The Death of San Francisco

This is a very sad day. It is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, just about two years since I moved to San Francisco, and my bird Frankie (which is short for San Francisco) died this morning at my parents' home in Massachusetts. The poor bird didn't even make it to San Francisco to live with me. So I just want to imagine a moment of chirpy silence for little Frankie. A joy to my life and a sad one to lose. RIP

The Toilet Paper Blog is live!

http://thetoiletpaperblog.blogspot.com/ Go here to get your weekly fix of toilet humour that is definitely not "potty talk." The only classy toilet blog in the world, I'll be covering international issues of bathroom technology, from the bare-bone fixtures to high-class equipment and architecture, to kids, animals, and green innovations. Follow the blog and check it out on Facebook! Who isn't a fan of having a place to go when you really need it? That's what it's there for. Free access. Open to the public. Stop by any time.

San Francisco Project

I think we can safely say that the San Francisco project has been successful. For one thing, I didn't end up back on the east coast. But here's a look back at the highlights:

- Moved across country
- Got some good work experience under my belt
- Found a place to live
- Went to France for the first time
- Ran a Marathon
- Volunteered at the Exploratorium
- Made a some friends, met some crazy people
- Generally improved my life in an overall way

Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting year.

But I think at this time, I will need to stop writing this blog, in order to focus on starting two other endeavors. One will be beekeeping, which I am starting in the spring, and the other, as inspired by the success of my "toilet paper" posts in France and beyond, will be a new blog dedicated to toilets, bathrooms, and related stories from around the world. So send me your toilet-y inspiration! I want dirty toilets, gas station toilets, holes in the ground, camping issues, lack of toilet paper, "alternative" toilet paper, toilet customs, heated seats, potty-training issues, high-tech toilets and all things bathroom related. You know you what to do. And pictures are most helpful. Watch out for when I publish my book: "A comprehensive guide to the world's toilets." And share it with your friends!

Meanwhile, I want to thank everyone who's been there to support me, or helped along the way. In no particular order, thanks to:

Nina, Holly Jo, Annabel, Susel, Hans, Jan, Gregory, Surjeet ("the Surge"), Eric, Kate, Kate S., Anne, Steve, Emma, Logan, Nancy, Nancy O., Caroline, Rabbi M., Rabbi D., Stu, Andy, the Mission Minyan, Hans's roommates, Char & Rus, Paul & Melissa, Geoff, Joel, Katy, Benjamin, Tess, Lakey, Tim, Maura, Monica, Simon, DJ, Sean, Gadiel, Gretchen, Lara, Lisa, Tina, Linda, Leslie, Raphael, Dierdre, Mike, Abe, Ben, Aaron, Sophie, the Grace Cathedral, Will, the lady on the bus, my Grandparents, as well as my aunts and uncles; to all of you, for being awesome.

Thank you. And if I left you off this list, I will go back and add your name as soon as I remember. I owe you guys a debt of gratitude. So whenever you need me, just give me a call, and I'll do what I can. Because I couldn't have done this without you.

Happy Holidays.

Airport Security

The American Airport - 3 fl. oz., in a bag, no exceptions. Take off your shoes, belt, earrings, etc. Anybody could be a terrorist.

The London Airport* - No, I can't let you back in! You could be a terrorist. Didn't you see the signs that were ill-placed and obscured by the crowds that said "no return beyond this point"? How do I know you don't have a bomb? I could lose my job. You could be arrested. Do you want to be arrested? Now, follow this maze, pick up the red phone, and call the desk, then wait an hour and somebody will bring you your luggage. I don't care if you're jetlagged, ticked off, tired and hungry. Show me an attitude, and that will prove you are a terrorist.

The French Airport - "Is this water bottle too large?" (approximately one litre, almost completely full because I just bought it for about 8 euros). "Oui, Madame." She places it in the bin and sends it through the scanner. Nobody says a word.

* Stansted - not necessarily indicative of all London airports

The job of blogging

Ah, nine o'clock. Time to get to work. The nice thing about not having a job is that I have time to enjoy my mornings. Granted, I tend enjoy them anyway, because I am part of that weird sub-sector of people who actually enjoy mornings, known as "morning people." I always have been. Really, ever since I was a kid. In fact, my fondest memories of childhood are me, waking up early in the morning, and having the time all to myself, and just being in awe of nature. It's an inspiring thing.

So this morning I went outside at 8:30, after the rains had stopped, and was watching all the little birds gathering in the tree, as the sun was shining on the branches over the rooftop. The whole yard in in shadow, except for this one tall, dead tree, where all the little yellow birds were having their morning whatever, chirping at each other and flitting about the branches. It makes one happy. And then I remembered being in France, which is a nice thing to remember.

I happen to like France. And maybe it comes with being part French. Perhaps it is a prerequisite. Perhaps it is just in my blood. But while I am also part German, I can't really say the same for Germany. For one thing, it is almost impossible to get still water in Germany. They apparently only drink fizzy water, which I hate. You'll be stuck on a boat, going to some island, and all you want is a drink of normal water, and you can't find any. It doesn't exist. Sorry, all we've got is fizzy water - mit gas. Oh, fuck it, you say. I'll just go thirsty. So you get to the island and it's all very nice.

But I do like my German family. I have to say that. And they really know how to do hospitality. There is nothing you need when you go and stay with them. They'll give you the clothes off their back if they have to, and smile while they are doing it. In fact, if you have to do something for yourself while they are there, they are liable to be offended. But they are also very interested in everything that you are doing. It's not like visiting in America. In the States, going to someone's house is like an imposition. And everyone else gets this idea, too, so it's really hard to do anything. Yes, please, come visit! you say. No, I couldn't possibly. I'd be in the way. No, really, I mean it, I like to have guests. No, you don't. You're just saying that. Here, let me make several excuses for why I can't come visit. Oh, screw off. I wasn't really friends with you anyway. And that's how it goes. Charming, isn't it? Which is why I'd rather live in France.

But I don't want to live in Germany. For one thing, the weather is terrible. And I can't really stomach the food. Because even though I like meat, and I eat it, I really think of it as an adjunct to the other parts of the meal, whereas they are very much meat-obsessed. So much so that they will often put beef and pork into the same dish. It's not enough to have just one or the other. No. It's like they say to themselves, hey, beef is good. Pork is good. We've got a lot of both. Why don't we just cook them together? And so they do. But to me, that is just ridiculous. If you are going to have beef, have beef, and if you are going to eat pork, eat pork. But it makes it very hard to avoid one or the other if they are putting them together all the time. And then there's chicken, but that's not really meat there, is it? They might as well have beef in their chocolate cake.

But anyway. France. France is very good for sandwiches. They make wonderful tuna sandwiches. I was very impressed. Because, unlike San Francisco, where basic food products cost you an arm and a leg, you can still get a baguette for 50 euro-cents, and a sandwich for 3.50, which is quite reasonable, even with the exchange rate. Especially since your sandwich comes on a baguette, which makes it enormous, and yet somehow just the perfect size. But I figured out the reason the tuna sandwiches were so nice was that they put anchovies in them. At first I thought they just had salty tuna, and then I saw the anchovies. So they put anchovies in them, and also olives, which makes them slightly Mediterranean, as well as eggs, because they put eggs in everything. Because eggs are good.

And the other thing they have in France are escargots. I tried escargots at a French restaurant in San Francisco, which were quite nice. But the only escargots I experienced in France were the millions of little tiny white ones that were everywhere. And by "everywhere," I mean if you were to look at a field of grass, say, in southern France, in the middle of July, which is when I was there, you would say, oh, that's lovely, and then you would walk up closer, look at the grass, and realize that it was covered with lots of tiny white things, which were snails, not bigger than your thumbnail. And they would climb up posts and cluster there. Who knows what they were doing. Certainly not being raised for food. More of an invasive species, I'd say. I asked my French friend what they were called - qu'est-ce ci sont des petits escargots blancs? Des petits escargots blancs... he would tell me, rolling his lovely French eyes, with a knowingly perturbed, yet tolerant, even amused smile. I looked them up on the internet. Google "les petits escargots blancs," and you will find bewildered rants from gardeners in France who have no idea how to manage the little buggers. But that doesn't mean the French are angry about them. The French do not get angry easily. Or maybe they do. But overall, they have a high regard for life, and a fine and healthy sense of the absurd that lets them not take things all too heavily. This I find refreshing compared to our overly-emotional, heavily-weighted American culture. In France, if you are depressed, it's not such a big deal. Someone will come along to cheer you up. Offer you a cigarette, or a chat, or have some wine. In America, it's go to the therapist, and get medication, because your brain is hopelessly out of whack, and the medication of course means that you can't drink wine. Consequently the likelihood that you will get more depressed is, I would say, approximately 100%. That is my experience, and the general trend, as I observe it, and then everyone else says, where is the country going? Why are we all depressed? Here, take more medication. There you go, now come back to therapy for years and years and years. I'll make you chemically dependent, you'll throw me all your money, I'll get rich, and your life will go down the tubes because you are essentially incurable. That's because they only disease you have is Humanity, and nobody can cure you of that. But keep coming to therapy anyway. I swear I can help you. There's a good girl. Now, we'll see you next week, right? I'll bill your insurance. What's that? You don't have insurance? Well, that's alright then. You can just pay me in advance. No matter if your family is starving. It's YOU that's important. Remember that. It's ALL about YOU. But try not to be too selfish. That's part of your problem, isn't it? Too much navel-gazing. Got to get out of your head. Just talk about yourself for an hour. That will fix the problem. Right. See you next week!

Meanwhile, your personal finances are going down the tubes. You keep throwing money into the black hole of your psyche. Why isn't anything changing! Haha, that's because it's a trap! You can't change! It's all an illusion. It's all a clever construct to make you think there is something wrong with you when there isn't, and the more the guilt takes over, the more your desire to change feeds into that process, and somebody's raking in the money. It's not you, of course. You are convinced you are worthless, and your experience confirms it. The minute you tell someone you've gone to therapy, that's it. Eyebrows are raised. We can't trust you, can we? Oh, no, better look out for her. Loose cannon, she is. But I was just taking care of my own mental health! Sure, you were. Well, better go back to therapy so we can not trust you some more. That's right, and while you're at it, throw me some money, then maybe I'll trust you. Whoops, no I won't! Just kidding! Haha. But pay me some more money - take your medication, that's right - talk about yourself for an hour - stop talking about yourself! It's wholesale abuse, I say. It's a wretched system, and it needs to be abolished.

Now, what's up with this whole economic disaster thing going on? I'd say a symptom of the same process. It's not obvious of course, just a by-product of the same flawed mentality of, "oops, I've got a problem, let me throw money at it." And when the money runs out, throw money you don't have, convinced you'll be able to pay it back, and when you can't, feel bad about it, because guilt is the only appropriate response, and let somebody else reap the benefits - or foot the bill. It's not my fault! And the drug companies. Where are they in this equation? They are not running to the government for a "bail-out." That's because they don't need one. They've been feeding off our collective psyches for so long, they are basically set for life. They essentially run this country, and we don't even realize it. Maybe you don't believe me, but when they can pay off tens of millions of dollars at the drop of a hat, just to keep a law suit quiet, and when they control the information that is published, as well as how to work the FDA approval system, well, I have to say I get a little suspicious. And then a lot of other people will tell you, but drugs have improved so many lives! Maybe they have. But that can only happen when you've convinced someone that their life is worthless without it. Where has our humanity gone? It's gone into a pill, that's where it's gone. It's gone into a laboratory. And when things get a little screwed up, you can blame it on the drugs. That way no one is really responsible. Good plan! I have a better idea. Why don't we quit working 70 hours a week, lower our expectations a little bit, and just visit each other more often. That's some therapy I could look forward to.

And now for some wine and cheese...

So Berkeley

The Daily Show With Jon StewartM - Th 11p / 10c

Marines in Berkeley

Barack Obama Interview
John McCain Interview

Sarah Palin Video
Funny Election Video

Buzz Buzz

Is it wrong to get an emotional high from a beekeeper's meeting? Is that totally off the charts for a desirable social situation?

First of all, on my way to the meeting, walking under the lights strung about Lake Merritt in Oakland, I thought, anyone would have to crazy to want to keep bees. I mean, you must need to have a requisite level of very slight insanity to want to actively stick your hands into a swarm of stinging insects.

But beekeepers have a sense of humor. In a nerdy kind of way. They'll say things like "bee" this and "bee" that. We met in a room filled with taxidermy. One man gave a presentation on swarm removal, and he had a box of natural comb that he had removed from a tree. The woman next to me knitted up a storm.

It seems to me the type of person who keeps bees probably has other tendencies as well. Among them, running and knitting. This woman did both. She also lives in Alameda.

The other highlight of my evening was that I scored a bucket. That's another thing that makes me inordinately excited. I go out, eat food at a meeting, and come home with a free bucket. But, as I explained to the woman, who drove me home (to whom I did not need to make any excuses), it's exciting to have something like a bucket when you don't have one and you normally take them for granted. Plus, I learned from art never to throw a jar away. You don't know how it might come in handy. Then again, maybe I learned that from my grandmother.

Little Shop of Orchid

This is what my orchid looks like right now. Do you see what I mean? Is this not the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen? And then, for some reason, something told me to look at the back. So I looked at the back. Are you kidding me? FOUR??? How is this possible? What's going on? Who's been secretly feeding my orchid Miracle Grow? Not Camilla. She just got here. But I'm not complaining. I am actually quite curious to see what this ends up looking like. I hope it blooms.

For the Bees

So, this is going to be me, after I get my bees:



Okay, except that I probably won't be Eddie Izzard.

(video courtesy of Benn)

For the Birds

My bird, San Francisco (otherwise known as Frankie), still lives in Boston with my parents, where he likes to eat the foam off my father's cappuccino. He reportedly got so enthusiastic one time that he actually fell in while trying to get the last bit of foam off the bottom! But he quickly recovered.

In other bird news, I found myself laughing to tears over this one:

Peregrine Falcons

And my father sent me this link:

Dancing Cockatoo

The bird is pretty good, I think. I always did enjoy the Backstreet Boys myself.