Taking a bit of inspiration from Ms Rustygrass' wrist cuffs, the fact that I got an interchangeable watchband watch for Christmas but with ugly leather bands, and the scrap ends of a pair of non-Carhartt work pants, we have a new watch! I'm not sure this satisfies my need for a "professional looking" watch that covers up the tattoo, but I'm fairly happy with it.

The next question is, why do I keep making things out of turquoise, green, and brown? Wierd.

Oh, the conundrums...

So, here's the question of the day: the NY Times says that by wearing cotton clothes that have to be washed more often, I'm actually doing more damage to the environment than if I were to wear only synthetics but just half-assedly wash them. It turns out that the environmental impact (e.g. energy used) of repeated washings is way greater than that of producing a synthetic garment.

But here's the thing - I bike a lot and I wear Tom's Natural deodorant. The deodorant choice is mostly out of a desire to not (maybe) give myself breast cancer or Alzheimers. The biking is part health, part gasoline, part finding-parking-in-my-neighborhood-blows. Valid, no? But my selfish desires to avoid cancer (sometimes) and not troll for parking means most of my clothing needs to be washed fairly frequently. Add to that the need for field clothes, office clothes, and gym clothes, and let's just say I do a good deal of laundry. And frankly, synthetic or natural, it all gets pretty funky pretty quick. It's one thing to think you might smell a bit ripe, it's another repel the general public.

So what do I do? I'd already accepted that by biking I might actually hurt the planet, but maybe if I switch to aluminium-based antiperspirant that'll offset the biking, I can wash my clothes less, die earlier, and thus balance out? Or just wear synthetics and throw them away? Or maybe hemp? Is hemp the answer?

distraction!

now that everyone nearby has received their mini-gifts, I can safely post this...that's right, I've purchased a 1.5-inch button maker. I'm not quite up to making special requests yet, but after the holidays that may be a possibility. I also acquired a sewing machine, and my first knitted glove project. More on those later.

In the meantime, I hope everyone is enjoying their holiday season, whatever that may mean.

Peace.

yowza!

Holy crap, it's October. Where have I been? Well, let's see...in no particular order

- some awesome people got married in some beautiful settings
- about 1000 feet of new trail were built in the Marin Headlands
- nearly 400 feet of existing trail have been "rehabilitated" in the same spot (with more to come)
- many, many (bad) plants were poisoned and/or yanked/sawed/cut from the ground
- singing mic-ed was tested (and happily not recorded)
- some folks learned that there's more to environmentalism than recycling (and that the only time to go to Muir Woods is before 9 a.m.)
- it was determined that a furry cat and a furry dog is one too many furry animals in the house
- sleep deprivation was experimented with and rejected as a concept (though not as a lifestyle)

One of these days I'll have an original thought to share, but until then I leave you with this question: Exactly when did the Red Hot Chili Peppers start sucking and is the radio simply playing them out of nostalgia or am I missing some genius in their inane repetitiveness?

Hardly Strictly Bluegrass is this weekend. New York may still be better, but SF has many, many more awesome, free, public, drunken festivals. AND fun people are in town. Twang on.

Never again

will I leave the beloved insulation of urban life. I will travel by plane from city to city, occasionally visiting lovely liberal towns like Missoula and Marfa, but there will be no more of this suburbia or any “real country living.” Today, for reasons too ridiculous to explain, I heard/saw a cow get shot and slaughtered. I’m not really traumatized by this so much as, well, eeew-ed out. That and due to my proximity to the experience I can categorically say that the cow was not killed with respect, kindness, or care, despite being one of a handful of cows on a family farm. So there goes that myth. Following the cow incident was a brief trip to a mall (what?) where, among other things, I heard an adult man use the words “c**ksucking motherf***ers” in conversation with a six-year-old. Now, I’m no expert, but that doesn’t seem cool. I’m now safely back in the land of sirens, crackheads (is this un-p.c.? “people suffering from an addiction to the ‘crack’ for of cocaine”?), and cantankerous roommates, where the worst I have to worry about is getting my sh*t stolen, and, apparently, not wearing the right thing to the right part of the right wedding.

In other news, David Brooks can kiss my butt. For those of you who don’t have the joys of TimesSelect (or this “paper” I hear so much about), dude just wrote a whole diatribe on the conventionality of tattoos and how lame they now are. Here’s my guess – someone’s daughter just got a butterfly tattoo on her hip, and this is how daddy communicates/expresses his feelings (p.s. I know absolutely nothing about D.B. except that he’s wearing a pink shirt in his profile picture). Just to get it out of the way, here’s an incomplete list of things that I do/have that might be considered “conformist displays of individuality”:

Have tattoos
Am pierced
Play in a band
Live in San Francisco
Go to trendy bars with friends
Wear pants
Eat “ethnic” food
Do not eat animals
Am not married, with child, or a parent
Have a blog
Work for an environmental non-profit
Read good books
Read the Onion
Vote

I hate to say that there’s nothing new under the sun, but living in this place makes it difficult to imagine that I’ll ever do anything that someone else hasn’t already tried. Does that make me “vanilla middle class” and “absolutely mainstream”? Does the fact that Kevin Federline and I both have tattoos make us lump-able? Dear god, let’s hope not.

So this is what a neglected blog looks like (actually, this is what a neglected blog really looks like, not to name any names…), but I’m finally back in the world of home-internet and so I guess it’s time for an update. That and two of the approximately four people that actually read this have recently noted that I am, in fact, not dead.

Where’ve I been? Well, it all started with a vacation, which was awesome (check out the pics on flickr. If you want to see the real ones with real human friends in them, email me). It started at the High Sierra Music Festival, complete with the likes of Keller Williams, Hot Buttered Rum, Bela Fleck and Nickel Creek. I think the real highlights were the pick-a-long with the crazy-awesome Jake Shimabukuro and the workshop with Bela and Chris Thiele. I had high hopes for the late night Bela and Nickel Creek show, but apparently the non-mando playing members of Nickel Creek decided not to play with Bela…but it was still pretty awesome and inspiring.

Four days of good fun, great friends, and fantastic music was followed by a short solo backpacking trip along the Lost Coast. It was amazing, I chased a bear out of my awesome campsite (note photo of successful bear bag), and I was reminded yet again that I shouldn’t try to vacation places where I’m too familiar with the vegetation. Nothing like feeling totally out in the middle of nowhere only to come upon a f***ing pampas grass (Cortaderia jubata and/or C. selloana) infestation. Boo. But old growth redwoods are pretty rad. Yes, I hugged one or two.

Finally, I cruised up to Eugene, Oregon, to check out the Oregon Country Fair. I can’t quite explain this one to you…this is the kind of place where it is spelled faerie, people wear stilts, and one can purchase and don these. Pretty intense. Next year I want to be on the inside!

But, yes, all that was over a month ago now. I returned from the vacation to move the following weekend (I now am an integral part of the gentrification of the area surrounding The Independent), and we just got the internet humming yesterday. In addition, my plant killing and trail building responsibilities have led to some unfortunate sleeping situations (as in, not getting enough), so don’t expect much for the next few months, but I’ll try to be more forthcoming.

Glad to be back, internet. I’ve missed you.

I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting something crucial...

Prep-prep-prep

Camping!
This is a birds-eye shot (-ish) of day one of preparations for Hippie Road Trip 2006. Functional digi pending, pictures to follow.

Lessons I learned today?

One - don't ever store your zip-off pant legs separate from their zippered shorts. You might find yourself with with only one leg, and pondering whether or not you want to wear the old ones with the moss stain/streak on the ass...

Two- never assume that REI will have anything!!! especially maps. and ponchos. and watches that cost less than $30. jerks.

Three- never assume that online stores will be able to fulfill your needs...turns out you can't buy a good poncho and Mary Jane Farms Black Bean Hummus in the same place at the same time. Nor can you buy a map of the Sinkyone Wilderness anywhere. Boo. AND shipping is expensive.

Oh! And it's hard to find violin strings on a Sunday in SF. Who knew? Basically this was a day of shopping for stuff and not buying anything (except for at Sports Basement, which we love.)

But it was also Pride. Yet another example of San Francisco's institutionalized public drunkenness; something New York has yet to really embrace. And it's hard to be too pissed off about shopping woes when overwhelmed by the amazingly beautiful and incredible ethnic/ social/ economic/ gender/ sexual (/not so political) diversity that exists on the streets of San Francisco.

Feels Like Home to Me

Biking home from band practice I take a wrong turn through Golden Gate Park (stoopid museum construction detours!) then hit a bump and lose my rear light. On the unlit (‘cept my headlight) mid-park road I pause to grab the blinker and reassess my directional decision. A car cruises by and slows ever so slightly. As I give him (or her?) my best “fuck-you-motherfucker-I-fought-off-a-mugger-in-Bed-Stuy” look I realize that this is what makes San Francisco San Francisco for me – biking, fiddle on my back, not sure where I’m going, letting a bit of New York slip out.

A few blocks later I’m home, I park the bike in the garage (ah, SF) and then discover that my flat’s front door is wide fucking open. Who knows how long it’s been like that, but I shut it, assuming that the last one out of my housemate’s meditation study group left it ajar, or that it's part of some spiritual cleansing that should be stopped. But I ask, and it seems that, in fact, he just forgot to shut it while forgetting to water the very, very sad fuchsia hanging by the door. But no one in the neighborhood seems to have noticed the oversight, and all is well.

And so it goes. Creepy date today, no? Too bad that movie ruined it.

p.s. I went to New York this weekend. More on that, with some pictures, soon.

So, I'm sifting through files on my computer trying to find the final report for this project that I worked on back in the day, which, though unsuccessful, led to the rediscovery of a bunch of stuff I wrote when I was trapped in Texas. Apparently while in Texas I spent a good deal of time thinking about how much more fun I had while trapped* in New Hampshire, and, more importantly, a lovely game we used to play called "F**k, kill, marry." My personal challenge (at the time)?: Howard Roark, Hank Stamper, and Dave Eggers.

Another great game is "Sinking ship" where you take all of the people in your immediate social situation (in NH a house of 8) and decide the order in which you would throw them off a sinking ship in order to, presumably, save yourself and whoever you're playing the game with.

I've had some wierd (and fantastic) summers.

*By "trapped" I mean living somewhere isolated from things like the internet, phones, TV, sane people, and cultural stimuli, but surrounded by wildlife, crazy folk, and alcohol.

What am I up to?

So, part of my job involves a "trail use study," which means I spend many hours every couple of weeks counting the number of people who use certain trails. This would be fascinating except that NO ONE USES THE TRAILS. That's not true. But in the 6 hours I was out last week I saw approximately 10 people. Sure, sure, this means I get paid to hang out in nature and do pretty much nothing, which is awsome, except when I do actually have other things to do with my working hours (which is always). But here we are. So I decided to start taking pictures of flowers, and these are the winners. Plus this gave me an excuse to figure out the flickr thing (partially). My favorite is still this one:
Because the native plantains get so little love, and they're pretty freaking adorable in their itsy-bitsy-ness.

I've also spent some of that time thinking about what I would get if I got another tattoo, and who I would have do it. But don't worry...no more tattoos in the near future.

Maps!

If I ever have the opportunity to really, truly warp the mind of a young person, my big plan is to do so by only ever showing him or her maps that look like this (or derivations thereof):


This map, originally produced by the SASI group, shows all the countries of the world in actual land-area proportion to eachother. As we map geeks know, most maps are some derivation or another of trying to project a spherical-ish surface (the globe) on to a flat page or screen. Which leads to lots of distortion, getting worse and worse as you move away from the equator. And, since most of the developed world lies signinficantly north (or south, hi New Zealand!) of the equator, these projections could give us developed-world-ers an inflated sense of our importance (at least geographically).*

I've flipped the map upside-down because, from the perspective of the universe, what is up? The only reason we draw north as "up" is because the first folks to figure out this whole map-drawing-printing-and-distributing thing drew themselves living on the top of the planet. Does it matter? Not really. Not climatologically. In fact, looking at the map this way reminds me of why it's so much colder in Siberia than it is in South Africa.

So, would a kid raised on this map freak out when he got to the first grade and saw his first north-up interrupted sinusoidal projection? Maybe. But that's what independent parent cooperative schools are for, right? So no kid ever gets called a freak because they know what Lambert conformal conic means.

* I should note here that maps like this are NOT good for navigation. That's a whole other thing. Really any projected map isn't very good for navigation over long distances.

Talent? Ain’t no such thang.

I was recently at a bar (no!) discussing the fact that doing things you’re not good at totally sucks. I, for example, “am not good at” learning languages. Or having rhythm. My conversation partner (can that be a new category on Friendster?) “is not good at” skate skiing. But, of course, along come the internet and some numbers/econ geeks to point out that the whole concept of “not [inherently] good at” is false. I actually found this column to be quite inspiring…or at least leveling. The conversation in the bar led to us both pondering the few times that we’d transitioned from “not good at” to “okay.” My favorite personal example is snowboarding. There was a time when I was terrible at it. I have walked down mountains (bunny slopes) and spent entire days more on my butt than on my feet. My right knee is f***ed up partially thanks to that period of learning. But I don’t suck at snowboarding any more. I’m not particularly good, but I’m aware that it’s due to a lack of commitment and the fact that I’m a big chicken, not a lack of talent.

Chicken-ness and lack of commitment are things I can control, and it’s somehow reassuring that, theoretically, when I try to learn new things I am in control of my success. So the fact that I’m not very good at playing the fiddle is because I’m not trying hard enough (which is true). And it’s up to me to change that. Or to give up and add ‘playing a musical instrument’ to the long list of things I’ve bailed on.

The column also claims that “when it comes to choosing a life path, you should do what you love — because if you don't love it, you are unlikely to work hard enough to get very good.” What they gloss over is how you come upon things you actually love to do. It ain’t talent, but if our likes and dislikes beget skills, how do we develop likes and dislikes? Some are clear – I like and am good at reading maps because my father is an architect and I grew up reading plans. I am not good at team sports because neither of my parents played any, nor did they encourage me to do so. But my excessive love for trees (there must be a latin word for this)? Or my sense of humor that verges on the completely bizarre?* the root of these is a mystery even to me. But because I believe that the nature/nurture question is weighted towards the nurture side, I’m guessing they’re somehow subtly environmental.

How does this help to solve the problems of the world? Well, if more people believed that what was standing between them and success was (1) finding something they love doing and (2) working hard at it, I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place. Or, to take it the step further that the column does, the best thing would be to raise children in an environment that encourages as many likes and passions as possible. Except bad passions, like schmoozing politicians, making and distributing tacos in lieu of the mail, or getting other people addicted to drugs. Some passions should go unfulfilled.


*Britt- have you seen this? Watch “Blueberry” immediately.

Opposite day?

First of all, Tom Friedman is talking about a third "environmental" party like it's a new idea. Um, what? Admittedly, during the last election he was too busy thinking about Israel and 9/11 to worry too much about the environment, but did he really miss the entire Nader campaign? Say what you want, but pretty much if it weren't for third party candidates, we'd have a green president, damnit.

Second, Mark Morford can't just complain about everything. Writing an article that basically is against smart growth (i.e. generally building denser developments with mixed-use commercial/residential. Google it.) because it does involve a lot of Pottery Barn cleanliness is just stupid. If someone chooses to live in an apartment above a Sunglass Hut where they can WALK to the Whole Foods, WALK to their yoga classes, hair appointments, and botox sessions, and take a shuttle or BIKE to their middle managment job at the nearby office park, that's f***ing awesome. Because that person wasn't choosing between that lifestyle and our hipster urban I-don't-own-a-car shop at Rainbow make my own underwear world. It was this clean, Disney-ified version of urban life or an actual tract home, where they'd DRIVE 20 or 50 or 100 miles a day in their Passat or Excursion or H3 to do the same things, only isolated from the world, on their ass, and belching noxious fumes the entire way. There are more people. There will be more homes. Mixed-use in-filling is so far the best option. Get over it.

Making the world a better place

one little tiny sweater at a time.
Could this be any more adorable?
photo credit: LDS, Grist.

I have been known to complain about my job. I don’t like the negativity of that fact, but it is, empirically, low paying, highly stressful, and, sometimes, uninteresting (or interesting to someone, just not me). But then there are days like these. Days when I get to hike around ostensibly “mapping invasive plant species” in the brilliant sunshine. Sure, I got stuck in a poison oak thicket, sure, I’m getting a farmer’s tan, and, sure, I slipped and fell on my (metal) clipboard, but who cares when it’s this freaking nice out. Please ignore the invasive trees encroaching on coastal scrub habitat.


p.s. I realize having my toes in this picture looks a bit ridiculous. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
p.p.s. If you squint you can see Mt. Diablo. For those of you unfamiliar with the territory, I grew up just south (to the right in this picture) of that mountain.

In my 24th year* I…

- landed my first real job
- learned to accept (tolerate? weather?) professional and academic failure
- started rock climbing
- did not leave the country
- began to learn to play fiddle
- cried more than I’d hoped to
- gained a relative
- was reminded of the beauty, kindness, and strength of my friends
- got a (-nother) tattoo. But no piercings.
- thought about death
- read some pretty good books
- was granted ‘administrative’ privileges to my work computer twice
- shaved my legs three times
- tried to remember the difference between want and need
- happily shifted from ‘acquaintance’ to ‘friend’ several times over
- listened to a lot of great music
- knitted many scarves (+ two hats and a baby blanket)
- met at least seven fantastic people
- accidentally ate bacon once
- went on my first solo backpacking trip
- played Edward 40-hands twice
- started a filing system for my non-work papers
- made peace with my parents
- got poison oak on my face three times
- lived in only one city
- bought eight pairs of shoes
- over-thought several insignificant things (and a few significant ones)
- almost always meant it

What will the 25th year bring? ‘Tiz unclear. I’ve got some ideas and requests (no expectations, this time), but a firm belief that expressing wishes makes them not come true prevents me from telling. Let’s just say that I’d like this year to find me less petty and more athletic.


*Okay, I know that technically the year that I was 24 was really my 25th year, as I was 0 + X months for my first year of life, yadda-yadda-yadda, but get over it. It’s like when we geeks pointed out that 2000-2001 was really the millennium. No one cared. It was 1999-2000 that really mattered. Deal.

the itchy and scratchy show!

I have a tendency to miss small details in life. I tend to over-commit to things, leading to the occasional fainting spell and/or heartbreak. This inattention to my own personal well-being has also led to the following list:

Places I Have Poison Oak (today)

both ankles
both forearms
in between my ring and middle fingers on my left hand
on the top of my middle finger on my right hand
my right elbow-pit
my right knee-pit
just below my right collar bone
the left side of my neck
the bridge of my nose

Fortunately nowhere totally inappropriate (yet) - I hear nipple p.o. is a doozy.

Feng shui, or something

According to Supernaturale, feng shui says, "To find your love area stand in your doorway (the door to your home, your apartment, your room if you share a household). The love area is the furthest most rightest corner."

My love corner therefore consists of (1) my over-full closet, (2) a bag of recycling that really needs to be taken out, and (3) an IKEA lamp that is currently holding a very wet, very poison-oak-covered pair of Carhartts. Hmmm...perhaps some rose quartz crystals are in order.

It also says feng shui is anti-tree, though, so that just can't be right.

Feminism be damned.

I am not a fan of male chauvinism. Larry Summers – not my guy. I am a huge fan of equal pay for equal work, the ERA, and a general avoidance of discrimination. I have, in fact, been called a “screaming feminist” (sorry for the repetition here) by men who like to wear shirts that imply that they are lesbians. I am, however, also not the kind of woman who has to deal with a lot of male chauvinism. I work in a field dominated by women and I almost never get hit-on by strangers.

But there are certain times in my life when I’m reminded of how awesome it is to be a young woman of precarious means. Say, hypothetically, that I rear-ended an Audi today on my way down to City College. After calling my mom to cry, calling the insurance company to report, and getting my general shit back together (and out of my car), I faced a seriously bent hood on a very small, very meek, very inexpensive Daewoo (that’s a kind of car, for those of you not cool enough to know that). So I headed to a recommended body shop, pointed at the hood of my car, noted that I only had liability insurance, and was told to “wait till Dan got back from his break.” “Dan,” my friends, in the course of 30 minutes called me “darlin’” at least four times, told me that he could “fix anything but a broken heart” (literally. fortunately Pierre’s bent hood was not heartbreak caliber), fixed my car, and let me choose how much I would pay for the endeavor. This rocks. An otherwise shitty week totally salvaged by some random dude’s kindness and metal-hammering skills.

Of course, they might treat all customers the same way. If my dad drove his Mercedes in with his 6 feet of height, silver hair, and golf-club polo shirt, trying to get a dent fixed, they might have let him pay cash and called him darlin’. Or if I had bitched instead of sniffled, and been wearing a suit instead of jeans they might still have said when I asked how much, “Well, whatever.” I’ll never know. That’s what’s funny about life. Empathize all we want, we really have no idea what it’s like to be someone other than ourselves (unless you have an identical twin, I guess). What would it be like to walk through the world prettier or blonder or less pretty or male or really tall or super-short? Partially deaf? With an extra toe? With perfect pitch? I have no idea. But I do know that when faced with a mechanic or a hardware store clerk, I’m damn glad to be a woman.

Here’s a related question: why is it that when you have limited car insurance, mechanics try to work with you to save you money, but when you have limited health insurance doctors go out of their way to screw you. I once got a root canal thinking I didn’t have dental insurance, but really wanting the root canal, only to find out that I was still insured (thank you, California Teacher’s Union). When the dentist went to file with the insurance company they also had to reimburse me, because they’d charged me the “uninsured price” which is MORE than what they charge insurance companies. Uh, unfair? So is it the insurance companies themselves sucking? Or is it that most mechanics know what it’s like to have weak car insurance, but most doctors have spent their entire lives happily health-insured? Or something else? Also, I’ve never had a doctor call me darlin’. Though that might be a little creepy.