The exciting conclusion of my seemingly never-ending quest to get to The Presidio. Don’t forget to read Part 1 and Part 2!

After my many attempts to find Presidio, certain historical accounts, both fictional and non, started to make sense to me.

I understood, for example, a bit of how Moses felt, wandering the desert for 40 years.

I have a better inclination of what drove Dorothy down the yellow brick road in the company of three gay mutants.

And perhaps the greatest fictional work of young souls leaving home in search of themselves, (I speak, of course, of Britney Spears’ Crossroads), was now more achingly beautiful that it had ever been.

After a day spent pulling out my hair and kicking the innocent, I met up with my husband and we had dinner with some friends who lived outside of the city. I told them about my mishaps.

“Why the fuck would you want to go to the Presidio?” they eloquently inquired.

I told them about the views. I might have omitted all the stuff about Duran Duran and caramel apples. One of our friends shook his head, explaining that most of the Presidio wasn’t that great. I should just go to Golden Gate Bridge. And when I asked him about the bridge and surrounding park in further detail, he explained something to me that might have made my head explode. All the positive attributes I had accredited to the Presidio? They applied to Golden Gate Park.

So, naturally, I decided to go there.

(more…)

Today’s post is the “exciting” continuation of my attempts to get to the Presidio, which I first wrote about yesterday. Enjoy!

After the complete and colossal meltdown of that morning, and a realistic assessment of the poor parenting I provided for my imaginary children, I was able to pull it together a bit.

A sushi roll, a handful of blueberries, and a quick pep talk from my utterly confused but well-meaning husband (”Um, why don’t you just take a cab?”), and I was ready to give it another go. I was once again determined to take public transportation for a multitude of reasons:

• My aforementioned belief that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. In other words, I am stubborn.
• The Presidio was too far away. I am pretty sure a cab there would have cost me several thousand dollars.
• I love saving money.
• Taking public transportation builds character.
• Hopping into a cab seemed somehow tantamount to cheating.
• I find the rantings of crack addicts interesting.
• I had already spent so much damn time trying to get to the Presidio,  that I felt compelled to waste a little more.

(more…)

I have, on occasion, been known to get a idea stuck in my head, and no matter how crazy, random, scientifically inaccurate, or illogical, I cannot seem to shake it. I once claimed China was an island (thank you, American school systems!). I am convinced, to this day, that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. I actually refuse to accept that it is anyone else. I’ve considered amassing a fortune (by whatever means necessary) and paying Duran Duran to record Mysterious Ways, thereby proving the accuracy of that notion (let’s face it: you’ve never actually seen U2 sing it, right? So it could all be a hoax).

And after a few minutes editing Wikipedia, I could actually be right about all this stuff.

Occasionally, I get a crazy idea in my head that turns out to be correct (like the time I got into a screaming match with a kid in middle school, after I claimed that spiders weren’t insects. Take that, Vipul Shah). This is awful, because then I start to lack the necessary dose of self-doubt that people who entertain crazy notions should have.

So, when I got the idea to go to the Presidio because, I assumed, there would be amazing things to do, fantastic views of the Golden Gate bridge and lots of food vendors giving away free caramel apples exclusively to girls named Geraldine (what? It’s my fantasy), I never for a second questioned whether or not it would be a worthwhile trip.

Let me just say, my excitement was ill-advised. (more…)

“The coldest winter I’ve ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” – Mark Twain

“Holy f*ck, it’s FREEZING.” – The Everywhereist

Last week, we were waiting in line at a huge, popular ice cream shop with a group of our friends. We all wore jackets. A few of us had scarves. We clustered together for warmth, joking that perhaps ice cream was not the best choice on such a chilly night.

This is August in San Francisco.

Rand and I have learned, thankfully without too much discomfort on our own parts, to check the weather report before leaving for any trip. In the case of San Francisco, we check it two or three times before our flight.

It was 95 degrees in Seattle on this same day.

(more…)

Folks, can I take a minute to praise the French? (Note: I have never been to France). They are responsible for such wonderful things as croissants, Pasteurization, and taking the entire month of August off for vacation.

A lovely people, indeed.

The French are also repsonsible for coining a term without which I would be seriously concerned for my mental well-being. But because the French have given something I experience on a near-daily basis a proper name I no longer feel alone in my crazy.

(more…)

I remember the day Kurt Cobain died. I was about to head to drama practice, wearing green sailor shorts, a black shirt (which still resides in my closet, despite being waaaay too small. I can’t bear to throw it away), and a little green vest. Kurt Loder broke the news on MTv. I distinctly remember thinking: Christine is going to be bummed.

The other girls would show up to rehearsal later, wearing all black. One carried a huge sunflower. They explained that they were in mourning (What? They were drama geeks. How could they not be melodramatic?) The director spent some time talking to us about depression or suicide. I don’t really remember what she said.

Recently, a friend of mine told me that she, too, remembered Kurt Cobain’s death, because it was the day she first arrived in Seattle. Everywhere, candlelight vigils were held, and she had no idea what the hell was going on.

People of my mother’s generation remember where they were when Kennedy was assasinated. She was on her way back from school. When she found out the news, she sat down by the side of the road and cried.

For us? It was Kurt Cobain. I realize that perhaps his suicide probably shouldn’t be on par with the assasination of a president. But it’s what we had, and what we embraced. It’s why I keep the black shirt that’s way to small.

(more…)

While Rand was once again showing off his public speaking skills (and meting out crazy doses of charm) I decided to roam around the city a bit. The only problem? Everything in L.A. is miles from everything else, nothing is within walking distance, and I didn’t feel like driving. Los Angeles is a terribly walking city, but we were fortunately rather close to Venice Beach, which made for a semi-interesting walk.

1. Surf/Swim sign

I wanted to walk up to it and scream, "Don't tell me what to do!" But I wasn't with anyone I could embarrass.

- (more…)

Dear residents of Seattle;

First off, a brief apology. I am sure that I have flipped off the vast majority of you in traffic. On more passive aggressive occasions, I may have intentionally picked my nose in the vicinity of your children, thereby affirming the belief that it’s not only okay and acceptable, but it’s fun! Enjoy trying to break them of that habit.

However, all of that is in the past (and by “past”, I mean, “foreseeable future”), because I’m here to give you a bit of HOLY-CATS-THAT’S-AWESOME advice. And it is as follows: Visit the Willamette Valley wineries in Oregon. Immediately.

Oh, hush: I do not CARE if you have other obligations to tend to in our fair city. The kids can drop themselves off at daycare for once (plus, you don’t want those little nose-pickers in your car anyway). And stop whining that you’re going to miss Great Uncle Lou’s last days: it’s called hospice for a reason. It’s because it’s hospitable. He’s not going to notice you’re gone: he thinks it’s 1943, anyway.

Besides: OREGON WINE COUNTRY IS AWESOME. Here are just a few reasons why.

1. It’s must closer to Seattle. I’m not going to lie: I suck at geography, and I don’t really know where Napa is. But I know that Oregon is, like, a MILLION times closer (no hyperbole).

Hee hee. It's on Uranus.

-

2. There’s no sales tax in Oregon. None. For people in Washington state, that’s like a 10 percent discount on everything.* The only downside is that most things purchased in Oregon are made of hemp. (*Of course, this is only true if you cheat on your taxes, failing to retroactively pay sales tax on all tax-free Oregon purchases come April. And I would never endorse defrauding the U.S. government in any way.)

This entire building was made from hemp. If you licked the paint on the walls, you got high (though according to my buzzkill hubby, it was just "lead poisoning.")

-

3. Matt and Kim live in Oregon. I know, I know – you probably don’t know who Matt and Kim are. But they’re awesome, and if you drove down to Oregon, your chances of meeting them increase by, like, a thousand percent.

Matt kind of looks like a hobbit in this photo, but they're still awesome.

-

4. Everything will be far less expensive than its California counterpart. Accommodations, restaurants, wine tastings, and even the wine itself is going to be way cheaper in Oregon than California. A few wineries even have picnic tables and recreational areas, so you can bring your own awesome selection of food. This either qualifies you as a connoisseur, or a hobo.

What? Hoboes can be foodies.

-

5. There are fewer crowds. My husband gets upset when I use the phrase, “It’s so crowded – it’s like the Black Hole of Calcutta at happy hour.” He’s says it’s offensive. So I’m not going to use that term. I’m simply going to say that attending a wine tasting in Napa will leave you more squished than an elevator ride at a Dom DeLuise look-alike convention.

RIP, Sweet Prince.

-

6. It’s gives you way more (yuppie) street-cred. Now that Napa has become mainstream for the upper-middle class, you’ll need to do more to impress your foie-eating friends. One the “hot” list for young urban professionals: scented oxygen appetizers, straddle buses, and Oregon wines.Yay!

Also on the list: playing frisbee golf while channeling Don Draper.

7. You can hang out in Portland. Again, I have no idea about geography, but I assume that Napa is in the middle of nowhere, and consequently a no-man’s land overrun by cannibals and mutants. Instead of isolating yourself in the California countryside with your friends (which, HELLO? – so the makings of a horror movie), you can chill in Portland (a city that lacks any major structural landmarks, making it immune to alien attacks). Yay!

This would never happen in Portland.

-

8. The weather is awesome. No, seriously. The Willamette Valley is not, like the rest of the Pacific northwest, reminiscent of swamp that was accidentally left in the universe’s refrigerator (what? I suck at analogies, too). During the summer, the days are sun-drenched and warm, and because we’re further north, they’re longer, too.

This was taken at 10pm.

-

There. That’s it. Eight perfectly good reasons to (temporarily) abandon all your responsibilities and drive down to Oregon. Just be sure to properly say good-bye to Uncle Lou. I don’t want that on my conscience.

If there’s one thing I understand, it’s being in a funk.

Recently, several of my friends have found themselves in funks, for varying and legitimate reasons. And consequently, it put me in a bit of a funk (did you know that funks are contagious? Bet they didn’t teach you that in sex ed. Stupid middle school health teacher).

One of my friends is moving to Baltimore for graduate school (I’m resisting the temptation to watch The Wire, which I’ve never seen, because I know that after doing so I will want to lock her in my bathroom for fear that something bad will happen to her). I hate it when people leave Seattle. It’s silly – I’m hardly ever in this town, but I strive to keep a high concentration of people I love in just a few places. I like to tuck them safely away, and then, like so many other things in my life, I start to take them for granted.

Until one day, they tell me they’re leaving.

And suddenly I think of all the hours spent in front of my computer instead of in their company (ahem). I think about the birthdays I missed, the parties at which I didn’t show up, the phone calls I forgot to return.

And I feel like a heel. Hence, the funk.

It seems that the times I see a person the most are just when they’re about to leave town. Suddenly I rush to make up for lost time, to squeeze every ounce of life out of our interactions. (more…)

A few months back, my car was threatening to be difficult. It hadn’t really acted up, but the “check engine” light kept going off, and it struck me that I wish everything in life were kind enough to inform you of its impending break down.

In a panic, I brought my car into a repair shop. I have no idea what they did, or what was wrong with my vehicle in the first place. They ended up charging me $300, and I am okay with that being the price of my ignorance. It also required me to get home from Fremont without a car. Since I figured I’d be doing a lot of walking and taking multiple buses (some of which had me sitting next to nose-picking guy – we’ll later explore why this always happens) I decided to take my point-and-click with me.

Now, I rarely have my point-and-click on me. I generally travel with my huge Canon EOS, which I barely know how to use (also, for the record, I don’t know what EOS stands for. Please don’t tell me. I like mystery). Its size often causes me to leave it at home (make up your own joke). This time, though, I thought ahead, had my tiny camera on hand, and took photos of my walk through Fremont …

What's interesting isn't so much the mural itself, but that it's painted on the side of my friend's store, and I've never noticed it before.

(more…)