I spent MLK day laboring in the manual vein. We bought some assemble yourself furniture that needed to be assembled. I’m now profoundly tired of the allen wrench.

Meanwhile, I’m debating on rising and shining all early like. I just might want to watch that sad little historic moment that will be all that more special this time around. The helicopter dispatch of the dude who’s services are no longer needed on Pennsylvania Avenue. I think it’s awesome the new guys walk out the old guys and they are flown away. You know, gotten rid of quickly.

Even better for that final walk with Joe and Jilly leading out Dick and Lynne, it now looks like Dick will be rolling along. They, as in his already prone to lying staff, say it was on account of Dick’s moving boxes around in his new less noteworthy digs in Virginia. I so believe he does his own lifting.

The real beauty of Cheney’s back pain (and mostly I don’t wish him actual pain) is how it will look on the television. How great is it, he’ll actually look like Lionel Barrymore’s vindictive Mr. Potter, rolling along bitterly wheel chair bound?

Technorati Tags: America, George Bush, Barack_Obama, Dick Cheney, campaign, Campaign 2008, Inauguration, GOP, Politics

Too bad I learned my lessons about mixing workplace and weblogging. There’s a lot of fodder out there these days. About all I can say is I’m pretty sure I was the cause for someone to go home, yell at the wife and kids and kick the dog. What can I say? I’m incorrigible.

Of course, that’s the cute, self-deprecating version. Not the movie in my head, where I am super hero.

Meanwhile, back at the California ranch, here’s something I never could do back in my Beantown days. The other day a bag full of tree-ripened tangerines appeared on my desk. In turn, I am to share some of the vast lemon crop. Citrus exchange, fresh and in the middle of January.

On the lemon obsession, it abides.

Here’s my thinking. Given that by nature I am more of a destroyer than a nurturer, and M. ain’t what you’d call handy-like, the trees may be numbered just because of proximity. It is there citrus-y misfortune to have fallen into the hands of non-gardening boobs. Maybe they will survive, as trees have done untended for eons. But, it is just as likely by sheer horticultural ineptitude they will wake up one day to find themselves stripped of leaves and fruit, victims of abuse and neglect.

For that future, I am using what I can until the gravy train stops. Making hay while the sun shines, or some other agricultural-like, farming cliche, as it were.

In other news, M. and I seem to have survived the week despite a shared (emotionally not in some ghastly “watersports” way) gastrointestinal nightmare. M.’s conceding the culprit for our malaise was likely some Oakland-based fried rice, chicken wings and tofu. Tofu, I’m looking at you. All systems seem to have returned to normal, but we are weary from the battle.

I think I vomited for only the second time since moving to California. That stunning record of infrequency may be directly attributable to the fact that I drink exponentially less, measured in gallons not glasses. Ah sobriety.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, California, home, lemons

I was so busy digging into my cave after escaping from Boston, that I haven’t had time to write. Just time to put up sand bags, no trespassing signs and join up with the learn by mail militia. Hunkering down in every way I can. I mean I even fired up the crock pot.

I may never leave this hut. I have three hots and a cot. And, wood. Much fire wood for like survival and romantic firelight and whatnot.

Once I landed back at SF Airport, and after we found our way out of the thickest fog I have ever had surrounding me on the drive from the airport, it’s been California lifestyle all the way. We even brought our bikes up to a shop for air, tuning up and lubing. Turns out, and I now know with certainty since we can’t find a bike rack that will fit on our convertibles, that while it is much warmer here than Boston in January, an open roof in San Francisco cruising around in January is fucking cold.

Nothing makes me feel that sweet freedom of a world of possibilities like blazing down suburban streets on my bike just exploring. Instantly, I’m 12 years old and instantly the universe is blocks larger and easier to access. I found out the other day that we live really near some kind of ranch/horse farm dealio, and I need to work on being able to scale the steep trail between beaches without jumping off and walking. On bike, it’s a great way to catch the sunset.

Without disturbing the neighbors.

On my bike I also scrounged up supplies for a series of home-cooked dinners in the new year. It likely won’t be a trend, but with ample time off it was a fine divertissement. I’ve used more flour in the new house than I had in the whole time we lived in our last apartment. Ain’t nothing like slow-cooked pot roast and freshly baked white bread if you are planning to never leave the house again.

Sadly, the freedom of time off and nothing I had to do ended today with work. But, after seeing snow again and regressing to a mental age of an unhappy 14 whilst in the bosom of my family, I was happy to be back. I mean, like any office job, it’s Occupational Therapy with the complexity, stimulation and comforting repetitiveness of making potholders, slightly better pay and the occasional free pen.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, Biking, California, home, Pacifica, photos

I’ll say one thing about “home” for the holidays. Hanging at my brother’s has a certain je ne c’est quoi, a lawlessness.

I just got up in just my pajamas (in the house of Pat robes were compulsory) and grabbed a soda in the can and brought it to bed with me. Because I can. Because sodas in this house come in the rare can form which only existed on field-trip days in my youth in this town.

Soda in the can was a rare and wondrous extravagance. And, this soda is brand name. Nothing less.

Here, I can just grab one and drink it in bed. Could have even been a beer.

Strangely, I do, in fact, have cans of soda in my own home, left over from a pre-party Costco trip. I could also drink one in bed. But, there, it has no sense of taboo adventure. Here it’s subversive-y.

Technorati Tags: Boston, Christmas, Pat

Holidays were more relaxing when I didn’t have to travel 3,000 miles. Except, of course, all of the stressful shit about worrying about my mother, backing stopping her holiday stress and the usual family frivolity and layers of cliched dysfunction and baggage. Yes, the olden days. We’ll always have Paris.

Now, I’m here alone in my borrowed room. M. having forsaken me for the coast. And, really, I blame him not at all. I myself yearn for the left and the home and the sea breeze.

At the same time, it’s great to see people, and I’m sorry for the people I will see in too small doses and/or miss seeing entirely. Tomorrow, I may try to go a little wassailing to make up some time for people I see too little.

As always, I think pretty much in any adult life, holidays are that thin line between the life you live and the friends you choose versus the was that isn’t (and may never have been) that your family sees. To me, today, that’s a striking contrast.

Last night I was out with friends who I love for not having to explain myself. Friends that I made through the performing and writing I have chosen. Outside that enclave it’s a bit tough to describe a ridiculous and spontaneous dancing circle at a bar expanding as the crowd jumped in to the scene we created. It’s also nigh impossible to impart the rambling, impassioned discussions about writing, performing, getting out some voices inside that call for that sort of thing. Ginsburg’s without the pretentiousness implied by my tagging along to the Beats or the LSD.

I mean for some hours in the evening there was all of this:

And, like Brigadoon or Cinderella’s mousey carriage or the earth before the Rapture, the morning came and that made up world was gone. A prosaic trudge back to the town where I was raised, locked out of the house where I have never lived but spent much time, back nestled with the folks who invite me back time and again despite my whinging, thankful for the night-owl genes of my nephew for letting me back in the almost dark house, but back on terra firma, my erstwhile “home.” Feet of clay and weird, little sisterness seeping back to my veins.

On the plus side, by moving away the people best taken in smaller doses are kept in little medicinal rations. And by returning, you realize that the life you have made, the one you choose, is the right one. I love the days I have with people who only know me now and don’t make me feel alien or tell me I’m stupid. (In fact, I regret the number of years I had of growing up and hearing the word “stupid.” I don’t like hearing it now.)

I never cry in California. But, back “home,” I’m crying now.

Technorati Tags: Boston, California, Christmas, comedy, family, photos, writing

Two things are true. I like to try to do something homey (or homely) and handy-like for the holidays. And, two, I’m obsessed with our lemon trees. (The rain for the last couple of days is killing me. I got crops to bring into the kitchen.)

This year’s experiments have been limoncello and lemon extract for baking.

You know what’s key about that professional packaging from the lovely image borrowed from the professionals at Cook’s? They use a brown bottle. Now, I’m sure there’s all sorts of scientific, light-breaking down, oxidizing reasons behind that brown bottle. But, I think it’s primary function is aesthetic.

Here’s a collection of some of my home-making, focus on lemon extract.

Maybe it’s the choice of jars or the lighting, but that’s some sample I have there. To put a finer point on it, here’s an Absolut vodka add you won’t be seeing in a magazine.

Absolut Piss.

Lemony flavored goodness, mind you. But, aesthetically, well they’ll be some conversation pieces gift-wise.

In further proof I will never reign as supreme as a Martha Stewart, here’s the collection with an actual bottle of limoncello a friend gave me from a recent trip to Italy. They do taste similar, and the recipes I blended from the web (which ranged from 5 days of soaking lemon zest to 80 days and a lot of theme and variation) were equivocal as a group on cloudy or clear. I don’t know if I did it wrong or right, but I can see it looks suspicious.

Oh, and I discovered I’m probably not the sort with a future on the streets. I spilled a whole slew of lemony vodka goodness all over our glass table, and I licked it not once. Nor did I suck on the rag I used to mop it up. Temperate am I.
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Technorati Tags: California, lemons, urine, Christmas, Italy, limoncello

Our friends work at what could be the world’s biggest drug dealers. Unlike my employer, for which much is reserved and non-demonstrative, like the tasteful and lovely poinsettias that are the only “holiday” decorations, Genentech can do up a shindig. They took over the usual playground of baseball’s SF Giants, threw tents, activities, food, a ferris wheel, bands and bars around, you know regular, low key stuff.

AT&T Park is right on the waterfront in San Francisco. In the summer, M. and I could barely see Fourth of July fireworks on account of the fog. But, privatized fireworks in December, fucking awesome. I loves me some pyrotechnics.

Thanks, Robert J. (Research) and Nancy.

Technorati Tags: Christmas, photos, San_Francisco