I rather like living without a television. Of course, I could watch TV on my laptop, but I choose not to. The only thing I really miss is Law and Order SVU. The rest I get from the kitchen radio while I’m cooking. News, music, entertainment. And I enjoy having information coming at me through only one sense, leaving the rest of me available to whatever else I am doing. It’s the original multi-tasking I guess, but it doesn’t feel strenuous. It feels relaxed. I breathe easier. Television is so high-energy, with so many ads, and so many channels to choose from. And I find radio more engaging, because it leaves the visual up to the imagination.
I was at a lunch earlier this week, and there was a newspaper journalist there, who was talking about how no one in the newspaper industry is quite sure where the medium is going to go, since many people don’t rely on printed newspapers anymore for their everyday information. This was standard discussion in journalism school as well. But listening to the radio reminds me that that, at least, is not a dying art form. It’s fast, it’s accessible, and for the most part, it’s free. People like those kinds of things. So radio, it seems, is coasting along comfortably (or at least more comfortably then newspapers) atop the new media wave, or with the new media wave, where printed publications, important as they are, are struggling to find their place and meaning in an increasingly digital age.
That radio star just does not want to die.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Good food
I had the best paella ever on Friday night. Ever. And I mean, including Spain. Including anywhere else in Europe or wherever I may have encountered paella before. PJ's Oyster Bed. It was on a recommendation from the waitress, who was this very much older woman, who had two interesting things around her neck. One was a scarf-kerchief-like thing that came together with a fair-sized tiger head front and center, like a large pendant. And then, a little shorter than that, sort of a gold human figure on a black rope. Very curious. We were both intrigued.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Easter Sunday
Sometimes days are just good. Mostly, I think having a “good” day probably starts with your general expectation as to whether the day will be good or not, but sometimes things just happen, and things flow smoothly and it doesn’t feel like you are trying too hard.
Today was one of those days. But, as in the Jewish tradition, perhaps this day could be said to have started actually last evening. After the Easter service at the cathedral, I really felt like I wanted a drink. Wait, that sounds wrong. Or maybe it sounds right. But it wasn’t because of the church service, really. It was just time. I’ve been on another alcohol hiatus, mainly because I just didn’t feel like drinking any. But last night, darnit, I wanted a beer. So I tried to convince all my choir friends to come out, but they were all tired at 10:30 p.m. I, however, had had a long nap in the afternoon, and I was not sleepy one bit. And I knew that if I went home I was just going to feel sort of incomplete. So I said heck to myself, and I went into a little pub I knew of that wasn’t big and scary. It was the White Horse Tavern, which is this little British style pub with like two taps and a small bar with the bark still on the wood. I had been there once before, after going to see a play. So before I could sit down at the bar by myself, I was hailed by a group of middle-aged Dutch travelers who had just come to San Francisco from Vegas, and were eventually going to see a truck show in Kentucky. Why a truck show, I am not quite sure, but one of them was apparently obsessed with Mack trucks. I thanked them for saving me a seat and they did not hesitate to give me their views on American politics and share with me whom they thought would make the best next president. They were pretty much split between Hillary and Obama. Republicans, it seems, were not an option. So that was a grand time. I went to sleep happy, thanks no doubt to the soporific effects of the alcohol.
This morning was bright and sunny, and I was all prepared to break my fast of cheese with some nice cheesy eggs. I went out for the paper first, and then came back and made myself some. Dang, and they were good. Why haven’t I been eating cheese? Again, I just didn’t feel like it. But it seems to me that if I don’t want to eat cheese and if it makes me feel ill when I do, then maybe I shouldn’t eat it. But no problem with it today. I also had caffeinated coffee without ill effect. And that also was very good. Here’s to mild chemicals.
And as I sat at the train stop with my cup of coffee in my hand, I was quite taken with this old man coming across the street from the pharmacy. He had white hair and a bushy white beard to match. That and his round, green beret made him look like vaguely like a leprechaun, but even though his trench coat went almost to his ankles and made kind of a little cocoon around him, there was nevertheless something dignified about the way he carried himself and something kind about his eyes. He came up and sat next to me at the stop. I felt this great urge to talk to him somehow. But as we were sitting there, a young-ish homeless (probably homeless, because he was carrying blankets and a bag of cans) came up and started cackling and rambling to himself about something or other and God and how he felt sorry for people who didn’t believe in a creator, but he believed and the Creator was not too happy with him right now, and about politics and that New York Mayor and I wondered how he got his news. The bearded little kindly-eyed man started telling him off in a gentle British accent. So I smiled and I think I said something pointless about the weather. But that opened the floodgate. The little bearded man launched into a 15-minute diatribe about how disrespectful it was for the rest of the country to ship all their homeless people off to San Francisco and just expect the residents to deal with them and they’re everywhere and they’re horrible and it’s disgusting and you can give them change but it doesn’t change anything because it’s not getting to the root of the problem, not that he gave any indication of what the problem actually was, but nevertheless. I nodded and smiled and listened. It’s good to learn about the city you’re living in.
So the train came and I went to Berkeley to see a play, then came back into town for a yoga class with my friend, who is actually the instructor. We went for Indian food afterward, and by then it was getting late.
And as I was walking up to my apartment, I was thinking about how much I wanted some chocolate. I almost never see anyone when I come home. But tonight, Patricia was there. “I made some cookies,” she said. “You should have some. I hope you like chocolate.”
Today was one of those days. But, as in the Jewish tradition, perhaps this day could be said to have started actually last evening. After the Easter service at the cathedral, I really felt like I wanted a drink. Wait, that sounds wrong. Or maybe it sounds right. But it wasn’t because of the church service, really. It was just time. I’ve been on another alcohol hiatus, mainly because I just didn’t feel like drinking any. But last night, darnit, I wanted a beer. So I tried to convince all my choir friends to come out, but they were all tired at 10:30 p.m. I, however, had had a long nap in the afternoon, and I was not sleepy one bit. And I knew that if I went home I was just going to feel sort of incomplete. So I said heck to myself, and I went into a little pub I knew of that wasn’t big and scary. It was the White Horse Tavern, which is this little British style pub with like two taps and a small bar with the bark still on the wood. I had been there once before, after going to see a play. So before I could sit down at the bar by myself, I was hailed by a group of middle-aged Dutch travelers who had just come to San Francisco from Vegas, and were eventually going to see a truck show in Kentucky. Why a truck show, I am not quite sure, but one of them was apparently obsessed with Mack trucks. I thanked them for saving me a seat and they did not hesitate to give me their views on American politics and share with me whom they thought would make the best next president. They were pretty much split between Hillary and Obama. Republicans, it seems, were not an option. So that was a grand time. I went to sleep happy, thanks no doubt to the soporific effects of the alcohol.
This morning was bright and sunny, and I was all prepared to break my fast of cheese with some nice cheesy eggs. I went out for the paper first, and then came back and made myself some. Dang, and they were good. Why haven’t I been eating cheese? Again, I just didn’t feel like it. But it seems to me that if I don’t want to eat cheese and if it makes me feel ill when I do, then maybe I shouldn’t eat it. But no problem with it today. I also had caffeinated coffee without ill effect. And that also was very good. Here’s to mild chemicals.
And as I sat at the train stop with my cup of coffee in my hand, I was quite taken with this old man coming across the street from the pharmacy. He had white hair and a bushy white beard to match. That and his round, green beret made him look like vaguely like a leprechaun, but even though his trench coat went almost to his ankles and made kind of a little cocoon around him, there was nevertheless something dignified about the way he carried himself and something kind about his eyes. He came up and sat next to me at the stop. I felt this great urge to talk to him somehow. But as we were sitting there, a young-ish homeless (probably homeless, because he was carrying blankets and a bag of cans) came up and started cackling and rambling to himself about something or other and God and how he felt sorry for people who didn’t believe in a creator, but he believed and the Creator was not too happy with him right now, and about politics and that New York Mayor and I wondered how he got his news. The bearded little kindly-eyed man started telling him off in a gentle British accent. So I smiled and I think I said something pointless about the weather. But that opened the floodgate. The little bearded man launched into a 15-minute diatribe about how disrespectful it was for the rest of the country to ship all their homeless people off to San Francisco and just expect the residents to deal with them and they’re everywhere and they’re horrible and it’s disgusting and you can give them change but it doesn’t change anything because it’s not getting to the root of the problem, not that he gave any indication of what the problem actually was, but nevertheless. I nodded and smiled and listened. It’s good to learn about the city you’re living in.
So the train came and I went to Berkeley to see a play, then came back into town for a yoga class with my friend, who is actually the instructor. We went for Indian food afterward, and by then it was getting late.
And as I was walking up to my apartment, I was thinking about how much I wanted some chocolate. I almost never see anyone when I come home. But tonight, Patricia was there. “I made some cookies,” she said. “You should have some. I hope you like chocolate.”
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