider blogging a journal here it is.
I'll do what you tell me.
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