Maybe a nice chesterfield or an ottoman

I know it sounds ridiculous now in the IKEA era, when civilization's great leap forward rests on the FÖRHÖJA and progress hinges on a frustrated attempt to piece together a BEDDINGE LÖVÅS tastefully paired with a PÅTÅR. But the truth is that there was a time when I had no idea what a futon was.

Then again, I grew up in rural Nebraska, which pretty much explains a lot about me. There in the heartland furniture was stout and solid -- to match the people -- and the most exotic piece was the La-Z-Boy rocker-recliner.

I remember rather clearly, in fact, the first time that I even heard the word "futon," because it occurred during my telephone introduction to one of my soon-to-be freshman roommates which basically confirmed every fear I had about going off to the Ivy League. The pertinent part of the conversation went something like this:

Smakler (in an affected vaguely-British accent): ...Oh swimmingly, I'm sure. And I was hoping you might be interested in splitting the cost of a futon for the suite.
Me: Oh, um, sure. I guess that sounds ok, but we should probably wait to see what everyone else is bringing, too.
Smakler: Also, perhaps you'd be interested in splitting a laser printer.
Me: Er... maybe, but I don't actually have a computer, so, uh, maybe that can wait.
Smakler: Blimey! Well, cheerio. Ehh, googly googly.

Incidentally, it turns out that Smakler was an ass from Philly who had spent too much time with Monty Python and was completely unrepresentative of the rest of my Yale experience. And I shouldn't have felt that bad anyway as I also recall freaking out the next day to a friend of mine:

Me: Can you believe it? A laser printer?! Does he know how much those cost?* And what the hell is a futon?
Amy: I think it's some sort of wok.

I didn't actually end up with a futon in college, as it turns out, but it has been a standard piece of furniture ever since. In fact, there are now two of them in my apartment. And I praise their simple ease and convenient duality. And they have received much use.

Yes, now I can't imagine life without the futon and all the friends who have crashed upon it at some point or another. Like Ebony. Yesterday. Yay!!


* It was 1992. They were like a billion dollars back then.

Hoping I won't be too late

70 years ago today, President Roosevelt pushed a button in Washington DC officially opening the Golden Gate Bridge to vehicular traffic.
Pretty much stood the test of time so far, I'd say.
A few facts:

• Was the longest span in the world for nearly 30 years, until 1964. Still ranked 7th.
• Length including approaches: 1.7 miles
• Distance of the main span between the towers is 4,200 ft
• Height of deck above high water: 220 ft
• Height of towers: 746 ft
• There are about 600,000 rivets holding together each tower
• There are 80,000 miles of wire spun into the two main cables
• Official color is "International Orange"
• Much of the original steel in the arch and viaduct on either end has already been replaced in part of an ongoing seismic retrofit that will also replace most of the rivets in the trusses with stronger bolts
• More than 100,000 commuters a day cross the bridge, with more than 40 million drivers a year passing over it
• In high winds, the bridge can swing 27 ft in either direction
• The deck can bow an additional 10 ft up (or 6 down) due to temperature changes as the metal expands or contracts, or depending on the weight of traffic

And now, enjoy a few more photos I've taken of this enduring icon.

Created with flickrSLiDR.

Happy 70th, Bridge!

Free Willy

I think I may be a prude. I mean, I'll laugh and joke with my peers about all things naughty in nature, and sit through conversations about friends' intimate encounters... but all the while I'm projecting a demeanor of comfort and ease, I'm totally squirming on the inside with beet-red embarrassment. Call it my country-boy sensibilities. Or maybe I'm just a touch of the dreaded C-word (conservative, that is, but not politically speaking). Upon reflection, this probably goes much deeper into my psyche since I generally do not feel nearly as cool, calm, collected, hip, sane, social, smart or at ease as I may appear.*

Whatever. In any case, I only bring this up because, living in the city that I do, I frequently find myself in a modest state of mortifaction. Like the first time I saw buttless chaps walking down the street. Or the time a co-worker paid for a lapdance at the strip club (I think the stripper felt as sorry for me as I felt for her). Or the time I was hiking along the most lovely secluded beach around in the shadow of the Bridge and scrambled over an outcrop to land, momentarily oblivious, directly between two naked gentlemen who were clearly engaged in some, uh, cruising I guess is the word? It's hard to call it flirting when they're naked already.

I'm not sure where I was headed with any of this, except that this weekend is the annual, wait for it, Masturbate-a-thon. It's not like I will be in any way involved, mind you - I just happened upon the poster.

It's a fund raiser for sex education that was started by a local sex toy shop called "Good Vibrations." And you can pledge money to the participants. Who will then take matters into their own hands. In public. Repeatedly.

There are, in fact, several awards to be handed out, including one for number (record: 6 times for men, 49 times for women), one for duration (record: 8.5 hours for a guy, 6.5 for a woman), and even distance (I'm afraid to look what the record is for any gender).

This is both hilarious, and utterly mortifying.

Also, just as another aside, all this hearkens back to college when such things were part of our regular late-night conversational study breaks. For example, One of the first things I learned about a roommate (LB volunteered it, I might add) was that he should have entered the above contest because he would have hosed the competition. And I also was introduced to the fine art of the euphemism. A few classics: To rub one out, spanking the monkey, tipping off the inspector, to choke the chicken, crowning the king, applying the hand brake, holding your own... and of course, my all time favorite (college being the era of Joycelyn Elders, whose ousting for suggesting masturbation was ok, incidentally, is what started the Masturbation-a-thon to begin with): Firing the Surgeon General.


* Which is not to say that I even appear any of those things. Let's just be clear about that.

That sinking feeling

You know, people have been sounding the alarm bells for decades now about one thing or another. It's just that that thing seems to vary in just about every detail other than the resultant End Of Life As We Know It. In the 70s the atmosphere was cooling and a new ice age was imminent. In the 80s the human population curve had no plateau. In the early 90s there was still talk of the approaching turmoil caused by the complete consumption of all the oil and gas deposits.

The latest clangor, however, is a little different. Even before town crier Al Gore won his Oscar, there were near-weekly reports from some other far-flung corner of the globe where a new study found evidence that this time we're really doomed. I mean just completely fucked.

And the pace of these findings seems to be increasing. It's not just the bandwagon, here, but really truly a fundamental shift in the workings of the planet. Just now, for example, we learn that the great Southern Ocean encircling Antarctica is basically saturated with carbon dioxide... something that wasn't supposed to happen until well after 2050.

And why does that matter? Well, it turns out that the Southern Ocean is one of the planet's largest natural carbon reservoirs, accounting for 15% of the global carbon sink. And it's full. Not only does that alter the chemistry of the sea, but it also means there's fewer places left to sequester the millions of tons of CO2 we keeping spewing forth. So it'll accumulate even faster in the atmosphere and heat the place up that much faster.

Hear ye, hear ye, revise those estimates folks, it's about to get even warmer.

It could have been a brilliant career

I'm published! Well, sort of.

A while back, I was contacted via e-mail for permission to use one of my photos from Flickr in a national ad for gay travel to San Francisco for the city's Convention and Visitors Bureau. Which of course I granted, because, well why wouldn't I?

Not that the city really needs to advertise itself as a gay destination, but it was nice that they wanted to use photos by actual residents, and they said they'd credit the photos appropriately. I didn't get any details on what the ad would consist of, but the e-mail reply assured me they'd let me know when and where I could see it, and that was the last I ever heard about it.

So here I am, sitting at my computer and googling myself for the first time in years, just to see what would come up (Ebony's fault). Not much of anything related to the actual me, it turns out, unless I've been secretly winning high school wrestling championships while I've been asleep on Ambien. But there it was, the fifth thing down: The Ad.

And my photo? Barely visible, cropped down and marginalized, and totally eclipsed by the muscled leather daddies next to it. Hilarious.

This calls for a toast

Whoo-hoo! Fruity cocktails count as healthfood! Well, sort of. To the extent that alcohol enhances the antioxidant qualities of of the fruit.

Good enough for me!

Strawberry daiquiri anyone?

Diablo wind's a-blowin'

I know, I know. But I grew up on a farm where weather is legitimately one of the main topics of every conversation. I can't help myself.

I don't know if it's because of all the microclimates in the Bay Area, or the fact that we're sitting at the leading edge of the continent and have only satellite images on which to base the forecasts rather than a series of actual observations from the ground and data from hundreds of daily weather balloons, but the predictions are not often correct around here.

Take for example, the reliable weatherunderground page for today:
Today's Forecast High: 65°F
Current Temp: 81°F

Woe is me

It usually happens only once in the spring for a few days, and once in the fall for a week or so, and I guess this is one of those times. It's HOT in the city. Like really hot. Not at all like my wimpy whiny poor me it's 75 degrees hot. I'm talking record-breaking 89 degrees hot.

Which is only a big deal because I don't have air conditioning and my top-floor apartment collects all the heat, and since it only gets this hot when the sea breeze fails so no amount of wide window opening can get the air moving through it.

And doesn't it figure that after one of the maybe 5 nights a year that are so swelteringly lay-on-top-of-the sheets toss-and-turn-in-sweaty-discomfort-half-sleep hot, with my window wide open all night long, doesn't it just figure that at 6am they decide to start construction next door and 3 flatbed semis pull up and idle right below my bedroom belching diesel exhaust and deafening rhythmic engine chug, punctuated by the shouts of constructions workers and the piercing reverse warning beep of the forklift unloading sheetrock? Like they couldn't have done that on one of the 360 other mornings a year that my window is tightly shut against the chill and noise?

And with that, let's all enjoy this photo I took yesterday while hiking to the beach, which is about the best way I can think of to escape the full force of the blast furnace. So really, I'm not complaining too much, because seriously, I live within walking distance of this.

¡Viva el cinco de mayo! No es fabuloso?!

And how did I commemorate the temporary defeat of French forces in the little-known Battle of Puebla? It was, afterall, one of those gemlike days in the city where everything sparkles blue and bright and shimmery warmth... just perfect for Coronas and limes and guacamole and salt and tequila in the sun. But no, I got my buzz from chardonnay and acetone fumes.

Just when you think I couldn't get any gayer (what with the knitting and all), I've gone and done it: I had my very first -- and likely very last -- MANicure and pedicure. In my defence, this is not something I did on my own, but rather as part of a bridal shower party for my good friend Michelle (with whom I'd traveled to Italy a few years ago). She's getting married in a few weeks in Hawaii, and our friend Carolyn put together an afternoon at the salon for some pampering of the bride-to-be. But guests had to spend a minimum amount on services while we were there too, so, well, there you have it.

I still don't know what all the fuss is about. Most of the women (and not a few of the men) I know get this stuff done semi-regularly and yak on about how wonderful and relaxing and blah blah blah. I, however, had to focus most of my energy on not cringing through the spine-tingling filing, the tummy-tensing foot scrubbing and buffing, and the chalkboard nail scraping. Not to mention my vague discomfiture at sitting in an oversize comfy throne while someone I could barely communicate with knelt below me, hunched over my soaking feet. Also? 8 hours later and I still can't rid myself of the lingering vanilla-ish scent; it's like I stepped in a crème brûlée. Gah!

I have to say, though, my fingers and toes do look terrific. And with that, I must now go do something with beer and dirt and pliers and grilled meat.