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Waiting in line to go through security at the Reno Airport the other day for my short flight home, I spotted two burly middle-aged men, decked out in jeans, boots, leather NASCAR jackets and black cowboy hats. They were hugging. One was crying. They hugged. And hugged. And hugged.
I guess what happens in Reno stays in Reno.
Working on various freelance projects this morning and wondering when our "government" is planning to address Osama's new message, as it's an important one. Wondering why it is isn't bigger news, actually, along with rightful President Al Gore's vital, articulate and blood-boiling address last week (please read more here and the entire text here).
Finally, a Democrat with the BALLS to stand up and challenge Bush's illegal activity and yet only a fraction of his party members show their support. A brilliant address to the nation by a genuine leader is less widely-reported than Jen's reaction to Angelina's pregnancy. It all makes me very sad for this country and the people we trust to oppose those who insist on running it illegally and immorally in the name of security.
Especially when my dear friend Craig is headed back to Iraq this weekend for his THIRD tour. That's three periods of 7-8 months each away from his wife and 4-year-old daughter. That's three periods too many, if you ask me. For him and his colleagues, none of whom belong there, none of whom our government cares about as they ship them off to fight an unnecessary war. Craig, we'll all be thinking of you, missing you and proudly praising you and all your good work in Iraq. We love you!
Settling in after a marvelous Thai dinner with some new friends, I am full and--having eschewed beverages of the alcoholic variety with my meal--wide awake.
Two weeks in San Francisco, the city I've wanted to live in for well over a decade and what do I have to say for myself? Not much, considering I remain very much in the honeymoon phase (a phase which wore off in Manhattan only near the tail end of my years there). Ask me again when the majority of my time is spent staring at a computer screen, scrambling to finish writing assignments for school. I'm sure the sentiment in my response will be vastly different than that of a woman living a life of leisure in this fantastic city.
Yesterday, I was out enjoying an afternoon jog (I have yet to join a gym, but when you live in a town with holy-shit-look-how-fucking-steep-that-is hills at every turn, just stepping out for a newspaper is all the cardio workout you need) when I happened upon the Cable Car Museum. Pretty neato, thought I, and ventured in, despite the not entirely presentable combination of ruddy cheeks and sweat-stained workout gear.
Who knew the cable cars are all powered by this one control room? Who knew they run on pulleys and sheaves? (And what the frick is a sheave, anyway?) Who knew they maintain a constant speed of 9.5 miles per hour (far faster than any L.A. freeway)? Geeks like me get all giggly-cheerleader excited to learn about shit like this. Don't expect me to develop the remotest interest in cooking or sewing or carpentry or anything remotely useful. But I'll get all freaky geeky up in here when it comes to planes, trains and automobiles. Oh, and history. And animals. We all know I hate being without my Animal Planet and Discovery Channel. They should just combine them all into THE GEEK CHANNEL for 24-hour-a-day full-blown geekery. I might seriously consider not leaving the house again.
All kidding aside, it becomes more apparent to me as years go by that I can be entirely too observant for my own good. I notice things. Things I see and hear tend to sink in quickly and deeply and then frustrate the shit out of me when I can't convey them as eloquently as I'd like on paper (or, in this case, in cyberspace). Occasionally, things go unnoticed by me, sometimes pointed out by others in my company to my utter (Shit, I can't believe I missed that) surprise. Still, I tend to observe and absorb far more than what I imagine the everyday person does. I look, I notice, I absorb, I learn. This seemingly infinite range of perception should make me a better writer, but instead I think all it does is make me a better ponderer. I ponder things. A LOT. I'm the precocious two-year-old whose persistent response to every question or statement is "WHY?"
One of the elective courses I'll be taking for my program at SFSU is Science Writing. I'm more excited about this than almost any other in the curriculum. Through this course, I'm hoping to discover new and satisfying ways to answer the question "WHY?" that will suit even the most insatiably curious among us.
Sigur Ros has released a new album, from which I've just heard a couple of tracks. Like their others, it is absolutely beautiful. Someone please tell me again why we're bombarded with marginally-talented wastes of space and painfully few true artists? I will never understand.
I was also recently introduced to a soulful British singer by the name of Corinne Bailey Rae. Let's hope she ascends the ranks of obscurity because I was mesmerized by her voice. Mariah Carey and her hoards of soulless clones have nothing on this woman.
Speaking of marginally talented, I saw Munich the other night and discovered that Eric Bana is anything but. I was completely engrossed in his performance. My companion emailed the next day to inform me that Bana was an Australian stand-up comic. Who knew?
Geoffrey Rush is always brilliant. The actress playing Avner's wife is named Ayelet. Nice. And it was awfully kind of John Williams to restrain himself from grand, sweeping orchestral resonance for a change.
In continuing my stint as inconsequential critic, I'll say Brokeback Mountain is one of the most moving stories I've seen in years. A week later and I'm still thinking about it (when I'm not thinking about Munich). That's a rare feat for a film these days. Very few manage to stay with me once I've exited the theatre in search of food.
I'm dancing around pop-culture chitchat because I'm too wrecked to delve deep into all the other issues I'd like to write about at present. But that will change.
Greetings and happy 2006 from my new city of residence. After finally making my long-desired move, I am settling in to my new San Francisco digs, thrilled beyond the realm of human thrill to have returned to city life. Oh, how I missed you, crowded sidewalks, street noise, diversity, literacy, accessibility, pedestrians, mass transit, restaurants open after 9pm. And that disheveled gent walking behind me down the street last night shouting gruffly, "Dick! Anyone want some dick? Who wants some dick? Dick! Dick! Dick!" Bless it all.
Sorry for the stock photo; I'll take some of my own as soon as I recharge my camera.
The sound of traffic passing beneath my third-story window at night lulls me to sleep like crickets and ocean waves do others. Peering out my blinds and seeing not dark, silent stillness but buildings, lights, cars and people fills me with a sense of calm and ease that only city life could. I belong here.
Despite my anxiousness to flee, my time in Humboldt was not at all ill-spent. I desperately needed the opportunity to decompress after six years in NYC. I needed that closeness to nature, that quiet coastal life, that unmistakable small-town rhythm. I needed it and I benefitted tremendously from it, leaving there healthier than I'd been in years, armed with some amazing experiences and beloved friends. I've physically left my life there, but have taken with me those aspects I could not part with (my darling friends) and still require (the job I enjoyed, which, thankfully, I get to continue doing on a freelance basis).
I'm a longtime fan of Dominick Dunne's monthly contribution to Vanity Fair. In December's issue, Dunne mentions a letter he received from Truman Capote during a particularly difficult time in Dunne's life when he isolated himself in a one-room Oregon cabin for six months. Capote wrote: "Remember this, that is not where you belong and when you get out of it what you went there to get, you have to come back to your own life." Which is precisely how I feel about my 22 months in Humboldt and the chapter I'm entering now.
Now that the hellacious move is behind me and I'm settling in, the transition period begins yet again. And, as it was upon my move to Manhattan in 1998, it is a transition I've longed to make for years. Yes, the move to San Francisco is a long time coming, something I'd considered quite often before leaving New York, something I feel has been inevitable since my first visit here when I was 19 and accompanied my friend Patrick on a whirlwind, two-day trip during which I decided with some certainty that I wanted to live here someday.
Back to today. Exploring a new city is near the top of my "Shit I Like to Do" list (admit it, you have one, too). Wandering unfamiliar streets, making mental notes of where to find the nearest grocery store, coffee shop, gym, dry cleaner, post office, bank, dive bar. Getting lost, eager to avoid the shame of pulling out a city map to re-orient myself, but choosing rather to just fucking figure it out. Wandering, exploring, investigating, discovering... I only wish a city could always be new and that the thrill of exploration never had to fade along with the realization that no one fucking knows you exist.
Along with my triumph return to the concrete jungle comes new challenges, including the grizzly bear on my back that is graduate school. My path remains unclear, but classes begin soon and the idea of being a student after eight years outside the academic world is slightly terrifying. But I'm excited for the challenge, for the chance to feed my brain in a structured setting, to impress my professors with witty papers not at all purchased on eBay. And I know full well how lucky I am to have this opportunity, no matter how many hours I have to put in at the local "massage parlor" to pay for it.
Luck is something I plan NOT to take for granted in 2006, or ever. However we may whine about our misfortunes, I have learned to recognize how very minor they are in comparison with the millions in the world who would consider our lives the pinnacle of luxury compared to their daily struggle for sustenance. As I embark on a new adventure equipped with every damn thing I need to live a happy, healthy, secure life, I count my blessings. This I'll do every day of 2006 and every year that follows.
Here's to a peaceful year.