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Thanks to cyber-pal Bill for pointing me toward Gizoogle, a hip-hop version of the site we all wonder daily how the hell we ever lived without.
Here's how Gizoogle presents Ayelet Like It Is. (Warning: I laughed my mother-lovin' ass off when I saw this and had to be subdued with prescription drugs.)
Absolutely friggin' classic: Bush Sings U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday"
With everything going on in the world + the brutal heat (yes, I know most of you are 20 degrees over what we have here in SF, but it's still too hot) + being exhausted from reading about the former and running around all day in the latter = me, contentedly at home on a Saturday night.
A couple of hours ago, I stood on my fire escape in shorts and a tank top, deep in the midst of a cleaning frenzy, scrubbing the outside of my filthy kitchen window. The sun had finally disappeared to the west, leaving me shaded by my own building and thus, far more comfortable.
Suddenly, from the sidewalk three stories below I hear, "Hey, you want your windows cleaned?" And I look down to see a young, mustached fellow holding a long squeegee and bucket. As if he sensed that, somewhere among the busy streets of lower Nob Hill, somewhere a clean-freaky damsel in distress might be struggling to reach every square inch of her windows and thus be in dire need of his immediate assistance! Such a man is a superhero of the highest order. I mean, Batman, Superman, et al, are decent guys and all, but none would take time out from battling evil to bother with inconsequential tasks such as cleanliness. Leave that to Window Man!
And so it was that a kind, black leather-clad lad climbed up the ladder to my fire escape and dutifully scrubbed the outside of my windows to a crystal-clear sheen the likes of which I have never been privileged to behold in all my years as a big-city dweller.
And so it is that I can now see with far better clarity than I should into the windows of dozens of other city dwellers, providing endless hours of entertainment and rendering my cable TV completely unnecessary. Thank you, Window Man!
A friend from SomewhereOutsideCaliforniaLand emailed me earlier and asked how things are in "perpetually sunny California?" Now, the myth of perpetual sunniness is one that has long needed shattering, especially in reference to the northern half of the state. Yes, we are enjoying sunshine at the moment. No, we do not live in perpetual enjoyment. You must have us confused with San Diego.
This exchange between friends evoked one of those *BAM!* moments when a childhood memory leaps into the forefront of your thoughts from deep within the great expanse known as the "back" of your mind, where memories good and bad live in giant archives nestled amidst the grey matter, dripping with anticipation for the proud day they'll be recalled.
When I was six years old and living in the redheaded stepchild of boroughs that is Staten Island, my parents alerted our neighbors that we were preparing to move to greener pastures out west. One of these neighbors (Mom, do you remember?) took to singing "California, Here I Come" whenever I was around.
I remember liking the tune, liking the fact that I was moving to a new state with a cool name that I was excited to spell. And yet whenever Mr. Wannabe-Sinatra would sing, he had me wondering what the hell "bowers of flowers" were and how exactly the "Golden Gate" was going to open up for us? I had made numerous airplane trips to California in my half-dozen years on Earth and never once had I seen any such gate opening. Maybe it didn't open when you were going there to visit, only when you went to live there? Maybe we had to sign up in order for the gate to open for us?
Now, nearly 30 years later, living in the shadow of the Golden Gate, I am aware of its significance and awed by its powerful beauty. I suppose it opened up for me when I first arrived at six and even more so when I returned at 32, weary after six years in Manhattan. And I'm confident that, should I choose to leave again, it will remain open, awaiting my eventual return. Though I still have no fucking idea what bowers of flowers are.
...in spite of Melody's look of sheer terror at the prospect of slowly starving to death, there was still food left in their dish when I returned home last night.
And my bed was poop-free. All is good in my home.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my family in Haifa and scattered throughout Israel, where life is far from good these days. So far, everyone is safe, though we're awaiting further details on what's going on there. We are all hopeful that they stay safe as the conflict continues and we pray in our own way for whatever semblance of peace the mideast can muster.
Yesterday I spent the better part of the afternoon at the wonderful San Francisco SPCA, where I have been volunteering for the past couple of months, handling kitties of all shapes and sizes and learning how to facilitate the adoption process so that these cats have the chance to go live in suitable, happy homes. It absolutely breaks my heart to listen to the cries of lonely kitties, but it's worth it to feel I'm doing my part to help ease their loneliness both temporarily and, with any luck, permanently.
That was yesterday.
Today, in a hideous shift in responsibility, I left my own two beloved felines at home with much less food than they're used to simply because I couldn't get it together to purchase a fresh, two-ton bag of the pricy stuff over the weekend. The girls will not starve, mind you, but I couldn't bear the look of panic in Melody's eyes when I left this morning: "That's all you're leaving us, evil woman? I can almost see the bottom of my dish! Child abuse, child abuse!"
I am a terrible mother. It would serve me right to find a carefully-placed kitty poop under my covers when I climb into bed tonight.
Take note of today's date. July. Summer, right? Not in San Francisco, it ain't! I wore a scarf for my walk to work today. In July. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. On the contrary! After two recent trips to 90+-degree climates, I'm most certainly not complaining.
It seems San Francisco's typical "June gloom" waited an extra few weeks to make its appearance this year. Which means June was chock full of perfect, sunny 70-degree days and this second week of July has started off cloudy, foggy and chilly. I say, "Bring it!"
Gotta love KCRW.org. They're playing "Wish You Were Here" at this very moment. R.I.P., Syd Barrett.
What else? I finally caught Wordplay this past weekend and have to say it was the best time I've had at the movies in as long as I can remember. I loved it. And not just because I so fully relate to each and every puzzle-doing freak in the film. I was pleased that my companion, someone who has never in his three decades on Earth attempted a crossword, enjoyed the film just as much as I did. No need to belong to the crossword cult to revel in its wackiness!
Lastly, I have to respond to Liberty Counsel attorney Mathew Staver's "close, but no cigar" remarks on the issue of same-sex marriage. Staver seems to think that gay marriage should not be legalized on the grounds that it does not lead to procreation. Fair enough. But what Staver fails to explain is his plan for prohibiting marriage for those of us blasphemous heterosexuals who have no intention of ever producing offspring. According to Staver's viewpoint, we irreverant souls (like our homosexual brethren) fall outside the Christian definition of marriage as nothing less than a child-producing venture. Oh, what's to be done with us?
Then there's Staver's buddy, attorney Glen Lavy, who stated, "Procreation is the only reason that the state is justified in regulating adult intimate relationships." Umm... nice try, Glen. Please do us all a favor and find some other fictitious reason to try and hoodwink the public into believing same-sex marriage will destroy our society. Then take a look at your own life and enlighten all of us to just what it is that gives you the right to condemn the way others live. Maybe your pal Staver can help you.
The SF Chronicle's wonderful Mark Morford does it again, brilliantly summing up how just about every person I know feels about the shameful disgrace that is our president:
George W. Bush Is Dead to Me: Nation cringes as the worst president ever continues long, painful slog to the end
On a happier note, I'd like to welcome my dear friend (and fellow grammar cop) Aaron to the blog world. May your words be easy-flowing and your visitors many!
Last night I had a pleasant dream involving not just one, but two people with whom I am acquainted solely through their blogs. Cyber-strangers, if you must. The list of blogs to which I regularly tune in is short--fewer than 10. And of those, only two or three are penned by people I've never met but whose lives I have been cyber-following in a rather pitiable effort to connect with more People Just Like Me. (They are out there, you know, so be warned.)
So, two of these cyber-strangers saw fit to show up in my dream last night and taunt me with evidence of their far superior blogs and, let's face it, better hair.
Meanwhile, in my cloudiness, I neglected to note that this blog recently reached the impressive milestone of its 4th anniversary. When the mood strikes, I enjoy going back in time, reading about what was happening in my life at various times, how I reacted to the news, how I spent my time. This blog has become a cherished window into the past; a snapshot of the pieces of my life I've chosen to share. It has replaced my journal, in many ways. Its archives provide an enlightening glimpse of where I've been and how far I've come.