Category: San Francisco

Talking About That Little Lady

Stepping into the wayback machine, I recall a trip I took with my parents when I was twenty-one.

It was their birthday present to me, a trip to Las Vegas (all of us kids got such a trip when we became of legal age.)

While there, we paid a visit to my aunt and uncle who live in a small town outside of Las Vegas.

My grandmother was staying with the aunt and uncle, so it was a smallish family reunion.

As we all bedded down for the night, being the youngest, I took up my place on the pull out bed in the living room. This gave me a ringside seat for the show that lay ahead.

In less than 20 minutes, I began to hear the distinct sound of my grandmother snoring. Oh, she was a world-class snorer.

Soon enough, I could also hear the recognizable sound of my dad sawing up some logs.

Mom joined him quickly, singing harmony in this snore chorus.

From the other direction of the house came sound new to me, but easy to identify. My uncle, also snoring. More quietly but surely there, my model beautiful aunt also found her nasal instrument.

Great. Five adults, all sawing the logs. I didn’t get much sleep that night.

I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t become a snorer, no matter how much age and genetic heritage may dictate it would be so.

Plus, I am a very light sleeper, I reasoned, so I’d wake myself up if I started down the road of my destiny.

A good plan. That hasn’t really worked.

Time passed, as it will, and wouldn’t you know it, my nose and soft palette have found their tuning. I’ve managed to become a snorer.

Not massively so, as attested to by The Good Man, but yes, I do snore.

And yes, I do usually manage to wake myself up when I do.

Like, oh, about half hour ago when for some reason a sound much akin to an angry hippo issued from my nostrils.

Gah!

Ladies don’t snore! They don’t! Damnit! I’m a lady!

Ladies also don’t sweat, so I am unable to account for the pool of moisture around my neck upon waking up this morning.

Gah!

A couple years ago, The Good Man and I joined another couple for dinner and drinks at one of the yacht clubs in San Francisco. The Good Man’s best friend is a member.

After a fine meal, the four of us retired to the bar where, with drinks in hand, we engaged in a rousing game of liar’s dice.

Well, just as things get rolling, as it were, an Admiral of the club, a huffing old Caucasian man with a bulbous nose and wearing a rumpled navy blue jacket bustled over to us. He leaned over the bar and blurted, “Ladies do NOT shake dice in bars!”

harrumph harrumph

Remember when you were a kid in the front seat when your mom was driving? When she would hit the brakes, that strong mom arm would come out to protectively keep you from flying through the windshield?

The Good Man and his best friend did something akin to that, keeping both of their lovely wives from rocketing up off of their bar stools and becoming real unladylike in a hurry.

So let’s see…let’s recount my offenses. Shaking dice in a bar. Sweating. Snoring.

Oh fine. When the old definitions don’t fit anymore, it’s time to edit the dictionary!

A lady can indeed shake dice in a bar! And also, I suppose, snore. Ladies can also drink whiskey, shout at sporting matches, drive too fast, belch, curse and gamble.

There. That oughta cover me.

At least for this week, anyway.

:cue Tom Jones:

Best Laid Plans

Or something like that.

I’d meant to do a round up post on my thoughts and experiences from spending Thursday afternoon at MacWorld 2010.

This, the first year without the presence of Apple at the show.

But I pretty much summed it up on Twitter:

“Steve kicked the baby bird outta the nest and it ain’t flying. At all.”

The air is out of the show. I have been going to MacWorld shows as a feature of my employment since 1995. I’ve seen a lot of ’em.

I’m used to the buzz in the air all around Moscone Center. Even in Apple’s down years, there was a lot of energy in San Francisco surrounding the show.

It was the wondering, the excitement, the anticipation. What will be announced? Can I lay my hands on an iPhone (no, they just twirled in a tantalizing fashion in a glass case with security guards), what accessories can I buy. What cool 3rd party products will I see?

There was no buzz. There was no “wow” product at the show. There was no life.

The surrounding streets were eerily calm. The San Francisco flagship Apple store, located within walking distance of the show, was no more busy than an average day.

Even the people running the booths at the expo were lacking energy.

What was once one of the most hotly anticipated shows in the tech geek world is now nothing more than a limp echo of what it once was.

So that’s that.

End of an era, I suppose.

This old dog learned a new trick

At Christmas, my husband received a gift from his step-mom. He unwrapped it and exclaimed, “A Ray Harryhausen collection! Honey, look, we got a Ray Harryhausen collection! Wow, thank you!”

And I was like, “who?” My sweetest is an educated film guy, so I figured it was some obscure director of strange and dark independent films. So I said, “hey, great!” with a shrug.

Who knew I was TOTALLY missing out?

Well, in my ongoing film education (The Good Man is keeping a list. I’m working through it….) he popped “The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad” in the ol’ DVD player while I was eating lunch one weekend afternoon.

Yeah baby! I figured out just who Ray Harryhausen really is. A master of creating amazing creatures in stop motion animation.

The stumbling roaring Cyclops from the late 1950’s is every bit as creepy today. In fact, in a lot of ways, I actually like that better that today’s over CGI’d movies.

Wow, so ok, I was intrigued.

At the end of the “Seventh Voyage of Sinbad” DVD, there were some special features. One was a bit about when Harryhausen got an Oscar (presented by his best friend, Ray Bradbury. What a pair they must make!) and at the end of Harryhausen’s speech, Tom Hanks comes onto the stage to bring on the next award.

He makes the segue by saying, “I know for some people it is Gone with the Wind or Casablanca, but for me, it’s all about ‘Jason and the Argonauts‘”

I looked at The Good Man, “Well we have to watch that next, then.”

And so we did. We watched as Jason and his merry band of Argonauts fight a huge bronze statue of Talos come to life and, oh man this part was cool, a whole army of sword wielding skeletons! Skeletons! I *love* skeletons! They clacked and grimaced and fought. Aw damn, how very cool!

Then we watched “The Golden Voyage of Sinbad” and I remembered that I saw this movie, most likely on TV, with my big brother back in the day. I remembered the blue Shiva with swords in all the arms. (and let’s talk about the very naturally endowed Caroline Munro. Rowr! It’s so rare to see an un-surgically enhanced actress anymore.)

And finally, we had to get to the must see film because, well, it’s set in San Francisco. This is all part of my SF film education.

“It Came from Beneath The Sea.” Yeah baby!

What the movie lacked in dialogue and story (and it lacked A LOT), it more than made up for in great animation.

Oh, that angry squid snapping the top off the Ferry Building and wrapping tentacles around the Golden Gate! Whoa! And that far-reaching tentacle slapping down Market Street, squishing unsuspecting citizens!

Good stuff!

So okay. I’m up to speed on Harryhausen. I watched the Dirty Harry movies. We did the Hitchcocks set in SF (hello Vertigo!).

I’m excited to see what’s next in my ongoing edjumacation!

Verbal-Foo Skillz…I has them

: cue the wavy lines and smoke :

Yes, we’re in the wayback machine, set to “semi-wayback”

Lo, these many years ago when I’d first moved to California, I started dating a guy who was (and is) a musician.

A blues musician, which means he played a lot of dark and, well let’s go with “gritty,” bars in the San Francisco and greater Bay Area.

So, being young and a fairly naïve rube from New Mexico, I used to get all dressed up in cute clothes and impossibly high heels, then head out, by myself, to these bars and clubs to see if I could get the musician to notice me.

So being a young, naïve girl all gussied up to go out, it stands to reason that I used to get hit on by the other patrons of the bars I attended.

A lot.

I mean, *a lot*.

Not because I’m exceptionally pretty, though I’m not a mud fence either. But mainly because I was a girl. Alone. In a bar.

Sort of a siren call for the drunk and lonely.

I have pretty much heard every pickup line in the book. And some from books that no one has written and never should.

Oh yes, I’ve heard ’em all…twice.

When I was feeling convivial, I’d play with the drunk, slurring sportos like a cat plays with a dying mouse. I’d bat them around a little bit before slamming down the paw.

If I wasn’t feeling convivial, I’d get out my acid tongue, a genetic gift from a rather acerbic aunt in my family tree, and burn them on the spot.

One of my favorites is still a late night when all the lights had come up in the bar. The guy I was dating was through working and before he began packing up his stuff, he came over to hang out with me for a minute.

Some very drunk fellow, sensing that the lights were up, began scrambling around to find a warm body, ANY body, to take home.

And of course, since I’m the freak magnet (it’s true, been observed by many a friend and even a family member or two), the slobbering drunk made a beeline for me.

His opening gamble was something slurred and incoherent. Honestly, I don’t remember what he said. I do remember his glassy eyed look as he slurred out something and waggled his eyebrows at me.

Weary with a night of fending off such fellows, I looked him square in the eye and asked, loudly, “Are you hitting on me?”

He slurred in return…”um…well, yes. Is it working?”

I replied, “Let me get this straight…you are hitting on me. And *that’s* your opening line? That’s the best you can do?”

Not to be deterred, he nodded and asked again, “It is working?”

“No,” I said very caustically, “And have you met my boyfriend?” who had been standing next to me the whole time.

Thankfully the very large and take-no-prisoners bartender then placed a beefy hand roughly on the drunk’s shoulder and shouted, “Get out!”

I relate all of this to place a context on the story that follows. So that you understand that, basically, I have learned how to handle myself.

However…

I stopped going to those sorts of clubs and bars a very, very long time ago. And I don’t miss them, honestly. Well, I miss the amazing music that the San Francisco blues musicians pump out, because there is some amazing untapped talent in that City.

But the clubs…I don’t miss them.

Which means, in my now suburban lifestyle, I don’t really get hit on like that anymore.

And you’d think my skills in handling the weirdos might have slipped.

Turns out, I still got it.

So there I was…down on Fremont street in Las Vegas with my trusty camera and the goal to shoot many of the restored old Vegas signs that the Neon Museum installed in the area.

It was about 10:00 in the morning, so that was probably my first mistake. Second, I was alone. Third, I was behind the camera and really in creative head.

All of this mixed together meant the moths came dashing over to knock themselves against my flame…so to speak.

At 10:00 in the morning, the tourists aren’t really out, so it was me and the, ahem, locals.

I got a lot of “heeey…wanna take *my* picture?”

Um, no.

“Heeey, what’s *your* name?” (my least fave opening line, btw)

But the best interaction went like this….

“Hey! Hey? HEY!?!?”

And so I finally turned to see who was bellowing at me.

“You are a big girl! I saw you walking by and I said to myself, I said, you know, big girls need loving too…”

Yep. That was his opening line. He called me fat and then decided I was so lonely cuz I’m such a big girl that I needed his, what would it be…pity? Charity? Selfless giving?

I said, “Uh huh.”

“Say baby, what’s your name?” he said, turning on ALL the charm.

“Lucy,” I replied (using my Nom de Bebida) followed by, “And my husband’s name is David.”

My suitor then sharply spun on one heel and walked away.

The rest of the morning was not just photography, but a continual improv show in which I was the only performer.

I was Lucy, I was a photography student at UNLV, my teacher had given me the assignment to shoot the signs, and ONLY the signs (in answer to the continual request to “take my picture!”), I was a local, I lived with an aunt and uncle, I’d been living here for a while, no I don’t have any spare change and by god I have a husband and don’t need your affections.

It was exhausting.

The final straw was the guy smoking a spliff who came up carrying a Wal-Mart plastic bag which he held out to me. “Wanna buy a Coach purse?” he offered.

And with that, I was done. I caught a cab back to my hotel and stayed inside the rest of the day.

I still got it, but mostly, I just don’t want to have to use it anymore.

*hee hee*

Goodness from the Shoebox blog:

“San Francisco drivers face a second day of tough commutes as crews perform emergency repairs on the Bay Bridge. Does this mean they can’t just hop a picturesque streetcar while enjoying a bowl of mouth-watering Rice-a-Roni and watching Karl Malden and Michael Douglas solve crimes? Could TV have lied to us?”