*sigh*

Dang it all, anyway.

Just once I'd like to come (or stay) home sick from work and have the place to myself to wallow in my self-pity and crappiness (not crapulence) without having to share the couch or the tv or the front room. I mean, I've got roommates, it goes with the territory. I recognize that. And, as I've said before, I like my roommates. I do. I just occasionally would like to not have to hole up in my bedroom for some alone time since they are always home when I want to be and the spare room is generally unusable.

Truthfully, I'm totally jealous. Although I have to say if I didn't have to work every day, I'd certainly not be sleeping til 1pm, or sitting around the apartment (well, not all time...). Lordy, the apartment would actually be clean for once, for one. I'd also know the city inside and out because I'd have climbed every hidden stairway, biked through every neighborhood, gone to every museum and poked into every hidden gem of public space. I'd be hiking through every gorgeous place within a day's drive. I'd have been to the Grand Canyon. I'd learn to surf. I'd have mastered my pottery and would sell pieces. I'd have knit presents for every family member for the next several Christmases. I'd print, frame and sell some of my photographs. I'd volunteer for the Park Service, and maybe the Marine Mammal Center. I'd grow fabulous flowers and fat vegetables in my community garden plot.

It's easy for me to say that, of course, because I can't do all those things. So my jealousy becomes a little snitty. But that's the sort of shit that goes through my head while I'm sitting on the futon instead of laying on my couch.

It sorta takes away whatever possible fun there may be in being home on Tuesday afternoon with a monster fucking headache.

Ugh

It's been six years already. How the hell did that happen? The weird thing is, when I think back on that particular morning, and indeed, the several grueling days following, I still get a bit, I don't know, exhausted. Like some weird post-traumatic emotional overuse flashback. Drawn out, of course, by nearly 5 years of international craptasm.

For now, I'll spare all the where-I-heard-the-news stories. I just thought I'd say, you know, good luck world. It doesn't have to be all car bombs and land mines and village burning and polonium poisonings and shootings and nuclear dabbling and kidnappings and beheadings. Why aren't we all cooperating and helping each other out and baking each other cookies? Doesn't that sound nice?

Unbuckling his beltway

You know, pretty much everything there is to say about Idaho's Senator Larry "Wide Stance" Craig has already been said (or set to music). And I'm clearly not the only person to think these things. I mean, is it any wonder no one is even questioning that he's been seeking out trysts in men's rooms?
A) Inadvertent foot touching in the stalls is not easy -- aren't you usually trying hard to pretend no one else is sitting next to you at all? And if you did tap toes, maybe a quick "sorry" or at least a rapid retreat would be in order.
B) Picking up paper off the floor? Really? A public restroom floor? Really?
C) You see the police badge and say "No!" instead of perhaps, "Sorry officer what's this all about?"

It kills me. So, on the one hand it makes me sad that the poor guy is so deeply disturbed by his own inner-most urges that he's out making laws to squelch them in others too. Which also pisses me off, on the other hand, and so I squee a little in delight at his being called out. Of course, I'm also frustrated that his mortifying behaviour (anonymous bathroom sex: a world of eew) is the exception that will prove to all the other conservative Republican zealots just why we gays are so icky and eeeeevil.

A last thought because he's in the news again today saying that he's going to fight to undo his guilty plea. He says the evil liberal media made him do it. Seriously. Apparently the pressure from the Idaho Statesman, in particular, was so stressful that he didn't "knowingly" plead guilty. Because obviously the very best thing to do when so concerned about an ongoing investigation into your sexual history is to plead guilty to soliciting anonymous gay bathroom sex. Ummmm, ookaaaay.

The Return

I'm not dead! I swear. At least, not that I'm aware of (as far as I know, I am not an M. Night Shyamalan character). The hiatus from writing just sort of happened. Writing in the evening after work wasn't appealing, my weekends got busy, and before I knew it, a few days had turned into a few weeks. And then all the things I wanted to write about started stacking up and sitting down to write anything became ever more daunting. And weeks turned to months. Crazy how that happens.

And here we are, summer basically over already.

Anyhoodle, quick recap of some of the things I was going to describe/discuss/write about in detail but now will now just breeze over:

The last weekend in June was Gay Pride ("Pride Not Prejudice"), which is pretty much what you'd expect when an extra 500,000 people come to town to be silly and happy and gay. Or to ogle at all the silly happy gay.



That was also the weekend that Joy and family were in town, so I ditched the parade and the four of us spent the morning at Golden Gate Park and went out to lunch, which was quite fun. But I, Uncle Yak, hereby declare that Nolan is growing up too fast and should put a stop to it while he's still a toddler.

4th of July was quiet this year, and I was the only person atop my roof, weirdly. Though the bajillion people atop all the other roofs in the neighborhood still made for an entertainingly communal experience. Fireworks were terrific. Remind me next year to discuss Independence Days of yore.

The following week I spent back home with the fam. I had a truly wonderful time camping and hiking in Great Sand Dune Nat'l Pk with my sister, nephews, and brother-in-law; driving to see my ailing Grandma in central Nebrasky with Mom; visiting my Grandad in western Nebrasky; and spending some quick but quality time with Dad at the house in Cheyenne that still feels like home, which stems in part from being able to sit in the shade beneath enormous trees that I remember planting as tiny saplings.

A sunset/full moon rise walk and tour of the Pt. Bonita Lighthouse.

Headed to LA to visit Jen and to totally band-geek out at the DCI World Finals at the Pasadena Rose Bowl. Long lines aside, I had a blast, though it became clear to me that my own Drum & Bugle Corps summer was a whole different lifetime.

I next spent a long weekend backpacking with my friend Nichole along California's "Lost Coast" up north of Mendocino. The spectacular scenery and utter lack of people totally made up for the fears of: slipping and tumbling to my death on the rocks 800 feet straight below; bears; stinging nettles and poison oak. We did see the ISS and Endeavour fly overhead on the last evening, which was unexpectedly awesome.

This year's Labor Day trip: wait for it... Omaha! Between the Nebraska State Fair, the steaks, the Henry Doorly Zoo, the Runzas and the Dorothy Lynch, and the good company, it was hard not to have an excellent time. But you know, having grown up in Nebraska, my expectations were perfectly placed.

So that was the summer that was. Without any of the detail or filler material. I now vow to update on a [somewhat] more regular basis.

Be prepared.

Obliquity of the Ecliptic

17 years ago (sweet merciful crap) this evening, I watched the sun set behind the Snowy Range from atop a pile of boulders at Vedauwoo. I remember this particular evening because I had sepnt the day chasing a careening hubcap that flew off into the prairie, trying to ditch one of the annoying kids that always seemed to glom on to me, and scrambling over rocks with a gaggle of new friends from nerd camp. Leaning back against the cool rough granite in the fading light, already late for curfew I'm sure, the last car load of us watched the stars emerge from beneath the twilight wedge, opening up about ourselves and cementing bonds while a meteor shot across the sky.

Time passes, impossibilities of youth become certainties of adulthood while possibilities are never realized, and people fade away. Two exceptions remain solidly part of my life, however, not just as acquaintances but as fast friends. And that night also began a little personal tradition I've upheld all these years as a sort of private commemoration of all that is beautiful and good and true and dear.

As the year's longest day comes to an end, I seek out someplace special from where to watch the sun disappear beneath the trailing edge of the planet. It's just a thing I do. I've been thwarted only a few times by circumstances or clouds, but only a few. It's become sort of a solitary thing for me -- a time to reflect and ponder in beautiful solitude -- though that not a necessity.

So tonight, as it happens, I was joined by my roommates, which is noteworthy because after almost two years, this was the first time just the three of us have ever done something together outside of the apartment. I scooped them up and drove to the coast where the flanks of Mt Tamalpais meet the pounding surf.

And despite the distractions (including a very random half-naked male model emerging from the brush), the fog held back, the earth kept turning, the sun sank behind the hills in blaze of color, the heavens became visible, and the planet's axis began its inexorable shift back in the other direction.

Tomorrow will already be 1 second shorter than today and I have so much left undone.

Afternoon Delight

There are many things to love about this city (I know I never stop yapping about where I live, but I drank the Kool-Aid a long time ago; I can't stop myself). Among those things is the steady stream of neighborhood festivals and street fairs and events up until the coldest weeks of summer in July and August, and the resumption of them in the warm weeks of September and October.

It starts with the Union Street Fair the first weekend in June, followed the next weekend by the Haight Street Fair, then the North Beach Festival, Gay Pride, the Fillmore Jazz Festival, and so on. Basically the neighborhood streets get blocked off, bookended by stages for live music and lined with tents and stands filled with typical fair fare: jewelry, artwork/photography, crafts, clothing, non-profit organizations, fried food, and food on a stick. On top of that baseline is the unique flavor of each area: the Haight has more tie-dye and water pipes, North Beach has its pizza tosses and the Blessing of the Animals in front of the city's namesake shrine to St Francis of Assisi, and so on.

It seems they've gotten more crowded in recent years, but that could be my reduced tolerance of the writhing masses. The deep-fried artichoke hearts, however, more than make up for it. And the fact that I can wander just a few blocks from my apartment to indulge all my senses in the warm and sunny music-filled smoky air, and take refuge again when I've had my fill of the hordes certainly doesn't hurt.

Well isn't that special

Incidentally, for those of you reading this thing via Internet Explorer, it's not supposed to look like this. All the posts are supposed to be centered between the two sidebars, not thrown below them all jankety like. It didn't used to do that, so I don't know what the scoop is, but I don't have it in me to go editing the template again. My HTML skills are rudimentary at best. If I cared enough, I'd probably upgrade to Blogger's new fancy templates, anyway, but I haven't figured out how to upgrade and still have both a left and a right sidebar. So you're left with this.

I actually just noticed this recently because I usually am using Mozilla Firefox. And everything looks grand using that browser. Not that I'm one to get snippety about how much Microsoft sucks, or anything. I just happen to prefer something else.

So that's that. Do what you will, and think what you like... just know that I don't intend for my blog to look as crummy as it might happen to.

Hard against the wind

I'm a rockhound, of sorts. I can't help it. I come by it honestly, at least: my dad would bring home interesting stones or pieces of turquoise or arrowheads he'd spot from the cab of the tractor as he plowed the fields; my mom still sticks her hands into the frigid pools of mountain streams to fish out shiny or unusual rocks; my mother's father collected interesting rocks and stones to cut and polish and turn into lovely jewelry. I grew up not half a mile from a large gravel pit where we'd all happily while away the time searching for (and finding) petrified wood, moss agates, and the occasional geode or mastodon tooth.

The result of this, aside from my Geology degree, is that I have a hefty rock collection of my own, comprised of interesting stones from all the places I've been since college. If and when I finally move, my honest answer to the inevitable question, "what on earth is in those boxes, rocks?" will be, "why yes, actually."

I'd frankly like to do something with some of these rocks, rather than have them all just sit around and collect dust (dusting them is a pain, by the way), but in an apartment setting my rock tumbler is too loud and obnoxious to run 24/7 for the several weeks required, especially given that I can hear my downstairs neighbor snoring on quiet evenings. And many other of my crafty visions won't be realized until I own a garage or other workshop space.

One thing I can do in my apartment, though, is convert a few of them from one useless dust-collecting object sitting around taking up space to a slightly different useless dust-collecting object taking up even more space. The result of my first such attempt is shown here (with one of my less-interesting rocks). I dig doing this sort of thing, but I'm not sure what good comes of it.

Maybe it's the pain meds talking

I'm totally still crushing on Paul Rudd all these years after "Clueless" when my passive obsession began (can you believe that movie is 12 years old?! Jebus, I'm old. Even weirder and not at all related: the Goo Goo Dolls have been around for over 20 years. Do you ever feel like you're in some crazy time warp and the next time you step outside and round the bend you may see the Statue of Liberty half buried. Damn you all to hell!!).

Anyway, I just saw him as a guest on "The Daily Show" and also watched "Knocked Up" -- which, while not a bigscreen necessity was still absolutely worth the $10 ticket price. He's still adorable and charming and funny.

That's all I have to say, really. Just thought I'd share. I'm only filling up space since I don't have much else to relate just now.

Dental Drama Redux

It is a positively lovely day outside as best I can tell through my apartment windows, but I will not be going out to relish it. Quite by design, in fact, I intend to spend the entire day in my T-shirt and pajama bottoms, sitting on the couch playing videogames. There will be other lovely days; this is California, afterall.

This is due to the fact that on Thursday afternoon, the oral surgeon peeled back my gums and drilled into upper left jawbone, "amputating" the root tip of my devil tooth, and removing a chunk of infected bone tissue that connected to my sinus cavity. This sounds much more horrific that the actual experience was, it turns out. The notable exception was the singularly unpleasant realization that, as they rinsed my mouth, it was draining down the back of my throat though the hole in my sinus cavity.

I was, in fact, much less unconscious than I had expected to be, and I remember the majority of the procedure. Not that I was feeling any pain, but still. I was going to ask that they up the sedative coursing into my veins please, but kept thinking perhaps the amnesia would set in later. It never did.

At any rate, given the row of stitches currently securing my cheek to my gums, I'm feeling quite alright today. The only reason I'm slumming it is because, if ever there was an excuse, this is it. Frankly I'm fine: I went to work yesterday, then went out for dinner (penne pasta with pancetta cream sauce!) and a movie (which, if you haven't seen Waitress yet, add it to your list! I had to hold the left side of my face to keep from popping stitches what with all the idiot grinning).

So anyway, almost 8 months, a CT scan, 4 rounds of various antibiotics, a re-treated root canal, and now an apicoectomy and several nosebleeds later, I still have the tooth in my head (or what's left of it). Here's hoping that in the next 6 months the bone surrounding it (and separating it from my sinus cavity) will be completely biomagically regenerated and all associated problems will be a thing of the past. And I guess it's still better than spending nearly $8 grand on an implant screwed into my maxilla.

At this point I'd almost have preferred a spider's egg sac in my sinus.

I want to ride it where I like

Quite a few years ago (nearly seven, to be exact), I took my relatively-new mountain bike out on a single-track trail with a good friend of mine, and rode about 3 miles over the hills towards the ocean without another person in sight before losing control and snapping something in my ankle.

My friend had ridden off up ahead of me so no one saw my ridiculous little maneuver that sent my body in one direction and my bike in the other... with my foot. I heard and felt the pop, and knew that something bad had just happened. It went from bad to worse, of course.

Since my friend never bothered to glance behind him to ensure I was following, some 15 minutes passed with me sitting helplessly beside the trail bleeding from my several wounds (including a doozy where the pedal spun around and punctured my shin), contemplating the possible scenarios involving manly park rangers and helicopter evacs. But when he finally doubled back to find me, he had the gall to actually yell at me angrily for wrecking the day.

So, I basically had no choice but to suck it up, limp and ride on my broken foot the 3 miles back to the car, by which time my left sock and shoe were completely blood-soaked and my right foot had swollen and turned a horrible purple color from toe to heel. Somewhere along that grueling ride back I got an apology, but honestly I'm not sure I've ever completely forgiven that friend. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I never went to the doctor for an x-ray since whatever ligament that snapped wasn't likely to get sewn back together, so I kept my foot up and on ice for two days, and hobbled around with an ankle brace for a month before I regained full range of motion. I've been on my bike many times since then, of course, but I've been a lot more cautious, certainly.

Sadly, no amount of caution can completely make up for the vast quantity of klutziness I possess.

Last weekend, being a glorious 3-day weekend, I revisited that very same trail in the heart of Point Reyes with a different friend, and we took our bikes out as far as the trail led. Nichole did amazing, I have to say, for her first trail ride; I can't say the same about me.

In my defense, I haven't been on my bike much in the last year, and I'd never been trail riding with my clipless pedals. So that will take some practice. I did come back all in one piece, though, with virtually no additional emotional scars. So, the new scabs and fading green contusions aside, I deem the recent adventure a rousing redemptive success.

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.