The score of the century

It's been awhile since I've talked about my alleged studio building project. That's because I got depressed by the exceedingly hot weather, and then by the prices of the materials I was going to have to buy if I was going to build it the way I wanted it, and then by all the other busywork I've been occupied with all summer (apron-making and so on – no, I haven't forgotten – they will be in the mail when you least expect it).

So I had more or less decided not to build it this year, and maybe not at all. Then, I saw an ad in the paper. "Barn sale," it said, and followed that announcement with a long list of items including French doors.

Hmm, I thought. I was envisioning what you usually see at this type of sale: somebody's crappy old rotted out cracked and peeling doors that they finally broke out of their frames and replaced so they could stop having condensation and mold growing in their breakfast room all winter. But, I thought, they might also be kind of cool. You never know. I might as well go look at them.

Or not. By Saturday morning I had forgotten about the sale. When Mr. A woke me up saying, "Hey, did you see this – there's this sale I thought we might go to," and pointing to that same spot in the classified section, I felt a little tiny zing of electricity. It seemed promising that we'd both picked out the same ad. So we went.

Yowza. The sale turned out to be in an enormous barn just a half mile or so from our house, at a compound where a couple of my friends have studio space. I hadn't recognized the address in the paper and when I realized that's where we were, I got even more excited.

Everything deflated momentarily when I saw the doors. There were not just one or two of them, and they were not crappy or old or rotten. There were more than 20 of them and they were (are) incredible. Eight-foot, twelve-light, double-glazed solid wood exterior grade doors with beautiful polished brass hardware and those little honeycomb insulated blinds, in perfect condition and only a few years old, according to my friend who was having the sale. Her husband had salvaged them from a $3 million remodel for some people who decided, after looking through them for awhile, that they wanted their Great Room's Spectacular Panoramic Wine Country Views framed by single-pane doors after all, not multi-pane.

I was momentarily flummoxed by how different they were from what I'd been anticipating, and it took my brain a moment to start percolating again. I can't use these, I kept thinking. They're too big. Too nice. Too expensive.

It turned out, I was wrong on all three counts. They are not too big if I think of them as wall panels, since the walls are already planned to be exactly eight feet tall at their shortest point. And they are very nice, but just because I was envisioning myself cobbling something together out of semi-substandard materials doesn't mean I have to do it that way. As for the price, I got eight of them for just over $15 each, plus one smaller one thrown in for free, that I will use to make a cold frame out of this winter. They look like this, only taller.



So now they're all stored away on a pallet against our back fence, awaiting my redesign and the purchase of the rest of the lumber and other stuff I'm going to need to get this thing built at last. I'm excited.

P.S. I know the difference between "they" and "them." I was just being colloquial (Merriam-Webster: "unacceptably informal.") Thanks for the concern, though.

Matthew McConaughey's teeth(these aren't them)

Mr. A and I were watching a mind-numbing chick flick the other night – you know, just some light viewing, to decompress from recent stressful events – and I noticed yet again that Hollywood stars' teeth just keep getting whiter and whiter and whiter. It's sick! This Matthew person opened his mouth and all you could see were his teeth. They were so glaringly white that we looked at each other in alarm, just like when the earthquake happened a couple weeks ago.

On the other end of the spectrum: Not that long ago I rewatched one of my favorite movies of all time, David Mamet's 1994 take on the classic Chekov play, Vanya on 42nd Street (the play is called Uncle Vanya). The cast includes Julianna Moore as Yelena, and I remembered loving her in that part so I was looking forward to seeing her. But this time through – though I still found her wonderful and lovely and real – I found myself severely distracted by Her teeth as well. They were so yellow! So very, very yellow. Sort of a dark, yellowish gray. Anyway, she has had them bleached since then and I think that whoever did them did a very nice job. Matthew ought to give her a call and get that guy's number.

There is a middle ground, is what I'm saying. And I predict that within the next two years (because it takes some time for these things to catch on), movie stars, singers and other famous people whose mouths are in the spotlight are going to start having their teeth brought back to more natural, normal-looking shades of white again. Still probably brighter than average, but no more of this blindingly, psychedelically, blown-out floodlamp effect.

I also think women's shoulders and arms are going to stop being so über-stringy and lean, like a skinned chicken breast. Tinarama's rule of thumb: if I can see the striations in your muscles, you are too damn skinny.

Switching gears: My one meeting happened and then my other meeting happened, and I saw my friend last night at the farmer's market and he seems fine with everything, much to my relief. I'm fine with it, too, even though I did end up being the only person who voted against the proposal. I think it was good for me to be able to speak up with an unpopular opinion, in a place where it really mattered, and actually take the floor and advocate and argue and really try to bring other people around to my point of view. Somewhat surprisingly, the fact that I failed to change anyone's mind does not bother me one bit. I suppose that's because I never expected to win. I just wanted to speak, and I did that.

And even though I wasn't happy with the outcome, almost everyone was really considerate and thoughtful and kind about what we were discussing. The one person who wasn't, is just the kind of person who (I think) secretly believes they're not very important, so has to be constantly standing on the table and crowing and flapping their wings and in various other ways trying very hard to convince everyone else that they are important. Ironically, their grandiose behavior somehow makes it much easier for me to disregard them.

On the way home it occurred to me that this is one of the ways I've been really lucky in my life so far. With only a few exceptions, I've pretty much always been surrounded by people who are either very kind, or who I can easily disregard. I've never felt trapped with dangerous or sadistic people I couldn't get away from.

Another way I've been lucky is that I have naturally very white teeth. Even while fully indulging my most recent culinary obsession (decaf Earl Grey tea with lots of milk) ... the old chompers still look good.

Please feel free to nominate this as the most boring entry in the history of this website. Or possibly, the second most boring.

Bleak week

I've been distracted all week by a "situation" that is developing that I can't really talk about here, involving a friend and an organization to which I hold some fiduciary and legal responsibility. Basically, my friend is about to get fired and there doesn't appear to be much I can do about it, except to make a huge fuss at a meeting next week and try to win at least half of the group over to my point of view, which I doubt I will be able to do.

The worst part of it, for me, is having to go along with a process I think is – well, maybe not really "wrong," since I know it's just how business is done and that there are reasons for that – but, well, yeah, I do think it's wrong. It's wrong in this situation. This person deserves better. I'm angry and conflicted and want to run away or resign in protest, which I know won't do any good.

I keep telling myself: the way I'm feeling in this situation is exactly why I do my meditation practice or whatever the hell it is that I do these days – so that when things like this happen, I can stay calm and present, and not spin out into my old habit of turning everything that happens into a great big drama. So I can see clearly what is happening, and act. But man. It sure feels like drama to me.

In my mind, this meeting on Monday is taking on the proportions of a genuine wild western showdown. My feet (clad in embarrassingly new cowboy boots, which look great, by the way, thank you) appear at the end of a long, dusty street. At the other end, the rest of the posse. My old posse, that is now totally against me. We face off. I state my case. I bang the gavel and demand, in the name of all that is decent, that they do what is right – not what is politically or financially expedient. Then I swing my friend up onto the back of my white horse and we gallop off into the woods with our velvet capes sailing out behind us, golden crowns sparkling in the sun ....

Many possible scenarios are playing through my brain right now. All I know for sure is that of the twelve or so people in the room on Monday night, I'm the only one who thinks we're moving too fast, and that the proposal we're considering, as it stands, is not right. But I only get one vote.

So that's why I'm not writing. I'm frying other fish right now. Confidential fish.

It wasn't that long ago that I realized that not every important thing that happens in a person's life has to be inflated to the status of real live bona fide Drama with a capital D. Passion for life, and enjoyment, and even excitement, are not the same as Drama, which distorts your view of what's happening and prevents you from participating effectively in your own life. The events of this week are reminding me how much I really don't need this kind of Drama anymore. I don't like it, and I don't want it.

The feelings I'm feeling this week – I used to feel this way a lot. Not so much anymore. Revisiting this emotional landscape feels like a big step back.

The tiny, cringing, mouse-like voice of progress

Something cool just happened.

A certain person I work with (whose gender I will not reveal), who never has their act together and whose incompetence has very often made my job harder, just came up to my desk to ask a question. I heard them talking to someone else in the hall as they walked in, and when they started talking to me, their shoulders and their voice went up by at least an octave – indicating to me that they knew they were about to annoy me, and were unconsciously trying to make themselves less likely to be glared at by speaking, acting and approaching me like a young child.

I know this because usually this person really does invoke my inner grouch. I'm sure they've noticed my irritation when I have to stay late YET AGAIN on a Friday night after everyone else has left, to fix something they have messed up. Figure it out! I want to yell. Everyone else does their jobs right. Why can't you?

So anyway, the thing that happened was that I heard their voice go up, and I felt myself getting ready to get annoyed, and suddenly – I didn't get annoyed. Instead I thought, "They really do need some help, and that makes them feel small." And for some reason today, instead of feeling like squashing them or flicking them away like an ant on the tablecloth, I felt ... friendly toward them. Like I wanted to help.

That's a first. Usually I have to talk myself through the ant-flickingness before I arrive at the friendliness.

Anyway. I can't concentrate today. I fell off my bike this morning while trying to simultaneously adjust my helmet, put a movie in the mailbox, and talk on the phone. I wasn't even riding – just standing there balancing. Or trying to. Aside from a bruised elbow neither I nor the bike was hurt, but the cheap plastic bell that came with the bike cracked and flew into pieces when it hit the ground. It's unrepairable – stupid design!

So I've been looking for something cool, beautiful and at the same time reasonably unobtrusive (i.e., unlikely to attract attention from thieves) to replace it with. It also has to sound good, of course. A few options: beehive, blue dots, Japanese, revolving (which I already have, but which kind of seems too big, at least compared to the old one).

There's also this one, with stars, but nobody seems to have it in stock. Maybe I'll paint the revolving one blue with stars! That would be the coolest, funnest, most beautiful option of all. But not unobtrusive.

The war on tear

While I wring my hands over which boots to buy, certain other of our brothers and sisters in this world are hard at work plotting new ways to terrorize their fellow humans. Red alert for the first time ever – at least if you're flying to Britain. Otherwise, orange.

They were going to blow up more planes. This time in California, too.

It's impossible for me to wrap my mind around this kind of violence. Lately, I try not to even think about it. I don't watch the news or even listen to much of it on my trusted KPFA. Most of the news that is presented there is so large and beyond my control that I feel all I can do about it is freak out. The other day I turned on the radio and the first thing I heard was Dennis Bernstein spitting his virulent, apoplectic rage into the microphone. I'm with you, brother! But I can't listen to you. I turned it off.

What to DO about all this, is the question. What can I actually do? Obsessing about it and losing sleep over my brothers who travel and everyone else I love and everyone I don't even know – that doesn't help. This is the terror they are trying to induce.

What do you do?

Which boots?

Folks, I’m having a dilemma. I can’t decide on new work boots. Here are some options.

The first option is these cowhand-type boots. Ariat Fatbabies. They’re made for working on farms and riding horses and whatnot. Very comfortable with a nice wide shaft. They're kind of cute, right? Also kind of funny. Normally I would only wear western wear if it was thrifted, and only in a kind of ironic way. But I don’t think anyone here would recognize it as ironic – I’m not cool enough anymore (was I ever?), and they're new, not old and funky. People would just assume I had animals or something. Would I be compromising the last remaining shreds of my so-called coolness? Or transcending it? Oh – who cares. I might as well admit they’re my first choice. But I could still be convinced otherwise.

Second option is these Harley boots that are made for riding motorcycles. I've always wanted a pair of these, but are they really what I need right now? I’m afraid they might be too heavy, and I don’t know if I like the heel for working in. It looks like it might hold a lot of mud, goat shit, etc. On the other hand, maybe they’re more sturdy than the cowboy ones? I also like the harness, and the little bit of extra height. These also come in brown.

Third option, another kind of Harley boot, in brown or black. I had a pair of Frye boots just like these, but taller, for about 15 years but I finally had to get rid of them because no matter how much I wore them (I even wore them riding horses for a year!) they just never got comfortable. Possibly they were just the wrong size – the shaft was too tall and they were too tight across the toes. But I always loved the way they look. So maybe these shorties would work? Or are they too long in the toe?

Help me choose! Price is not a consideration, because they’re all within about fifty bucks of each other and that’s not a huge difference to me when it comes to a pair of boots I’m probably going to end up owning for the next five to six hundred years. Also, they will be worn with all kinds of outfits – jeans, dresses, pajamas, opera glasses – and for many various kinds of activities, including but by no means limited to beekeeping, studio building, hole digging, goat wrangling, sheep inoculating, firewood chopping and stacking, dump running, bicycle and possibly motorcycle riding, dancing, shopping and napping.

I’ve decided that as an austerity and expression of non-greedy livin’ I am only going to get one pair of boots this year. So that rules out getting the cowboy boots in brown, say, and the harness boots in black (what is the harness for, anyway? or is it just decorative?). Also, just FYI, I’ve decided against the Blundstones again, because I need something with a little higher top. I don't need a steel toe. Also, there must be no laces, fringes, flaps or other complicated structures that can get grass and burrs caught in them, and mud. Because they are, after all, actual working boots, for working in. Not a fashion statement. At least not entirely.

I know this is a solemn and weighty decision, but I have complete confidence that with help from my friends I will be able to make an excellent choice.

Stung

I guess I knew it would happen eventually, but I was more surprised than I expected to be when I finally got stung by a bee today. It landed on my foot and when I took a step it got caught between the straps of my sandal (I know, I know – I should not wear sandals to work with bees! Not even with heavy socks, which I now know are not enough to keep them out). It panicked and stung me on my little toe and it hurt like a mutha. It still hurts!

I've had bee stings before, in the long distant past, but I'd forgotten just how much they hurt. I didn't freak out or scream or anything, though – I didn't want to be a baby, or draw any undue attention to myself – so I just sort of calmly murmured, "Hmm, I just got stung." I reached down and tried to flick the bee away, but it was still all upset and struggling, and had just had its stinger and guts ripped out, and would not or could not go away. Instead, it sort of fainted and fell down into the bottom of my shoe.

This is where I wish our bee guy had been paying more attention – or maybe he doesn't know this himself – or maybe because I wasn't screaming he didn't think it was any big deal – but anyway, I wish someone had told me what to do, because in the absence of any instructions, and knowing that it wasn't going to be able to sting me again, what I decided to do was to just tough it out and keep working, and deal with the sting and the dead bee body later. That was a mistake.

Why didn't I just stop and take care of myself?

First, because I didn't think the stinger was still in there. I'd seen stingers with the attached venom sac before, when bees had stung my leather gloves, and I didn't see anything like that on my toe. Second, I guess I was thinking of a stinger as being something like a splinter, which it is not. A splinter needs to be removed, but if you can't do it right this very second, it's usually not a big deal. A bee's stinger, on the other hand, is designed to continue injecting venom for up to twenty minutes after it's ripped from the bee's body, so the longer it stays in, the more your sting is going to hurt. Third, and probably most important, I felt insulted by the bee, and embarrassed that I was the one it had chosen to sting, and I didn't want to draw any more attention to my humiliation by making a visible fuss about it. Better to act like everything was okay, and take care of it later, when I could inspect the damage in private.

So silly! To take a bee sting personally. Like I wanted the bee guy to think the bees liked me so much they would never sting me? Hmm.

What I should have done, and what I think the bee guy should have told me, was to stop what I was doing the second I got stung, walk away from the hive, remove the stinger, and treat the sting immediately. Instead, I waited another hour and a half before I did anything for it, and now – about nine hours later – my toe is swollen and mottled all red and purple and white, and it's totally throbbing and aching like hell. I have ice on it, and took a benadryl, and I'm sure it's going to be fine. But man. Why didn't he let me know it's better to take care of it right away?

Why didn't I do a little more research myself before walking up to an active beehive wearing ridiculous shoes?

Well, that's what I'm doing now. Research and preparation. I've been meaning to get some proper work boots ever since my old ancient pair bit the dust last winter; now I have a compelling reason to finally get around to it. When we go back for harvesting and extracting again in a couple of weeks, I will be ready to roll.

Funny that I don't blame the bees. They're so beautiful and interesting and industrious, and they're right – our activities in their hive are a threat to them. I personally killed probably at least 15 of them in the course of moving things around this morning, not counting the one that lost its life by stinging me, and the larvae I had to smash to clean the frames. It's unavoidable. There are just so many of them, and you can never get them all out of the way before you have to set something down again. Plus, we take their honey! If I get stung by one bee out of thousands, I can forgive that.

P.S. Mr. A got stung today too, on the end of his nose, an hour after I did, while repairing the solar well pump. He brushed his stinger out immediately, and now it doesn't hurt at all anymore. Good to know.

Speaking of festivals

They haven't posted a schedule yet, but I'm thinking I might just plan the rest of my vacation to coincide with the entire Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in October – which, according to a recent update to the website, is going to feature this year for the first time the infamous, the one, the only, Elvis Costello (& friends), whom I have never gotten around to seeing before. Can't wait for that! And if you click over to the website, check out the list of performers. It just doesn't get much better than this. And it's all free! With bike parking and everything.

We went last year for one day only, and I found myself really – like REALLY – wishing I'd made plans to see more of it. Aside from it being lots of fun, and free, and a beautiful time of year in the city, I just mainly really, really need to get out more. It's been more than a year now since I've actually owned a car and even though I can use Mr. A's car whenever I want to, I still almost never leave the valley unless he's driving. I guess there's always public transit, but getting to San Francisco on a bus on a weekend takes just a little more than three hours each way, what with transfers and all ... for what would be, in a car, a 40-minute drive. It just doesn't seem worth the effort.

On occasion I have also rented a car. This time I'm thinking I might try some other means. Possibly bike to bus to ferry ... I don't know.

Another thing I go to every year that I'm starting to look forward to again now is the Power to the Peaceful Festival, which is Michael Franti's annual event featuring free live music plus "a Friday night film festival, morning yoga, an open-air art gallery, a healing arts tent, a DJ tent, vendors and food booths, eco village, kid's zone, bicycle coalition, and social, environmental & political organizations tabling & forums."

Closer to home, there's plenty of good live music right here in town – for example, our annual free summer town party on the Plaza (which I am peripherally involved in producing). This year the band was Tommy Thomsen and the Ambassadors of Western Swing, with a guest appearance by Johnny Cuviello, a great drummer and one of the original Texas Playboys (that's him on the left). At 91 years of age the man can still rawk, and cuts quite a rug as well – he had the ladies lining up to dance with him all night long, whenever he wasn't playing. I loved meeting someone who's lived so long and done so much and is still having fun, staying connected and trying new things. I went to shake his hand as the band was clearing out and as we were leaving he said, "See ya next year!"

P.S. Tonight on PBS, at least in the Bay Area (10 p.m. on KQED), you can catch Bill Moyers interviewing Pema Chödrön, one of my favorite teachers and writers and speakers. It's the first time in years I've actually made a special date with myself to sit home and watch something on tv.

Good timing

Once again it appears I may be just ever so slightly ahead of the curve in terms of popular taste in entertainment, at least as observed in this part of the world. Because did I not just barely finish talking about how cool jug band music is? And darn if I didn't just notice a humble-looking homemade flyer in my favorite lunch spot for the first annual free Jug Band Festival at (to quote the website) "the beautiful Jerry Garcia Amphitheater in McLaren park." That's in San Francisco, folks. Best of all, for once in my life I found out about something before it happened, so I'm actually going to be able to plan to go to this thing!

Also, a very nice young couple finally opened a new cafe in the empty space next to my office, so now I don't have to walk half way around the world to get a little breakfast anymore.

Will blessings never cease?

It's not my fault

It's actually (the photo, I mean) the San Andreas fault. My fault, the one that runs right through my back yard, the one that caused our house to leap and shake last night like Richard Nixon doing the twist, is the Rodgers Creek fault – an extension of the North Hayward fault, which runs more or less parallel to the San Andreas.

Earthquakes are never exciting until after they're over. During the shaking, I mostly just freeze in place and try to decide whether to get in a doorway or run outside. By the time I settle on a plan, the crisis is over.

The biggest earthquake I've experienced was the Loma Prieta, in 1989, during which I stood next to a freight elevator in the Kaiser hospital in San Francisco trying to act casual – I had made a big deal over little temblors before, and been scoffed at by "real" Californians who always liked to say things like, "You think THAT was an earthquake? That was NUTHIN!" When the Loma Prieta started shaking I at first thought it was the freight elevator. I was on the phone, trying to navigate the automated appointment system, and it took a few seconds to register what was going on. Eventually I noticed papers sliding off the shelves in an office across the hall, and the sound of a frantic male nurse's voice shouting, "Get in the doorway! Get in the doorway!"

Later that week I found out a friend had died that morning, the first real friend I'd ever known to actually die of a heroin overdose. It still feels outrageous, bewildering and surreal that that happened, and that I didn't know about it until after the funeral was over. When the power came back on my friends got the message on their answering machine in Oakland.

I feel like I've told this story a million times. Every time I hear about an earthquake I think of him.

Anyway. Last night's events were much less dramatic. We were watching Ranch House, that PBS series about the people who go to Texas to see if they can handle the lifestyle of an 1860s cattle ranch. Suddenly, the living room jumped straight up into the air and landed hard. We looked at each other. There was rumbling, and then everything sort of jerked from side to side. We heard things falling in the other room. I jumped up off the couch and spilled a full glass of water that had been sitting in my lap. The dogs ran out the dog door.

"Should we go outside?" I asked Mr. A.

"Wait," he said. So we waited, and when nothing else happened we did go outside. We looked around. Nothing. Back in the kitchen, a ten-pound box of Milkbones had fallen off the top of the fridge. The coat rack in my room had fallen over, sending hats and jackets flying (it looked worse than it really was), and a stack of CDs had slid off the top of an armoire and spread itself out over the floor.

The most serious damage was to Tater's fragile psyche. I'd seen him dash outside, and I knew he couldn't get out of the yard, but it took me several minutes to find him. He was hiding under this enormous pink rose bush that's climbing all over the fence in a back corner of the yard. I tried to lure him out but he didn't want to come, so I figured – whatever, he feels safe there and in fact he is safe there – and since I couldn't get in under all the brambles to sit with him I decided to just leave him where he was. An hour later, when he still hadn't come in, Mr. A went out and coaxed him out with soft words and a handful of chopped steak.

Old fashioned homemade music(and John Lurie)

I should've asked these guys their names – or at least bought their CD – while I had the chance. They were playing out in front of our local art house theater a few weeks ago as a sort of opening act for the Yard Dogs Road Show, which I attended with some friends and which brought all kinds of interesting out-of-towners crawling out of the woodwork. That was probably my favorite part of the evening, though I enjoyed it all (well, mostly) – seeing new people milling around who were Not carrying a wineglass in one hand and a credit card in the other and asking about everything, "How much?"

Anyway. I like this kind of stuff. Homemade clothes, homegrown food, music you play or sing in person for yourself and your friends. Things that take a long time to put together by hand. I spent several hours on Sunday afternoon sitting on the front porch mending shirts, jeans, dresses with a needle and thread. When I was done I felt like I'd really done something.

In other news, in doing a little online research for a project I wanted to do this month (I had decided that August was going to be John Lurie film festival month at my house), I ran across this page of some of his paintings. Maybe I'm taking on some of the uptight and easily offended sensibilities of my early 20th-century heroines, but I have to admit I was kind of disappointed to see how ... well, how ugly and juvenile and just kind of stupid some of the paintings were ("I am a horse and I want to screw your wife," etc.). I had hoped I would like them. Alas, I do not. Sorry, John Lurie.

I'm still doing the fest, though. Six movies lined up in the Netflix so far, most of which feature the man only in small roles ... which is fine. Did you know he was in Desperately Seeking Susan AND the Last Temptation of Christ? And that my favorite movie that he's in (Stranger Than Paradise) is not available on Netflix at all? Which may be just as well, now that I think of it. I've fallen out of love with Jarmusch lately; haven't liked anything he's done in the last eight or nine years. Maybe I wouldn't even like Stranger Than Paradise anymore.

So yeah, you could say I basically have nothing to report today. Well, I did get offered a little promotion at work. But nothing's really happening for sure yet, so I'm not going to write about it.

I have a branch of jasmine on my desk that I picked off a neighbor's vine yesterday on my way back from the post office. Now that the flowers are dry it's starting to remind me of the smell of lilacs. That's a nice thing to smell on the first day of hot, desperate August: a whiff of spring.