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Dear San Francisco State University:
You have thousands of students paying thousands of dollars to attend your nifty campus near the Pacific Ocean in the fabulous metropolis that I now call home. You have some interesting programs of study and some notable alumni (Pierre Salinger, Annette Bening, Steven Zaillian and former SF mayor Willie Brown, to name a few).
In light of your impressive credentials as a university, this current education-seeker has a not-so-subtle suggestion, on behalf of all paying students:
I implore you, CLEAN YOUR RESTROOMS! Particularly those in the Humanities building, where I attend approximately 6 hours per week of classes. That's 6 hours during which, depending on my level of caffeine consumption, I may have to visit the restroom once or twice and certainly do not appreciate the vileness of its appearance and scent.
Perhaps the other restrooms on campus are lovingly cleaned and maintained, leaving only a precious few neglected. Bully for you and your maintenance staff. Would it kill them to venture into the Humanities building every now and then? I've grown rather weary of holding my breath so as not to inhale the aroma of fresh coed pee while giving my quads a nice workout as I carefully hover above a wet toilet seat.
Despite having spent many a night at campgrounds and beaches, I can't remember a public restroom quite so repellant as those on your campus. And that's not a distinction I'd imagine a respected university such as yours would aspire to earn.
Yours truly,
A Grossed-Out Tuition-Payer and Bladder-Owner
One of the biggest (and occasionally enjoyable) hassles about moving to a new city is locating and starting meaningful relationships with a host of new personal associates, including but not limited to one's new doctor, dentist, landlord, neighborhood barista, vet, accountant, etc. Having thrice moved from one coast to the other, I have almost perfected the art of finding new peeps.
After weeks of investigation (truthfully, involving little more than asking some friends "Who does your hair?"), I found a new hairstylist, a lovely Vietnamese man named Andy, to whom I entrusted my curly tresses this afternoon for the first time. Curly hair is a good and bad thing for precisely the same reason: it's kind of difficult to fuck it up. Nonetheless, I felt I was in good hands with the prettier-than-me Andy (whose business card, amusingly, reads simply: "Andy For Hair").
I very rarely blow my hair out straight simply because Good Christ, I could circle the globe on foot in the time it takes to iron out those damn curls. But oh, how I love the look of sleek strands in that classic grass-is-always-greener sort of way. Yes, straight-haired lady, I know you spend a fortune on perms to get ringlets like mine but please try to appreciate how I envy you your curl-free existence.
Anyway, today I gave in and let Andy wield that blow-dryer like the hair god he is, straightening my hair to within an inch of its life. While he was slaving away, I thumbed through a copy of Cosmo, the cover of which promised to teach us "How to Never Have a Zit Again!"
Wow! What a remarkable breakthrough in medical technology! I found this claim fascinating, though I must admit it didn't interest me nearly as much as "Seven Things You Can Do to Make Sure Your Man Will Never Walk Upright Again" or "How to Transform Your Body Into a Walking Skeleton in Just One Hour!".
True, while I've been known to gripe to the complaint department regarding my ridiculous overbite, child-bearing hips and aforementioned mass of curls, I'll admit I have been blessed with mercifully clear skin, even at the height of the adolescent acne epidemic of 1984. So blessed, in fact, that the errant zit is enough to cause panic and disquietude on the level of hearing your new lover fart for the first time and being cool with it.
So rare are zit appearances on my face that I remember the last one quite distinctly, particularly because it happened on one of the worst days in recent American history: Election Day, 2004. That morning, before heading out to the polling booth, I noticed a little pinkish friend had set up camp on my chin. Strange, thought I, fully expecting the unwelcome visitor to be gone the next day.
When he wasn't gone the next day (one I spent sobbing over the outcome of the election and the sad downward spiral America was caught in), I was too overwhelmed with grief for the death of democracy to pay much attention.
But weeks later, a slight trace of The Enduring Blemish of 2004 remained, much to my surprise and chagrin. In retrospect, I can only attribute this bizarre zit-lingering to Bush and the disastrous day in which his worries of re-election ended and the worries of those who fear his missteps increased tenfold. That the uninvited blemish stayed put for so many weeks before finally absconding can only be attributed to my body's outright rejection of another four years of Bush. Thankfully, the feeble zit decided it just didn't have the stamina to stick it out until 2008. One can only hope Bush doesn't either.
Thank you, Ayelet Waldman. Thank you for writing a new novel that has garnered considerable praise. But mostly, thank you for diligently promoting your novel on national talk shows and in local appearances all around the San Francisco Bay area.
Because of you, a handful of people I've met recently have known how to properly pronounce my name without the usual 10-minute tutorial. Luckily for me, you are fairly well-known here in the SF Bay area (your home and mine) and therefore, many San Franciscans have heard of you and I can't tell you how freakin' happy it makes me to see a glimmer of recognition in people's eyes when I tell them my name, even if their response is something along the lines of "Where'd I hear that name recently?"
Sometimes they don't even ask me to repeat it. You give all of us Ayelets a chance to be greeted with a response other than "What was your name?" when introducing ourselves to new acquaintances. And for that I thank you most kindly, Ayelet Waldman! Todah rabah!
P.S. One of these days I may even get around to reading your book.
P.P.S. I can't promise I won't read more of your husband's books first. No offense. I just really love his work.
"You! Yes you! Sit still, laddie!"
Earlier today on Morning Edition, there was a report from the small, upstate New York town where Dubya was scheduled to give a speech about his magical Medicare plan. Organizers set him up in some school gymnasium or something and, naturally, saw to it that the audience was filled with bright-eyed Bush lovers. Just like all of his appearances: Republicans only, please.
From what I heard in the report, the plan was to have Bush give his speech or do an interview or some shit like that while sitting in an important-looking leather office chair ordered especially for the occasion. But when Dubya and Co. arrived, his handlers discovered that the chair reserved for their boss man was [cue ominous music]...gulp!... a swivel chair.
Bad news.
A local handyman had to be rushed to the scene to adjust the chair so that Dubya could not distract the audience with his unbridled swiveling back and forth. Good thing his handlers forecasted this inevitable disruptive behavior and nipped it in the swivel-y bud.
I laughed, as I often do when listening to amusing radio reports (for which NPR should be commended, since I get a chance to laugh almost every morning). I couldn't help but picture Dubya in an enormous chair, swiveling unrestrained, feet dangling high above the floor like Lily Tomlin and her giant lollipop in those old Electric Company sketches (or was it Sesame Street?). Oh, the laughing. My abs hurt.
In case we didn't have enough motivation to win back control of Congress from the neocons in November, MoveOn.org offers a helpful breakdown what life will be like when Democrats regain control (notice how I optimistically refrain from using the tentative "if"). Looking solely at the House of Representatives, here is some insight into who will be leading:
Nancy Pelosi—a progressive—becomes Speaker of the House of Representatives.Perhaps one of these worthy people would actually get something positive done during what's left Dubya's fruitless presidency? Or is that too much for one disheartened citizen to hope for?John Murtha—a veteran and anti-war champion—becomes chair of the House subcommittee on defense appropriations, in charge of the budget for the war in Iraq.
John Conyers—who forced a national debate on the Downing Street Memos—becomes chairman of the House Judiciary Committee.
Henry Waxman—who has a bulls-eye on war profiteers like Halliburton—becomes chairman of the Government Reform committee.
Barney Frank—who has led efforts to rein in out-of-control CEO pay—becomes in charge of the Financial Services Committee.
David Obey—who led opposition to the Republican budget—becomes chair of the House Appropriations committee, protecting veteran's benefits, student loans and more.
Charles Rangel—who predicted the Medicare debacle—becomes chair of the House Ways and Means committee, protecting Social Security.
George Miller—a big advocate for working people—becomes chair of the House Committee on Education and the Workforce and could bring a vote to raise the minimum wage.
Seen on a bumper sticker on my walk to work this morning:
"Nixon Is No Longer the Worst President in History."
So, I've recovered from my extended George Clooney drool-fest Oscar-watching festivities, during which two friends (one of whom insisted I mention him more on my blog, but not by name... HUH?) and I finished a bottle of Beaujolais, minus the approximately one glassful of which was spilled by nameless friend's better half during our Thai food feast while Lauren Bacall was blithering on about something or other and trying to pretend she's not still bitter about not winning that year she played Barbra Streisand's mom in that horrid movie with Jeff Bridges that I saw with my aunt and cousin in a theatre on Long Island.
There. That should win me the run-on sentence of the year award, dammit.
Walking home after my morning swim today, I strolled by two young black men, decked out in football jerseys, pricy sneakers and jeans hanging dangerously below the waist. They casually passed a joint between them as if sitting in their own living room instead of out in the open, leaning against a store window on a busy city street. I inhaled a good whiff of the sweet, smoky air as I passed, an act which must have been more obvious than I'd thought because one of the guys called out, "Hey sexy, you wanna hit this?"
Nothing like a complete stranger offering to share some weed with your sexy self on a bleak, rainy Sunday morning. Thanks, guys.