Laundry Day

I am now so familiar with my neighbor’s underwear that I know when he gets a new pair.

Is it time to move?

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This is not my laundry day.

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Every time a bell rings

My dad and I were having lunch at Baghdad Cafe a few hours ago when a group of over a hundred (and I am going to guess WELL over a hundred) Hell’s Angels showed up for a lunchtime floor show. (Side note: How weird is it that they have a web site and my dentist does not? P. D. weird.) We watched as hundreds of members of the alleged gang sped past us down Market Street, ignoring the traffic lights and speed limits, as they mourned the murdered leader of their blah blah blah shiny loud motorcycles!

About here is where I would put the pictures I took of the ride using my cellphone camera, but unfortunately I have not yet taken the time to figure out how to use it. D’oh. Judging from what I saw today, I think I know what the Hell’s Angels would have to say to that:

VRRRRRRROOOOOOM!!!

SFist has a photo of the group on the freeway here, which comes from this flickr user.

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Lie to get laid

Katy forwarded an article to me this morning entitled “Gals, Prep Your Pad for a Date.” I especially like it when compared to the companion article, “Guys: Is Your Place Female-Friendly?”.

Advice for the ladies seems to focus on hiding the less attractive parts of who you are. For example, don’t display your porcelain figurine collection, even if you really love it. Instead, replace it with something that tells your date who you are, like JAZZ CDS AND ART SUPPLIES. (In other words, make sure your shelves help make you into someone he can fantasize about — even if it is completely foreign to who you are and what you like.) And don’t keep stuffed animals or tea sets (tea sets?) in your bedroom, or he’ll think you’ve got a little girl complex, which is sick. Instead, let him “accidentally” find the stuffed animal you hid in the bedroom, making him think you have a secret little girl complex, which is hot.

For guys, advice is mostly: don’t paper the walls with pictures of your ex-girlfriends, and don’t be a filthy pig. It seems a little…obvious? And less insulting? But maybe I’m wrong, and this advice is just as bad. I mean, if your ex-girlfriend really IS your central interest, then of course you should display that. Ditto for filth. But I notice no one is telling guys to fill their fridge with “welcoming snacks like […] Brie and apples.”

My favorite part of all this is that there’s a person that people can hire who comes to their homes to help them get ready for a date. If you are insecure about your ability to be insecure, you can now hire a professional to come in and do it for you.

Finally, Katy on the guy article:

“Women don’t roll out of bed looking like they do on dates, so keep a bar of soap on hand.” […] I just don’t want to date someone so pre-social they don’t have soap already, before the “pad expert” came to their house.

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The dream that you wish will come true

This weekend, Gene and I spent three days in Disneyland with Jack and Dan and their whole family. I was initially nervous about this plan, as I’ve never spent more than a day at a time in the magic kingdom (TM). But, as you might expect, it was wonderful. Disneyland is a place where all your dreams come true (TM), and if you spend three days there then your dreams come true three times as much. I would like to share a few vignettes from my trip with you, the internets.

Kid Stuff

My favorite part of Disneyland is seeing the characters walking around. I don’t have this kind of reaction anywhere else — characters you see in parades or at Great America, for example, leave me cold. But the Disney experience is so masterfully crafted, with every detail of the park designed to contribute to the illusion, that I find I get really excited when I see a character.

However, my excitement was nothing compared to the kids, and it was almost as much fun to watch them as to watch the characters. For example, while waiting by the carousel in California Adventure, four princesses walked up arm-in-arm (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Ariel and Belle, if you care) and boarded the carousel. You would not believe the expressions on the faces of the little kids in line when they realized that they were about to get to ride the carousel next to the princesses. They were transported with excitement and awe. (I, also, was transported, but old enough to realize that by staying off the carousel I would be able to actually see all the princesses as they went around.)

My favorite, though, was the little girl standing in front of me at the Parade of Dreams (TM), which is a sparkly extravaganza in the traditional Disney style, featuring characters and music from many of their best animated movies. This little girl I speak of was beside herself as the Ariel float came around. Clearly a mermaid worshiper from way back. After Ariel came the Ursula float (Ariel is the heroine and Ursula is the villain from The Little Mermaid, if you’re not up on your Disney), and the little girl cowered in terror. “Ursula!” she gasped, and her eyes got huge, and she sort of crouched down. She waited until the float was well past us, and then she stood up. With what was clearly a tremendous courageous effort, she yelled “Too bad, Ursula! You’ll never catch Ariel now! She’s too far ahead of you!”

I especially enjoyed this because, while Ariel was a real person, the role of Ursula on this float was played by a giant balloon.

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This is not my parade.

Parent Stuff

People and their kids. Where to begin. Mostly, parenting is not a great spectator sport. If you’re seeing a family in public, the parents (it seems to me) tend to look harassed and stressed, and I get the impression that their kids are spending most of their time trying to fling themselves in front of buses and light themselves on fire, and are kept alive only by ceaseless parental vigilance. (I’m not making fun. I really think most kids are constantly on the lookout for lighters to play with.)

At Disneyland, I saw parents looking a lot more relaxed. Disneyland has plenty of ways a kid can hurt himself, lose himself or kill himself, but it also has roughly ten thousand staff members whose only job is to make sure you are enjoying yourself, i.e. that your kid is not trying to doorbell ditch at Death’s door. And I think that at Disneyland, kidless adults like me have a higher tolerance than usual towards the younger generation. I find most kids who aren’t related to me to be really pretty irritating, but at Disneyland they’re an important part of the overall experience. This means people like me aren’t always scowling at these poor harassed parents, which in turn means the parents can relax when their kids are squealing and running around and generally being kidlike.

The only weird parenting thing is the picture taking. Sometimes this takes the form of character pictures: I saw a lot of parents manually manipulating their childrens’ limbs into cute poses with the characters, and sometimes grabbing the character’s arms as well to pose them for the shot.

I also enjoyed the parents who were posing their kids in the giant cage of (fake) human bones (TM) on the newly-branded Pirate Island which was once Tom Sawyer’s Island. It was a lot of parents putting their kids’ heads next to grinning skulls and going “Oh, now that is perfect. That is just adorable.” Mortality! So cute.

All of this was enjoyable for kids and parents, I think. The only exception was the lady next to me at the parade, who kept forcing her little boy to pose in front of the parade for her — with his back to the parade. His long-suffering expression was both miserable and resigned, making me think he’d probably spent a lot of his six years of life standing with his back to stuff that he’d really have enjoyed looking at.

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This is not my cage of bones.

Out With The Old

Yes, you read it right back there: Tom Sawyer’s Island is no more. Actually, the way the Disney website puts it is “Beware! Pirates have overtaken Tom Sawyer Island!” The Island has been themed to the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, which is kind of funny, given that those movies were based on a different Disneyland attraction.

I actually like the new theme, because it means there are hot pirates roaming the island. I posed for pictures with two of them — one distracted me while the other one rummaged in my purse. And I was crossing one of the island’s wobbly bridges when I heard “Can I clean that for you, miss?” I glanced up and Jack Sparrow’s face was about an inch from mine, and he was also trying to get at my purse.

Yes, it is weird to have an actor portraying a live-action character. This is a guy who looks like Johnny Depp looking like a pirate. But the weirdness disappears when he is right up in your face, trying to steal your purse, because everything is transformed into handsomeness.

Here’s a picture of one of the Sparrows kissing his girlfriend, one of the Ariels. He was later fired. Dreams do come true in Disneyland, but remember that a dream is a wish your heart makes. If other parts of you are wishing, there’s no guarantee.

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Open and Close

12 Galaxies closes its doors tomorrow. The club was one of the better venues in the Mission according to my own rating system: there are plenty of places to be where you don’t have to press your chest against someone’s back; there’s a mezzanine for standing around looking cool without being in the crowd; and they regularly hosted excellent local acts, including several of my friends.

12 Galaxies, as everyone knows, was named for Frank Chu, one of SF’s favorite faces. Chu carries a sign which, when I first started seeing him around back in 99 or 00, said:

IMPEACH CLINTON

12 GALAXIES

GUILTIED [sic] INTO A

TECHNOTRONIC ROCKET SOCIETY

The sign changes regularly but the number of galaxies stays the same. Meanwhile, Chu, as I heard it, was welcome to have free drinks at the bar, and occasionally announced an act in a rambling and disjointed sort of way.

A moment of silence for the guiltied rocket society, fallen to the demands of poverty at last.

In other news, our very own city aquarium, the California Academy of Sciences, opens next month after some serious remodeling. It’s not the Monterey Bay Aquarium, but it offers a nice variety of wildlife, dead and alive, and plenty of informational exhibits to bore your kids with. I just like to look at the fish and skulls and stuff. The Academy opens on September 27, and I think I will be spending my birthday there. Open invitation to anyone who wants to take October 17 off to join me.

Incidentally, Gene and I recently visited the Monterey Aquarium and Gene took some lovely pictures, which you’ll find here.

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Summer Camp

Girls learn about health, beauty at spa camp

Oh, the things that happen at summer camp – and what a camp Daron ran for tweens this summer in Marin: a ‘spa campaign,’ or beauty school that sought to teach girls about health and beauty from the inside out.

While other children were finishing sessions at tennis camp, science camp or Bible camp, a handful of girls in the affluent Marin County enclave – the daughters of financiers, engineers, consultants and the like – were learning about the benefits of footbaths with warm water, lavender and sea salt; honey, sea salt and ground ginger foot scrub; and foot massages with olive oil and avocado paste. Manicures followed on Tuesday, lessons on sunscreen on Wednesday, yoga and meditation on Thursday, and more massage treatments – for anyone the girls wanted to bring in and practice their new skills on – on Friday.

Girls who wished to stay for the second week of camp were treated to classes in Brazilian wax jobs. “Beauty comes from the inside out,” said camp founder Daron, “and we need to get those hair follicles to come from the inside out.” She added, “It’s never too early to learn that your newly-grown pubic hair is repulsive to men.”

“Remember, beauty comes from the inside out,” Daron said, pushing back one camper’s cuticles. “Wait, which one is the inside and which is the outside? I always forget.”

Later, the girls made lo-cal s’mores and took turns ostracizing the least attractive members of the group.

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This is not my summer camp.

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Birthday at the JuJu

Gene and I attended Ian’s birthday bash at the Lucky JuJu last night. This sounds like it might be a dive bar on 24th Street, but it’s actually a pinball arcade in Alameda which Ian’s lovely wife rented out for two whole hours of free play.

The games at the arcade range from old-school mechanical to the new electronic kind. I tried many eras, and I have to say that as much as I appreciate the old-school machines for their intriguing designs, the new ones are more fun to play. They make more booply noises and have more flashing lights and the flippers can really whack the ball. Many of the old machines were built with weak flippers, making it a game of skill instead of a game of working out frustration on an innocent ball. Anyone who has seen me up to bat in our baseball games knows which kind of game I prefer.

I don’t generally think of Ian and his l. w. Tracy as being older than me, but now and then I’m reminded of it — and not just because I am stuffing my face with a huge slice of fantastic vegan cake that says “40!” on it. At the arcade, Ian said a few things that made me realize he’s just been on the planet longer than I have. For example, he knows which brand of pinball machine he likes and which he doesn’t. It is amazing to me that anyone could live long enough that they have acquired likes and dislikes about pinball brands. At what age have you gotten all the big, important life questions sorted out so that you have brain space to spare for pinball preferences? I shake my head in awe.

(“I think he’s just indie,” Gene says. But no. Old.)

If you’re interested in playing some wicked fun pinball without losing all your laundry money, you can visit the L. JuJu on your own. Admission for adults is $10 and all the machines are set on free play. It will not be so fabulous as having Ian and Tracy there, but still pretty fabulous, and I recommend checking it out at your earliest opportunity. And make sure you try the Dracula game.

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Jumping the frog

Gene and I are heading for Calaveras County with my folks this weekend. We’re all renting a cabin together, which will give the ‘rents three uninterrupted days of carefully not mentioning marriage. It’s good practice for them. I mean, whether we get married or not, there’s only going to be a limited amount of time when they can talk about marriage, right? The few months we’re engaged, the actual wedding day, and then what? Are they going to sit around after we’re married, saying “So, when are you guys going to…stay married?” I think not. So you can see that these not-mentioning skills they’ll build this weekend will be vital for them.

If the above paragraph smacks more of dread than anticipation, don’t be fooled. I am very excited to spend three days in the mountains with three of my favorite people.

The first time Gene came to dinner at my house, when we were a freshman and sophomore in high school, I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself. I remember standing at the kitchen counter whipping cream while my folks and Gene sat in the dining room. They were making fun of me about something — I think my inability to whip cream — and I was in stitches. I am often impressed by how well Gene fits in with my laugh-a-minute family, but since that evening I’ve never really been surprised.

So bring on the lake boating, the rocks in the river, the wine on the balcony, the thick star pavilion, the nervous-making bats, the sunsets, the frog jumping contests, the bear figurines, the parents, the boyfriend and the rustic charm. Calaveras County, I am ready for you.

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Photo by Lily.

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Phone Home

Gene finally caved and bought an iPhone. So if you were betting that he’d hold onto his primeval Nokia phone held together with a rubber band forever, you owe someone some money.

Getting the iPhone means we’re both on the AT&T network now, which means I, too, had to give up my primeval Nokia phone for something with a bit more flash. It’s not that I want flash, exactly — it’s just tough to find the tin-can-and-string-era phones I’ve been using until now.

The whole process has been kind of surreal, actually. First, Gene is buying a new phone, and not just new to him, but NEW. To get it we had to actually go down to the AT&T store, where we also picked out my phone from the ten or so ordinary ones on offer.* I kept waiting for Gene to be weirded out by the situation — after all, the selection is much wider if you’re shopping at, say, the internet; plus, being followed around by a salesman has never been Gene’s favorite thing — but he gritted his teeth and stuck it out.

So now I have this flashy little number:

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It’s my first camera phone. Naturally, I’m taking it very seriously. I’d like to have some kind of a theme to my caller-ID pictures. But what? Everyone in masks? Everyone holding a sign saying who they are? I’m looking for ideas. And remember that you will probably be asked to engage in whatever photo behavior you suggest.

*I should mention, I could have gotten an iPhone also but for various reasons I don’t want one.

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B*

It seemed like a genius plan: open a second Burma Superstar just blocks from the first, severely over-crowded Burma Superstar. But like so many genius plans, it went a little south.

The thing to know about Burma Superstar is that all the hype and the two-hour wait for a table and the indie darlingness of it are not wrong. B.S. offers a samusa soup which can kill you with its flavorful goodness. You have to come prepared for it or it will knock your socks off so hard that your feet will come with it and you’ll bleed to death. It’s a serious soup, for serious people. I mean, I don’t even like soup, but this soup I would kill for. I wouldn’t kill a family member or anything, but I would definitely kill a stranger.

The thing that makes the soup so deadly delicious is the combination of spices. I have no idea what they are, because I am a crappy cook and can tongue-identify only the three spices I know how to use. It’s definitely not basil, or salt. So I have to assume it’s cinnamon, the third spice I sometimes cook with. (It may also be cardamom. I think I had that in a tea once.)

The point here is this: on Friday, Michele and Christine and I tried B. Superstar’s new spin-off, B*. There’s a bunch of new stuff on the menu there, and some old favorites are missing, but they do offer the soup, so naturally Michele and I ordered it. We each grabbed hold of our socks with one hand and our spoons with the other and dug in.

I guess after all this build-up, I don’t have to tell you that the soup was tragically, horribly different. It was spicy, yes, but the kind of spicy that burns your tongue without affecting your socks at all.

“It’s like they just dumped a bunch of chili powder in,” said Michele, who cooks with many kinds of spices and would know.

“The cinnamon flavor is gone,” I said mournfully.

The awesome waiter from the original place was in the new restaurant, so that was nice, and the main courses were just fine, and the decor was pretty, and the tea leaf salad was unchanged. But the soup…the soup is different. And Burma Superstar without samusa soup is ankles without feet. So I say, give them six months to get their chef trained before you try it; then we’ll see.

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This is not my samusa soup.

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