Choose your own title

If I make you choose your own title, that's interactive, right? I know I fail to engage in many of the exciting "interactive" elements of the online experience, but now you can't say I never did anything for you.

It's now Wednesday which means I took a bit of liberty with the concept of a long weekend. Sorry about that. I had to recover from all the out and abouting I did. There was a birthday lunch for my niece who is newly a teenager. There was bocce ball in the Presidio during which the fog burned off, incrementally revealing the magnificent view of the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge that had been entirely obscured when we arrived. It was a pretty good trick.

There was Vertigo at the Castro and the Mime Troupe in the park. There was soda and pop rocks with a friend and even though we had them at the same time, we didn't die. (Maybe that's only if you drink Coke, whereas we were drinking some kind of fancy pants cucumber soda. What? It pairs nicely with grape pop rocks. Also, please let the record show that even though it was my friend who chose and bought the soda, he gave me the first sip. Chivalry lives.)

There was a house concert with Foxtails Brigade whom I greatly admire and puzzle over in that the singer seems to derive no pleasure from performing; she seems simultaneously fierce and terrified. Though she seems to be there in spite of herself, she's very good. They've got a show at the Hemlock on the 13th. You should go.

Not bad, weekend. Not bad.

Really this ought to be its own post, but here we are already in the middle of this one. NOW HEAR THIS. I'm doing this event at the Booksmith on Friday. This very Friday. September 6.

Do I totally understand what it is? No! Do I hope I don't totally fail to be witty and clever? Yes!

It has been described to me as Family Feud for authors. It has also been suggested that I brush up on Scattegories (a game, incidentally, that I have never played. Ominous indeed). I have been reassured that there will be wine. When everything else fails, apply wine. It should be a good time. 7pm. Ten bucks. Come on out for it.

Site-specific haiku

Today is sunny
Even in this neighborhood
A near miracle


In class students shout
"Revolution!" also "Hats!"
The link eludes me


Try to ignore it
The pink box demands notice
So many donuts


Am I not sleepy?
Why should just children get naps
It seems so unjust

Um...hi

You remember way back when I couldn't open that bag of raisins? It only got worse from there. I ended up with a full-scale Nyquil-requiring cold. In August? Before the school year has even really begun? I mean, is there no end to the sniffly injustice of it all?

Prior to my indisposition, I had been trying to be so darn healthful too. I'd been trying to eat vegetables, well, okay fruit. But you have to start somewhere. And I'd been walking. One day I walked half way across the whole darn town and when I came upon a restaurant that serves "carnival food" and has one table with a Tilt-a-Whirl car as the seating and I DIDN'T EVEN EAT THERE because of the lack of healthfulness/insane caloric content of [delicious] carnival food. And was I rewarded for this virtue? Pshh.

A few days before the illness arrived, I was suddenly unable to turn my head due to a crazy painful muscle mishap in my neck. I went to get an emergency massage, which is always entertaining because every massage therapist is always gobsmacked by the seemingly impossible tension of which I am primarily comprised. This particular woman set to trying to unknot the most incapacitating knot--a thing that is invariably quite agonizing for me--but her accent morphed the word "pressure" to the word "pleasure." I thought she was saying "Is this pleasure all right?" A trick question of sorts.

All this to say, I think I may be suffering from some kind of deeply internalized end-of-summer denial. My body seems to want nothing to do with the 2013-14 school year. Concerning, in that there is a lot of it to come.

On the bright side, lying prone on the sofa for days gave me plenty of time to watch more "Alias." As the seasons continue, the kicks to the head do not diminish. I figure eventually she's going to run into someone who is a better head-kicker than she is. Then she'll go into a coma and the show will end. God only knows what magnificent things I will accomplish when that finally happens.

Feats of strength

Last night I was watching "Alias" about which: A) I know I'm watching far, far too much television. I have no defense to offer. I am duly ashamed. B) Why have I never watched "Alias?" Actually, I know the answer to that. It's because, like other shows before it (notably "Breaking Bad" which for some reason I thought was about race car drivers) it is not about what I thought it was about. I thought it was some futuristic drama. It isn't. Had I known it was about Jennifer Garner (of whom I'm a big fan) being a double agent rather than Jennifer Garner being some cyborg in the dystopian future, I would have watched it years ago.

Anyway, there she was with no surplus flesh on her body, engaging in vigorous hand-to-hand combat with scores of villains. I began to fantasize about working with a trainer to uncover muscles I must have in there somewhere. I thought, I wouldn't need to be that fit. I mean, after all, she was in her twenties in this, but, you know, kind of fit. And maybe I could take some kind of martial arts class. It would be cool to know how to administer a flying kick to someone's head, should the need arise. While real me continued to sit on the sofa, imaginary me was increasingly becoming a lean, sleek force to be reckoned with.

And then real me tried to open a bag of raisins. And couldn't do it. I had to resort to scissors.

So I guess if you have any villains who need neutralizing, or even snacks that need accessing, I'm probably not the one to call.

Star-gazing

Recently, I saw Elysium, which I enjoyed very much, though I did look at the floor during the bloodier bits, of which there are many.
Of note:

1. In this film, Jodie Foster only sounds like a normal person when she is speaking French. It is unclear why she ever is speaking French, but it makes a nice change from the mystery accent she employs while speaking English.

2. Oh, Matt Damon, you are a hell of a charming fellow.

3. Diego Luna. Dear lord. Every time he appeared, I had to suppress the desire to stand up, gesture wildly toward the screen and say loudly to the assemble audience, "Are you people seeing this? Is there a more beautiful man in all the world?" So, apparently I'm deeply infatuated with Diego Luna. If he's a friend of yours, you can let him know.