troublebunny

Thanks for the Joy

2007-08-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

So, I'm watching this PBS special on the music of the '70s, where they bring out all the old fossils and get them to perform their greatest hits...and most of it's really just good, cheesy fun (Gary Wright doing Dream Weaver, Leo Sayer doing When I Need You, Taste of Honey doing Boogie Oogie Oogie, etc.).

But then Dobie Gray comes out and does Drift Away.

I swear, it almost made me cry. His voice is still so incredible, and he's just this genuine, classy, amazing presence on stage. I can't even describe his performance. It just moved me beyond words.

Here's the clip (god I love youtube).

Apropos of Nothing....

2007-07-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

I have decided that the difference between the Italians and the Irish is that the Italians find romance in tragedy and the Irish find tragedy in romance.

Art at Your Feet III

2007-06-04T19:14:00.001-07:00

In keeping with our Barnyard Animals on Utility Hatches theme, take a gander at these three geese I found in front of a shop on 16th Street in the Mission. I'm not sure what they are trying to tell me. Are geese—like their pastoral compatriots, the sheep—natural followers? Do they need a measure of goading to be their own geese, as it were? I wouldn't have thought so. Certainly, the noble up-tilt of their heads on those long, straight necks suggests a certain level of innate uppitiness. Is this, perhaps, an anti-foie gras statement? Anyone? Anyone?

Goodbye, Nancy

2007-05-28T19:16:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, we heard the news that Nancy Tannenbaum had died. Nancy was a bandmate of my husband's nearly a decade ago, in a band called Whitey Gomez, but in recent years she'd been living in New York, and we hadn't seen her or heard from her much in quite a while.

Despite that, I thought of her fairly often. Whitey Gomez was only together for a couple of years, but there are so many stories about Nancy that we still tell...so many things she did or said that were utterly, unforgettably her. The time she told a fellow performer--a puffed-up local rocker whose music and attitude she loathed--that his set had been so good she wanted to give him a blow job right then and there. The time a massive, clueless oaf stood in front of her in a club, blocking her view of the stage, and--rather than take him to task--Nancy just laid her head softly on his back until he got creeped out and moved away. The time she spat obscenities at the bartender in a backwater Oregon strip bar because he tried to stop her from coming in to use the bathroom. Never mind that if a fight broke out her male bandmates were going to have to take the punches. Nancy had to pee.

Nancy was a unique combination of fierce and fragile. A little fireplug of a gal, with a go-for-broke guitar style and a penchant for fast motorcycles. In an online personals ad, searching for romance, she described herself as "kike dyke on bike." That was Nancy.

She couldn't have been more than 5'2", but she had huge talent. Hunched over her guitar, with her face screwed tight as if she were trying to get the lid off a particularly sticky jar, she'd wring out twangy honky-tonk riffs and blistering, surfy runs. And when the song was over and people clapped and cheered, she'd look up, delighted and surprised, as if she'd finally opened the jar and springy fabric snakes had popped out.

On the other hand, she had a volcanic temper--explosive, white hot and unpredictable. It cost her jobs, bands and friendships, that temper, and I always wondered if that's what it was supposed to do. Test the connections. Sever the weak ties before she depended on them and they let her down. Or the other way around, maybe. She once confided in me her fear that the band was going to dump her and walk away. I told her, "They won't walk away unless you push them away, Nancy." She stared at her shoes, glumly, as if that were a foregone conclusion.

I don't know that I've ever met anyone who wanted to be loved as desperately as Nancy did, or who seemed as convinced she wasn't lovable. And, yet, lovable she was. She was howlingly funny, in an endearing, off-kilter way, and so much smarter than she let anyone give her credit for. Joy could overtake her as quickly and completely as anger. She had survived some hard living. She loved her friends. She lived for music.

The day she died, she was driving her brand new red Ducati through the streets of Manhattan. She died because she swerved to avoid hitting a jaywalker. Because of her decision, he ended up with only a head injury and a broken leg. She was thrown and died on the way to the hospital.

Fierce and fragile.

That was Nancy.

Art at Your Feet II

2007-04-26T17:13:00.000-07:00

This beauty of a bovine gazes balefully from a utility hatch in front of Beck's Motor Lodge on Market Street.

I think she is, perhaps, the loveliest cow ever to grace a utility hatch.

No Visible Means of Support

2007-03-03T10:26:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I watched way too much of The Jetsons as a child, but I always thought technology was supposed to make our lives more efficient. By now, we were all supposed to be zipping around in flying cars and leaving the drudgeries of life to the robot maid. Weren't we? I'm not the only one who feels ripped off: my friend Stephen has been known to grouse, "Where the hell is my hovercraft??" Where, indeed, Stephen... where, indeed. It's probably in some undisclosed government warehouse with my Replicator.

Instead of whipping up perfect casseroles with the touch of a button, I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time and psychic energy wrangling my technology...coaxing my browser to open Wikipedia without crashing, force-quitting out of applications that have inexplicably gotten their panties in a bunch, and praying that twackity-thwackity noise my computer is making isn't the death throes of my hard drive.

Email has become my bad boyfriend—he treats me like dirt, but I can't live without him. Unreliable, mercurial and insensitive to my mounting frustration and my longing for stability, that Email is one bad mutha-shutyomouth.

A spammer has filched my domain and has been using it to send prodigious amounts of crap to people all over the world. I know this because I get the blowback—automated "out-of-office" and "delivery denied" notices fill my inbox, along with an occasional note from a real (and really ticked off) person—usually in a foreign language, which makes any attempt at explanation on my part pointless.

This has been happening for several months, with no sign of letting up, and now my legitimate emails are beginning to hit walls of resistance, erected to keep spam-spewing scum like me out. It's a form of identity theft, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it, short of retiring my domain name and starting over. My clever attempt to set up an alias so that I could get past the ramparts of one client's system resulted in me wiping out the contents of my Inbox and my Sent Mail file with one cavalier keystroke. Clearly, I am not as smart as the spammers, and that really chaps my ass.

Meanwhile, emails to me are being rejected by my own email provider, Speakeasy, for what appear to be entirely separate reasons...though I can't be certain they are separate, because the 12-year-old I spoke with in "tech support" won't stop playing World of Warcraft long enough to actually investigate an issue that isn't covered in his phone script.

Why do I always get those guys? You know them: new to the job (or any job, really) and trained only so much as handing someone a binder and pointing to a desk with a phone on it constitutes training. Unfamiliar with, and uninterested in, the technology they are charged with supporting, they seem to get paid to sound young and earnest as they consign your trouble ticket to the bit-bucket of obscurity.

So here I am, venting my frustration into the blogosphere, knowing no one will read it, knowing it will change nothing. I might as well stand on the rim of the Grand Canyon and shout my complaints into the chasm...but, hey, it feels good anyway.

Ain't technology grand?

Art at Your Feet #1

2007-01-14T16:16:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about San Francisco is that everywhere you go, there's art. Not the big-ticket public art you see in Chicago or Paris, but little scraps of wonder scattered on the sidewalks like so much confetti.

Whenever I stumble on one of these little works, I feel as if I have a delicious secret. I photograph it with my horrible cellphone camera, and tuck it away in my pocket.

This stenciled pigeon, which I found at the corner of Van Ness & Market, says "thank you for your filth."

You say you want a resolution...

2007-01-10T18:56:00.000-08:00

My friend Evany has just completed a three-month stint of daily blogging...a sort of Last-Quarter-of-the-Year Resolution, I gather, or maybe a New Year's resolution that took a while to root.

Given how infrequently I post, that sounds like the Bataan Death March to me, but her blog always has this great kinetic energy...all fun and flabbergasted, as if she's just hopped off the Tilt-A-Whirl for a minute to let you all in on the experience. It's sweet, personal and often squealingly funny. I adore it (and her), and I'm insanely jealous.

The thing is, though I truly do intend to post, I just get distracted. There are letters to the editor (any editor, anywhere) to write, surgery shows to watch, things that must be eaten before their expiration date. And before I know it, another week has gone down the chute.

But I hereby resolve to post more frequently. Weak tea compared to the Three Month Daily Challenge, I know, but it's a start. And it may actually be achievable, now that Plastic Surgery Before & After is in reruns.

The Importance of Your Vote

2006-10-27T19:18:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a good long while since I've updated this blog, but this essay by Kevin Tillman, brother of killed soldier Pat Tillman, is incredibly moving and --I think--incredibly important to read as we head into the mid-term elections. It appeared in the Chronicle last week. I'm passing it along as a reminder of the importance of voting--specifically of voting for change--on every level. Though this isn't a presidential race, the candidates who win seats this time out, whether on the city, state or federal level, will have influence on how long this war lasts, how many of your friends and neighbors are sent to fight it, which of your civil rights are compromised and how much money is diverted from education, public
safety and other vital areas to fund it.

Two years ago, the current administration was given another chance to set things right, in Iraq, in Afghanistan and at home. Since then, things have only gotten worse. Now, this nation desperately needs the system of checks and balances to be restored to our government. So forget the mudslinging...forget the ads....forget party allegiance....Just vote your conscience on Nov. 7.

************************************************************************

Chronicle Editor's note: Kevin Tillman joined the Army with his brother, Pat Tillman, in 2002, and they served together in Iraq and Afghanistan. Pat was killed in Afghanistan on April 22, 2004. Kevin was discharged in
2005.

It is Pat's birthday on Nov. 6, and elections are the day after. It gets me thinking about a conversation I had with Pat before we joined the military. He spoke about the risks with signing the papers. How, once we committed, we were at the mercy of the American leadership and the American people. How we could be thrown in a direction not of our volition. How fighting as a soldier would leave us without a voice ...
until we got out.

Much has happened since we handed over our voice:

Somehow we were sent to invade a nation because it was a direct threat to the American people, or to the world, or harbored terrorists, or was involved in the Sept. 11 attacks, or received weapons-grade uranium from Niger, or had mobile weapons labs, or WMD, or had a need to be liberated, or we needed to establish a democracy, or stop an insurgency, or stop a civil war we created that can't be called a civil
war even though it is. Something like that.

Somehow our elected leaders were subverting international law and humanity by setting up secret prisons around the world, secretly kidnapping people, secretly holding them indefinitely, secretly not charging them with anything, secretly torturing them. Somehow that overt policy of torture became the fault of a few "bad apples" in the
military.

Somehow back at home, support for the soldiers meant having a 5-year-old kindergartener scribble a picture with crayons and send it overseas, or slapping bumper stickers on cars, or lobbying Congress for an extra pad in a helmet. It's interesting that a soldier on his third or fourth tour should care about a drawing from a 5-year-old; or a faded sticker on a car as his friends die around him; or an extra pad in a helmet, as if it will protect him when an IED throws his vehicle
50 feet into the air as his body comes apart and his skin melts to the seat.

Somehow the more soldiers that die, the more legitimate the illegal invasion becomes.

Somehow American leadership, whose only credit is lying to its people and illegally invading a nation, has been allowed to steal the courage, virtue and honor of its soldiers on the ground.

Somehow those afraid to fight an illegal invasion decades ago are allowed to send soldiers to die for an illegal invasion they started.

Somehow faking character, virtue and strength is tolerated.

Somehow profiting from tragedy and horror is tolerated.

Somehow the death of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people is tolerated.

Somehow subversion of the Bill of Rights and the U.S. Constitution is tolerated.

Somehow suspension of habeas corpus is supposed to keep this country safe.

Somehow torture is tolerated.

Somehow lying is tolerated.

Somehow reason is being discarded for faith, dogma and nonsense.

Somehow American leadership managed to create a more dangerous world.

Somehow a narrative is more important than reality.

Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared and distrusted countries in the world.

Somehow being politically informed, diligent and skeptical has been replaced by apathy through active ignorance.

Somehow the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtueless, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country.

Somehow this is tolerated.

Somehow nobody is accountable for this.

In a democracy, the policy of the leaders is the policy of the people. So don't be shocked when our grandkids bury much of this generation as traitors to the nation, to the world and to humanity. Most likely, they will come to know that "somehow" was nurtured by fear, insecurity and indifference, leaving the country vulnerable to unchecked, unchallenged parasites.

Luckily this country is still a democracy. People still have a voice. People still can take action. It can start after Pat's birthday.

Copyright ©Kevin Tillman

Follicular Follies

2006-06-30T15:05:00.000-07:00

I love a bald man. And I mean that specifically (as in my gorgeous husband has a shaved head) and generally (as in bald men turn me on). My very first crush? Mr Clean. I was too young to know he was a cartoon character (and therefore tragically unattainable), but not too young to know he was hot, hot, hot. Since then I've had passing fancies and lifelong passions for any number of smooth-pated men, from actor Patrick Stewart to American Idol finalist Chris Daughtry.

What's more, I know I'm not alone. There are legions of women (and men) out there who swoon over Vin Diesel, Michael Jordan, Taye Diggs, Ed Harris...even Montel Williams. And, honestly, who didn't cheer when Andre Agassi finally shaved his head? Zowie! His look went from played to Player overnight.

So what's my point? My point is this: It's time for men who are clinging to the comb-over, the bad toupee (is there any other kind?), the Krusty the Clown side tufts, the Ben Franklin pony tail, to let go and go bald.

I hereby declare July 7th (Yul Brynner's birthday) to be National Go Bald Day.

Let July 7th be the day that men everywhere fire up the Wahl clippers and free themselves from the misperception that a little hair is better than none. Let it be the day that they stride into the office, the gym or their favorite bar, bald and proud.

Think about it, men. If the nation embraces Go Bald Day, yours won't be the only newly shorn head shining gloriously in the sun of the morning commute. And so what if it is. Think of the freedom! Think of the joy of being able to roll down the windows without mussing your carefully gelled comb-over! Think of the cool breezes that could never before penetrate your weave! Think of women (or men, if that's your preference) stroking your head, and you not ducking away out of fear they'll discover your "secret." Think of taking a hot, steamy shower...with someone.

Sure your co-workers will rib you (particularly the male co-workers who haven't worked up the guts to do it themselves), but it's Friday. After eight hours, you'll leave them behind, and by Monday your new look will be old hat....except to the women in the office, who--trust me on this-- will think you look a zillion times better.

Will shaving your head make you the fantasy object of all women? Of course not. But it will earn you points with women who dig bald men (unquestionably a much larger segment of the female population than those who dig men in toupees). And the fact that you've embraced your baldness, rather than desperately denying it, will make you seem all the more confident, dashing and daring.

The best part? Unlike Mr. Clean, you'll be 100% real, from bottom to gloriously gleaming top. And that, my friend, is sexy as hell.

What I've learned from watching surgery

2006-04-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

[Fair warning: the second link is probably NSFW, unless you work in a gynecologist's office.]

Anyone who knows me well knows of my obsession with televised surgery. Few things make me happier than watching a skilled surgeon draw back the fleshy veil to expose the glorious clockwork of the human body. Whether it's a nose job, a heart bypass or the removal of a man-sized tumor, I watch, riveted, high on a heady brew of fascination and revulsion, curiosity and fear.

But it's not just the blood-and-guts thrill I'm seeking and not just a stolen glimpse into the hidden realm. Every surgery patient has a story, and I find myself irresistibly drawn into their lives. I'm a sucker for the sympathetic narrative, the grainy high school photo, the lingering long shot of the soon-to-be-patient walking hand-in-hand with a loved one, perhaps for the very last time (though, of course, I know said patient must have survived or there'd be no show). The knowledge that these are ordinary people--imperfect, fragile, human-- only amps up the wonder I feel at the extraordinary machinery that lies beneath the skin.

What these programs say about society fascinates me as well, particularly the plastic surgery shows. I despair that a woman will vanilla-fy a strong, exotic, gorgeous nose, paring it down to a perky little nub to conform to conventional notions of beauty. Thank god Sofia Loren never did that; more's the pity that Jennifer Grey did. I stand amazed at the physical traits that people obsess over, and the lengths they go to to "fix" them. Sure, saggy breasts are less than sexy, but are hard, over-inflated boobglobes really an improvement? And who knew there was a "cuteness" standard for labia? Who decides this stuff, and why do so many people buy into it?

Still, I'm cheered (and, yes, seduced) by the idea that flaws can be fixed, genetics transcended and the ravages of time reversed. These shows give me hope and solace, I can't deny it. It's a comfort to know that someday, if I want to, I can send my eye bags packing. And I have gotten misty more than once when the "after" shot revealed not only the patient's new face (or bust or belly) but a new sense of self-worth, of radiant pride and buoyant confidence.

I am a child of Women's Liberation, taught to see beauty in all its forms (including my own nascent crow's feet) and to value intellect, humor and kindness over perfectly pouty lips or a set of pneumatic ta-tas. I value that enlightenment. But what I never learned from Our Bodies, Ourselves (but have learned from Plastic Surgery: Before & After) is that not every pursuit of physical beauty is shallow. If having those pouty lips means you smile more readily and flirt with more abandon, then the world has gained a happier, more passionate citizen. If sculpting that nose lets you shed the prickly defenses you donned in junior high, or getting calf implants makes you want to bike and run to show them off, then I believe you (and society) are better for it.

Sometimes accepting yourself as you are is not enough. Sometimes learning to love yourself, warts and all, is just an impossibly long haul. Why should we wait for the wisdom of age when we can simply lose the warts now? I'm not saying plastic surgery is a sure and easy fix for the wounded psyche; I'm sure there are some people for whom it's just another expression of self-loathing (hello, Michael Jackson!). But I've come to see it as a personal choice as valid as getting a haircut or buying flattering clothes. And I'm convinced that, sometimes, achieving outer beauty taps into, and draws forth, the hidden beauty within.

A Public Service Announcement

2006-04-01T17:53:00.000-08:00

Since the best part of having a blog is using it as a bully pulpit, I will begin with the thing I most often find myself wanting to shout in public places:

Ladies, there's nothing you can catch from the toilet seat. Nothing. Not from sitting on it, anyway. In fact, you are more likely to come in contact with nasty germs as you turn the doorknob on your way out of the loo...or as you eat the food that's been touched by half a dozen hands before it lands in front of you...or as you tongue wrestle with that guy you picked up at the bar. So, for the love of god, stop being a priss and SIT DOWN.

Or, at the very least, if you really feel you must hover (and I swear some of you are doing the fucking lambada in there), wipe the seat. It'll take you three seconds, and it will save the rest of us from having to A) clean up after your skanky ass or B) hunt you down and kill you like a dog in the street after sitting in your pee for the millionth time.

Thank you for your cooperation.