The Best of Times is Now

A new year generally brings with it reflections of everything: relationships- family, friends, and otherwise; thoughts of career or lack thereof; goals, hopes and desires; thoughts of the past and of the future, and with them an almost compulsive desire to do something differently than we have been doing it. It can manifest itself in cleaning out closets, joining a gym, eating leafy greens, among hundreds of other modifications to our behavior.

I guess there are as many resolutions as there are people who will make and possibly break them. I don’t really make resolutions, since I have come to think of resolutions as a lie I am telling myself. I know perfectly well I won’t realize most of those resolutions and the guilt from not having done so makes me want to eat vast quantities of chocolate, smoke, and swear even more than I already do. So for me, making a resolution is largely counter-productive. That is not to say that I do not hope that 2008 will see a better me, but I don’t intend to take to the streets, announcing plans to eat healthier, do volunteer work at least five hours a week, or learn a second language (I actually would like to do that, but I’m still working on English).

This time around, the passing of another year is making me think more about what I like about me, rather than what I do not like. I guess it’s a sort of accentuate the positive resolution I am interested in. I like this blog. At times, during normal daily events, my mind swims wondering how that event will become a worthwhile blog. And at times, knowing that I will eventually be writing about those events, I find myself becoming an observer to them rather than a participant. I’m more often than not passionate about it.

When I began writing a blog I didn’t have a specific purpose in doing so, although I did see it as place for me to say things that might be better left unsaid elsewhere in my online life. On the other hand, when I started my food blog, I very consciously did it for specific reasons. It struck me as a good way to guarantee that I would post something at least once a week, and I thought it would jumpstart my desire to get into the kitchen regularly- a desire that can range from fanatical to non-existent. I regard that blog as a dismal failure in terms of those two goals.

There have been weeks when I had to force myself to come up with something interesting to cook, so I would have a subject to write about. Over the past couple of months, each week when I realized it was time to work on a food blog, I'd dread it. In fact, I am kicking myself for ever having started it. I feel it ridiculing me as it tells me I must get out a pot and cook something, and often I simply don’t want to. Of late I realize I’d rather write about the food than actually prepare it. I’d rather eat in a restaurant than scrub pots and that misery of a stainless-steel sink I got talked into. I have been cooking –in varying degrees of quality and ambition—for over thirty years, and suddenly, I am ambivalent about it.

I suspect Cat Boy’s Kitchen will soon grow dormant like the coral bells in my garden, since I am no longer going to post to that blog for its own sake. Despite this sentiment, the kitchen blog has served a valuable purpose. A few comments left there led me to some truly excellent food blogs that have informed me on foods I was not familiar with- foods I may seek out in restaurants, or even make myself when the mood strikes. But more importantly, seeing those food blogs made me realize just how passionate their authors were about their subjects, and just how passive I was about mine. They gave me a bit of clarity; they showed me that what I was attracted to was shifting.

A couple of years ago, when I first realized I was not as interested as I had been in cooking on a daily basis, I got worried. It is the thing that has defined me among the people I know, for years. If I do not cook, who am I? We all feel the need to have an identity of some sort and through everything—personal loss, mental breakdowns, deaths, marriages, divorces, babies being born, people moving away—I have been the one who cooked.

My rice salad, baked penne with ragu Bolognese, or oatmeal cookies, have been served at virtually all the funerals I have attended for the past fifteen years. My scalloped potatoes were served at my brother’s rehearsal dinner, and homemade rolls baked into the shape of a cluster of grapes marked my nephew’s baptism. I walk in a door and nine times out of ten, the first thing I hear is, “What did you bring?” And while I will still cook for all those occasions, both the joyous and the heartbreaking, and I will spend hours blissfully making food gifts during the holidays, when I am done, I will very likely pick up a chicken Shawarma at the “falafel joint” for my own dinner, and be grateful that I can.

The worry I carried over this one has now passed, because I realize my fear had more to do with other people’s expectations of me than my own. I write this blog, and if that becomes my new identity, that’ll do nicely. Most of what I write here I am happy with. Maybe the structure could be better; maybe I overuse some words, and underuse others. And it’s possible—okay probable—that I am prone to posting something too soon after writing it, not allowing myself enough time to reread a given post, digest it, and recognize where I could have done better.

But—and this is a big one—I am still happy with what I write if for no other reason than the way I feel when I am writing it: I am impassioned. I may be feeling livid, overjoyed, sick, weary, or even depressed, but I am rarely indifferent when I am writing. The passion I once felt for cooking may have been reduced to a hint of its former self, but I have a new passion, and I am not going to worry about whether or not it’s the right thing to get passionate about. As long as I feel this way, I am just going to be glad that something makes me feel this way.

It’s like being in love- don’t take too much time analyzing it, just enjoy it for all it’s worth. I guess I am in love. I’m in love with the idea of my words coming together and becoming something of value- whether or not the value is transitory or enduring. And I am in love with my readers, both because they continue to read what I write, and because they are often my muses, insinuating words and ideas into head when I am desperately looking for them. Naturally, being in love is maddening at times, but for me, and in this particular case, it’s worth it.

So, I wish a Happy New Year to my readers and muses, and offer a grateful “thank you” to whoever among you put the word transitory into my head- that is just the word I was looking for and my Thesaurus was no help at all (and it’s not the first time that ass Roget has dropped the ball).

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Good Deed Doer

I spent my day yesterday being a good-deed doer all over the Bay, and it has left me high on good will. Or maybe it was the lemon bar and bourbon.

I went into the City to buy fabric and bitters. That sounds like a long way to go by fabric and mixers, and it might be assumed that the cost of the train and buses would cancel out any bargains I got. It is a long way, but the second part is an incorrect assumption.

After the ride on BART, which was in no way of any interest to you, I grabbed the 38 Geary bus towards the Richmond district. I haven't spent much time there at all, let alone recently- I think the last time I was on Clement Street was in 1989, so I couldn't remember a thing that was there, other than the restaurant I went to at that time and it is long-since gone.

The first two blocks have several antique and high-end home stores, none of which I went in. This was because I was on a mission, and because I turned down my mother's offer to join me on my outing, based on the amount of walking I intended to do; and if she found out--and mother's always find out--I went to antique stores without her, she'd pout. So I skipped them and went to Fabrix.

For the much talked about birthday party for my father, we are trying to give my parents' patio a more lounge-y look. Mom and I discussed the various ways we could accomplish this, and the conversation kept coming back to fabric. If the tables needed for the food and bar were draped in fabric, they would look more dressed-up, and if we added pillows and cushions to the outdoor furniture, it would increase the outdoor living room vibe. But fabric costs money and mother feels the loss of money quicker than the loss of blood.

I went to yelp and searched through listings for fabric stores in the City, which led me to Fabrix in the Richmond and Darlene's in the Mission. (I didn't get there, but have kept the address handy for future fabric needs.) Fabrix is a tiny store with stuff crammed everywhere, as in up-to-the-ceiling everywhere. My immediate thought upon walking in was that I had made a huge error and wasted $10 on my round-trip BART ticket. But once I got past the sheer volume, and started to see the individual rolls of possible choices among the forest of double-knit polyesters, taffeta, and tulle, I got more hopeful.

After no more than ten minutes, I had made my choices and was fairly confident I was not making them only based on their prices- $1 and $2 per yard. I bought a cotton/poly blend in black with a leaf pattern, a red and black hounds tooth (which is sadly all poly, but not too obvious about it) and a green cotton with the names of US cities printed on it. I have no idea if that one is going to be used for the party, but at $1 for a generous yard, I figured I'd do something with it. (Although, I can't sew worth a damn, so I'm not at all sure why I figured that.)


I'm also not quite sure which fabric is going to be used for what, but I'm thinking the black fabric for tablecloths and the red and black for cushions, pillows and to cover my two "scratching post" ottomans for additional seating, since there are currently no cats using them. However they get used, I walked out of the store with 12 yards of fabric and some iron-on fusible-web (also known as hem tape) for under $20. It saved my mother going to a dozen stores and finding nothing that was both attractive and cheap, so I considered it a success and my first good deed of the day.

One street over from Clement is Geary, I crossed over to it and walked the almost two miles to Blackwell's wines and spirits. It took me over a half hour and would have gone a lot faster if the lights had been for me, and if people obeyed the rule that pedestrians have the right-of-way. If you ever have to cross Presidio Park, do so carefully. (Strangely, that street was mentioned on the news just this morning with regard to being dangerous for pedestrians.) Anyway, I made it safe and sound to the spirit shop, and spied the restaurant Aziza one block up. I have been wanting to try that place at some point, but I was still in my I-have-a-job-to-do mode, so I tried to ignore it as best I could.

Blackwell's is a spiffy shop. It is light and airy, with long wood racks holding wines of all types and origin, gleaming shelves with the spirits, and a refrigerated section at the back for people wanting some wine or beer ready to drink. I immediately found the Peychaud bitters I had been wanting, not only for my ability to make my own Sazeracs, but because I thought it might be a good choice for the Rob Roys for the party, should I not be able to locate the recommended Regan's orange bitters. (I did, in fact, locate them online, and the shipping is more than twice the cost of the actual bitters.) After that I browsed a bit and bought a bottle of Elmer T. Lee bourbon for a special occasion, and a stout called St. Peters, which I thought might make a nice gift.

I payed for my hooch, got back on the 38 Geary, and headed towards Union Square. I knew there was nothing in the house to eat, at least nothing I could throw together will little effort, so I figured I'd go into Bristol Farms at the San Francisco Centre and get a small piece--about $4.00 worth--of pancetta to make pasta with pancetta and peas. You'd be surprised what $4.00 in Italian pig can do for a pound of pasta and half a bag of frozen peas. I got my pig and peas and as I was leaving, saw the Peet's Coffee.

It was 3:00 pm and I hadn't eaten since 8:00 am. I got a lemon bar. They are full of butter and egg yolks, but I kept telling myself that one can never be too careful with regard to avoiding scurvy, and that seemed to quiet the annoyingly health-conscience part of me. So I took a seat at a table in the food court, having my late lunch of lemon bar and coffee, and mid-bite, realized I was directly facing Out The Door. I kept thinking about my wanting to go back in there to buy some of the rhubarb soda they sell in the take-out section, but my paranoia over bumping into the porn-star/waiter from my previous visit, and blurting-out something absurd like "Do you know people are sending e-mails with invitations to see you having sex to unsuspecting diners," pretty much squelched that.

I finished my lemon bar faster than was really necessary and exited to Market Street. On my way to BART, a supposedly blind, homeless man asked me if I could give him money for a bottle of water ( I say supposedly, since he had been reading a newspaper as I approached him). I grabbed the unopened bottle of water from my Timbuk 2 bag and gave it to him, and he gave me God's blessings, as the homeless always do (funny how people so faithful ended up so bad off). (This would be good deed #2, for those who are keeping track.) I walked the rest of the way to BART, wondering if I should have told him that reading a newspaper is a dead give-away that you are probably not blind. (That could have counted as another good deed, so I wish I had.)

My trip home was uneventful, except the last 15 minutes, when I told a group of strangers a complete fabrication (that's just a fancy word for a lie). Three stops from mine, the operator came over the speaker announcing the next stop and saying that the doors would not be opening for a few minutes after arrival because of a "police-required incident." That set off a bunch of questions among two groups I was sitting near. One said she was pretty sure that meant something had happened at the station, while another--who was correct, but should have kept her mouth shut--said, "No, that means something is happening in one of the cars on the train and they will only be opening the doors to that car so the police can get whoever it is."

"But, what about the doors between the cars? Some fool with a gun can walk from car to car, before the police can get in."

It was at this point, I lied my ass off. I told them that I had been on the train before when something like this happened (which is actually true, but everything else I said was not) and that it was just some poor woman with mental issues. She was sitting in one of the last seats and had been having a very loud argument with someone who was too small for anyone to see. They could hear the other person, but couldn't see him. So, the police entered the car she was in and discovered she was having the argument with a sandwich (I said I thought it was ham) and that the other voice was hers too. Apparently, she was a ventriloquist with mental issues but no dummy, so she was using her sandwich as a dummy.

I don't know if the story was really all that funny or if it was just the relief at having someone offer an explanation that didn't involve a gang-fight or terrorist plot, but they all laughed and when the doors opened, had nearly forgot why we were sitting still. A few stops later, I got off the train, amazed that I got through good deed #3 with a straight face.

My final good deed took place as I was sitting in the parking lot waiting for my bus. I'd been waiting about ten minutes and I saw youngish woman walking around the parking lot, looking confused. I knew that look. That's the look you get when someone who assured you they would pick you up, is nowhere to be seen. She continued to do this for another 5 minutes and finally, just as my bus pulled up, walked over and asked if she could use my cell phone. I told her she could and hoped she would be done before the bus left.

She called the person on their cell and got no answer. The bus driver looked at his watch and gave me a look. She called the person on their home phone and got no answer. The bus driver cleared his throat. I thought about it, and despite myself, decided there was no way I was getting on that bus until I was sure she got a hold of someone.

No. My peas could thaw, my pancetta could get all oily from the heat, I could wait another half hour for the next bus, or drop $15 on a cab, but I was not leaving until she got someone on the phone. I planted my feet firmly in the pavement and directed a look at the bus driver, who then gave me a look that suggested he would wait. I wasn't sure if it was the look I gave him or his concern for the stranded woman, but he did wait until she found someone to pick her up.

It turned out to be the stranded woman, since he gave me dirty looks the whole ride home. I didn't care, it was my fourth good deed of the day and when I came home, I opened the bottle of bourbon and poured a very small one over ice to honor myself for my glorious day of philanthropy.



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OHMYGOD!

There is no other title (other than a play on words, such as something about a Spring Roll) that could do this one justice.

I have told you that I sometimes get friend requests on myspace that are basically invitations to buy porn. I also get the occasional e-mail, but my spam filter and my own filtering by reading the subject and address fields pretty much alerts me to those. Every once in a while, when I have a lot of mail and am in a hurry one gets past, and the same happens with myspace when the name of the proposed friend is not blatantly obvious, ie: Hot Katie 2007 or BIG willy (both of whom I turned down).

You can see where this is going. One got past me today. I opened it and it was an invitation to "Virgins No More," or something like that. Basically twenty-something men who look better than me in tight t-shirts, looking provocative outdoors. I close it and then it hits me. I open it back up. He looks familiar.

I have seen him somewhere.

No.

Yes.

But where? Was he?

No. Yes, he was.

He absolutely was. That guy in the tight t-shirt is the guy who kept refilling my water glass the other night. I remember the tribal tattoo on his wrist and the earrings that actually go all the way through the earlobe (someone remind me what those are called). Holy shit!

I am not at all sure I can ever go back to that restaurant. My waiter has done porn. Okay, I didn't actually see anything that qualified as porn, he wasn't even unclothed. But even so. I now know that he has done porn and there is no way I can sit at a table and ask him for a spring roll, or God forbid, a chicken or pork bun.

I have to go splash boiling water in my eyes now.


PS. On the other hand, if someone is visiting from out of town, my taking them there and pointing him out might make an interesting story for them to tell their friends back home.


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Envy Me

I got a new table. Not just any table, but a really super-duper green table for my patio. And, it was 75% off.

The Sunday brunches/lunches that I have been hosting of late can range from a reasonable six people, all the way up to fifteen like the one two weekends past. My dining room is small, but it opens onto the patio, so I decided there is no reason not to put the excess people out there. Except for a lack of shade and only one table outside. I do have a folding table which is acceptable with a cloth over it, so that sort of solved that issue, but I still needed shade. I decided to splurge and buy an umbrella.

Cost-Plus World-Market had them on sale two weeks ago and I managed to find a spiffy, mod red- and white-flowered umbrella for a semi-reasonable price. (Semi-reasonable being less than I would pay anywhere else, but still more than I actually wanted to.) I also spotted a French-style cafe table which coordinates with the one I already have. My old one is red, the one I saw in the store was sherbet green. I really liked it. It was on sale for $80. That was too much, given the umbrella splurge (and the fact that I needed a bottle of Gin to make the Ginger Rogers cocktails for the lunch). So, I did my best to forget about it.

Yesterday I picked up the phone and heard my mother on the other end ask, "Which color do you want?" Naturally, I asked her what she was talking about, although in my heart of hearts, I was really hoping it had something to do with the table. It did. An hour later, the little gem below arrived, along with a bill for less than $35, including the tax. From $80 to under $35 in less than two weeks.



Now with the two tables, the five outdoor chairs I currently have (along with an indoor bench that I move out when the need arises) I can actually fit seven people on my tiny patio very comfortably and throw in one more, if comfort is not an issue or if two of the people just recently started dating.



I think I am becoming one of those people who extols the virtues of living small. You really can make it work for you.


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So Long, Farewell . . .

Alternate title: Scarecrow, I think I'll miss you most of all.



Today, the Live! Rude! Girl! column you read by Neva Chonin, will be her last. She isn't dying or anything, she just wants to do something else.

When I realized this (two hours ago) I knew I must pay tribute in some small way. A way that would satisfy my need to thank her for her contribution to my already disjointed way of thinking, but more importantly, remain true to the style of the Girl herself.

A youtube video. The Internet is Neva's domain and youtube is, at this moment in time, maybe the best symbol of the Internet. But of millions of potential videos, how could I choose one?

I had thought of Sarah McLachlin singing I Will Remember You. The song would play to images of Neva's past columns, the covers of her favorite CDs, and the men she most loves--George Clooney, Steven Colbert, and the like. It would end with a photo of a teary-eyed Neva clutching a discounted bouquet of sunflowers to her bosom, as her fellow Chronicle staffers presented her a cake from Safeway with "We'll miss you, Benito," written in orange icing on top (it was ordered over the phone and the connection was bad).



The problem I saw with this video is Neva's reaction to it. Either Neva's heart--much like that of the Grinch--would grow three sizes and she would run down Mission Street, giving quarters to all the homeless, or after seeing the video, she would wretch all over her i-Book. The latter seems more likely and with the cost of computers, I didn't want to run that risk.

My second brilliant idea involves Eva Peron. Bear with me, it makes perfect sense. Neva, arms outstretched, in front of a sea of microphones, delivering Eva's Final Broadcast from EVITA. "It may be harder for you to see me, but I am NEVA! And always will be . . . "

Nevita! Nevita!

It works on many levels, but I'll cut it down to the top three. Eva Peron died of cancer, Neva spit in the face of cancer. The musical features one of Neva's favorite revolutionaries and sexual fantasies, Che Guevara. And finally, as mentioned in past columns, and in her final column today, she has a real soft-spot for Lucious Malfoy. Put his hair up, give him some diamonds and he is Eva Peron.

"Don't cry for me Harry Potter. I have way better hair."

Having decided against both of those, as well as a few other ideas that aren't worth mentioning, since I haven't come up with them yet, I copped out and put on two videos, one with funny cats, the other a tribute to the unrequited love of Harry and Draco. They appear at the end of Neva's column and they're pretty much what you'd expect. Crap. Well, I did it in a hurry and it was either this, or Porky Pig saying son-of-a-bitch.

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Potterdämmerung

Neva Chonin - San Francisco Chronicle
Sunday, July 15, 2007

"What’s that descending in a big red dirigible? Why, it’s my expiration date." - Live!Rude!Girl!, Jan. 29, 2006

Everyone keeps pestering me about writing a farewell column, which makes sense, because this is my last column.

But I resist.

I don't want to write a farewell column. I want to write about Harry Potter. So I will. If it's my bon voyage, I insist on sailing out on the HMS Hogwarts.

All righty, then.

Specifically, I want to ponder the nebulous sexuality of a certain Dark Lord Voldemort in the latest movie in the Potter series, "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix," and the mystery of how a man without a nose can still be so sexy.

First I'll state the obvious: He's played by Ralph Fiennes. Ralph Fiennes could make anthrax sexy. And yet! John Hurt was quite fine in his younger days, but I didn't drool my way through "The Elephant Man." Well, maybe a little. I am that sick.

An equally obvious answer is that bad and bothered is always hotter than clean and good.

In "Order of the Phoenix," Jason Isaacs plays Lucius Malfoy like a sonorous transvestite with a peroxide fetish, frosty and dapper even while having the crap kicked out of his aristocratic hide by a bunch of schoolkids. Sweet baby Jesus. I know Death Eaters aren't rocket scientists, but if you can't even coax a snow globe from a kid's hand, we have trouble, honey.

But no matter! Disaster looks good when supported by Helena Bonham Carter as Bellatrix Le-strange, barking mad and sizzling fine. It's just a fact: The Slytherins might lose every battle in the Harry Potter series, but they will always trump the heroes when it comes to the pretty.

And yet ... there are limits.

Call me twisted. Yes, do. Because in a cinematic landscape undulating with Lucius Malfoy's silky platinum hair, all I could see was the crazy Dark Lord with the Nosferatu nails.

Damn you, Ralph. I understood the sexy Nazi bit in "Schindler's List," but how does one invest a cadaverous lizard with an erotic charge the size of China?

I guess I could count the ways, so I will: By wearing a designer suit to greet young Harry at the train station (when the devil wears Prada, the devil's totally smokin'); by waving your desiccated limbs like a prima ballerina in full swan dive; by projecting nihilism, calculation, need, greed and everything in between outta the twin beams of your luminous eyes.

Holy spotlights of sex! Go for it, Harry. The hot noseless guy wants you. Seriously, go for it. I would. But then, I drooled over "The Elephant Man."

Dude. The whole movie conspires to bolster Voldie's man-magnetism. His seductive wiles loom large while Harry's pubescent angst is taken out of CAPSLOCK. The dialogue is smarter and sharper. It is, of all things, a smart movie. That's right. A smart Harry Potter movie. Of course, it's a transitional work, packed with exposition, more rambling, less linear than the earlier movies. It's a lot like the book in that way. But it trumps author J.K. Rowling's ability to convey bleakness and turmoil. Think tone poem with wizards. Think "The Empire Strikes Back" without asteroids.

Granted, I am a morbid creature, and this is a dark, dark movie. Also? I am untroubled by filmmakers violating canon in order to translate text for the screen.

In the filmed "Order of the Phoenix," there's a continual unraveling of the book's "canonized" details. Critics are divided on this baby, which just makes me wanna dig in my heels even more and say I like it, warts and all. I like ugly, interesting things. Honey, it's the only way I can look in a mirror.

Thanks to this movie -- and the sight of Ralph Fiennes sans nostrils -- my love of all things Harry has skyrocketed just in time for the final book to kill it dead. Come July 21, it's all over, baby.

But how?

Maybe Hermione will wake up and realize it was all a dream. Maybe Harry will do a Carrie White and reduce Hogwarts to ashes in a fiery Potterdämmerung while Snape flings knives and shrieks about dirty pillows.

Will it be a "Sopranos" ending?

A "Hamlet" ending?

What if it never ends at all, and Harry Potter continues into infinity? Will the glut of Harry Potter fanfiction make the internets explode?

I'll ponder these questions and more as they arise ... but not here.

I do tend to exaggerate, but I wasn't kidding when I said this would be my final column. My feet are itching, which either means I've contracted fungus or it's time for me to move on.

Latest plan: teaching Derrida to Sherpas on Mount Everest. I hear Kathmandu is the place to be. I'll leave a textual trail for those who care to follow it.

In closing, I must point out that you're all very strange for spending years reading a column penned by a hideous cartoon, but then, I lust after a guy without a nose.

I suppose that's just the way it goes. It goes that way.

Neva is slouching toward Bethlehem at nevachonin@sbcglobal.net and www.myspace.com/liverudegirl.

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