Hate to be labeled, but...

This is one of those classic internet time wasters. Read on, to learn who I supposedly am.

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Northstar at Tahoe

Just want to give a rave review to Northstar, which so far rates as my favorite Tahoe ski resort.
It is like a little tiny Vail, from the low-key but snazzy wooden buildings in the village, on up to the variety of runs. And it's the quality of service that really shines in a small operation like this. I've been to some small outfits, from New York's itty bitty Scotch Valley to California's Sugar Bowl, but neither of them have the attention to detail of Northstar.

Not to knock all the nice kids from Argentina, Johannesburg, and New Zealand, who do the seasonal drudge work in ski resorts from Mammoth to Killington, but Northstar's local personnel show a real sense of esprit de corps, of proprietorship, and service. I felt cared for, every turn of the way, from the basket check dude right on up to Bob, my ski instructor.

Thanks to the Bay Area Ski Bus, I got a good deal on transport, lift ticket, ski rental, and my Intermediate Skills Improvement lesson.

The hard part is waking up at 4 am to get up and drive to the bus pickup location, but once on the bus, it was not too bad. The driver plies his way up to the Sierras, loaded to the brim with skiiers trying to get a little more sleep. We are served bagels, cream cheese, yogurt and juices as we summit highway 80 somewhere on the way THERE.

The easy part is getting handed my voucher by the hostess as we file off the bus. I get my lift ticket and skis. I go up to the top of the mountain and fly down blue runs called Sodergrens, Upper Jiboom, Christmas Tree, Pinball (also a terrain park, though I take no big jumps). There are many of them, and they're covered with crisp powder. And, midweek, many of the runs seem to be mine alone.

I don't stop for lunch, even though I hear other skiiers raving about the taco salad and burritos. I munch on a stale Balance Bar found in my jacket pocket and ski right up to the moment when my group lesson will start. In the end, I am assigned my own instructor, as we "improvers" number only as many as on-duty ski instructors.

Bob Hill is a fit 72 year old, and an excellent teacher. He identifies me as a "functional skiier," able to zoom down a hill intact, but not really doing it right. He corrects my feet, my knees, my poles, even my gosh darned chin. In a few minutes, I am completely in control, totally relaxed, and flying downhill without threat of wiping out or straining my muscles. I am amazed at the change.

So, stoked on powder at nearly 4 pm, I turn in my equipment and make my way to the bus. It's been a great day. Thanks, Bay Area Ski Bus, and Northstar!

Tonight's Most Exclusive Oscar Party

Doesn't tout le monde wish they had an invite to this evening's Oscar party at the home of my dad!

I will arrive in pre-Oscar splendor in a long black car (now, get this, my dad actually owns the car of the moment, a black Prius). Ever tuned in to Tinseltown trends of political correctness, I will save on gas consumption, too, by doing my own chauffeuring to reduce payload in my classic 1997 Sebring. Just you wait: next year, ALL the stars'll be doing it.

The host will be wearing Brooks Brothers, Sears, and Redwing. As guest of honor, I will compliment his fashion sense by parading across his red (and black and grey) carpet, head to toe in famed Italian designer Giordano (only Hong Kong insiders understand the caché of that particular couture house).

"Goody bags" waiting for me include a stack of mail, each piece personally crafted for moi, a news clipping about artist Bill King, and a mystery gift from my dad's basement.

On the menu will be a glass of wine, rucola salad, and turkey bolognese sauce over corn pasta. Two squares from a chocolate bar for the finish. Cuisine of Hippie chic in what Bel Air is to Hollywood: the tony enclave of Rockridge, just steps from the international capital of Hippiedom, Berkeley.

Sorry, all you paparazzi, I am not divulging the exact location of this shindig, but you can envy me these highlights. First of all: live Oscar video feed on an actual color television. Sofa seating, just like the Red Victorian Theatre on Haight Street. The toilet is, like, right around the corner from the living room, so unlike some of these ditzy Hollywood actresses who are off checking their makeup, I will not miss one moment of the awards ceremony. I mean, if they call my name, I will NOT be in the john.

Who SHOULD win? Followed by who I predict WILL win...
Best Pic: The Departed (actually I predict Babel will do a "Crash.")
Actor: Forest Whitaker (Peter O'Toole will upset this performance)
Actress: Helen Mirren (She'll get it)
Supporting Actor: Mark Wahlberg (Eddie Murphy will get it)
Supporting Actress: Rinko Kikuchi (Jennifer Hudson will get it)
Director: Scorsese (If Flight 92's Paul Greengrass gets it, I'm going to have to restrain myself from committing a few terrorist acts, myself)

I saw only Pan's Labrynth, which I loved, but I missed all the other Foreign Language Films, so I abstain from voting on that category.

Adapted Screenplay: ditto, saw only Borat and The Departed.

Original Screenplay: M. Arndt's Little Miss Sunshine (but I'll go out on a limb and guess it'll actually go to Peter Morgan for The Queen)
Documentary: An Inconvenient Truth (An Inconvenient truth)

Okay, you've seen my predictions.

Have fun at your own little parties, and we'll compare notes tomorrow at the gym/watercooler/nail salon/frat house/unemployment line.

On Little Cat's Feet

Warning to my friends in the interior: Fog HO!

It's 3pm on Saturday and our week of gorgeous weather is coming to a close. I can see a huge fog bank churning its way from the direction of the Hawaiian Islands towards us here at the western edge of America. Just to remind me I'm not back in Bali yet, and that it is winter in the northern hemi.

Anyway, at least I had my ride with the top down today, enjoying one of those amazing winter days when the coast is hotter than the inland valleys.

Tisk-tisk of the day: Letters to the editor of the Oklahoma City newspaper, slamming Al Gore for his "global warming hoax" because "we've had more snow this year than most," and because "God controls the weather."

Thanks, Mordecai

Mordecai D, my fellow brilliant-mind-but-a-flunkout-of-algebra! Thanks for the comment, and EMAIL ADDRESS REMOVED FEBRUARY 24.

Look in the 76 yearbook, I am possibly next to Liz McDonough.

Mordecai, I did not know you and your bros, but how can anyone who went to our high school not have heard your name and your brothers. ...sometimes rattled off at honor roll assemblies and such. I named my daughter after your other brother, do you know that? At least, his was the first instance I'd heard of that name. Such cool, old testament names, but that one also in one of Shakespeare's plays.

Feb 24 comment: Trying to maintain a small degree of anonymity, I've taken out the embedded email address. Would be happy to hear from you again, so if you don't find me there next to Liz, make another comment here and I'll throw you a brand new bone. Are you going to try to get to the 77 reunion? I will try...

Another Sad Day in the Family

Last week I lost my father-in-law, a great but very humble, conservative, thoughtful man. He was 90 years old, and he left us with his four children at his side. Hard to ask for more graceful an exit than that. He was considerate to the end, a family man but also possessed a great mind and was at one time the world expert on the medical consequences of exposure to benzine.

I rushed back to the States to join my husband and children, who were all here on the east coast.

The funeral was well done, quiet, and on a day of bitter cold but beautiful clear sunny skies. The colonel and former liberator of Dachau (he was a medical doctor and lieutenant during WW2) received proper military burial with taps, flag, everything but the ten gun salute.

It is not easy for any of us, but we're doing what we can to move along. Huge flakes of snow fell from a pure white sky this morning, as if to show that there are seasons for everything. It is possible to find beauty even when things look bad.

Strangely appropriate to all this mourning was Laurie Anderson's performance last night as part of a quadruple bill at the BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music), where she presented four new songs, all world premieres, backed by a small orchestra from the Brooklyn Philharmonic, as well as a violist and keyboardist.

Laurie, you looked so sad, and your songs were like lamentations. In one, she sang of "this transitory life" and mentioned her favorite Buddhist metaphor of life being a burning house. She's used the image with humorous joy in times past, but now she sang it in a kind of apathetic acceptance. She sang another song that mentioned Lou -and that would be Lou Reed, her companion- (now, I don't mean to be comic, but if I heard her right, she sang, "Lou is in me like a bear," which is lewd in a way. But the line was followed by something like "I saw the sky tear open" which could be, again, sexual / orgasmic, but came off so sadly, an expression of an ending. I think she's trying to express something... the great storyteller seemed so tired and worn last night, singing through clenched jaws. It made this admirer very sad indeed. Another song seemed to have other disturbing, forlorn lyrics. That tense mouth, Laurie, it interfered with our understanding of your poetry! Did you sing to us about how "we rush to it, we push to it", the imagery of a river that goes to an overwhelming, vast sea. Jeez, Laurie, this was a kind of death set. It was ever so sad. Can you cheer me up?

The always-graceful Suzanne Vega also did a set, including Tom's Cafe, which is about Monk's on Broadway and 112th, not Tom's in Brooklyn. Loved that little news. Anyway, she gave us a remarkable song, also world premiere, written by Philip Glass (played nicely by the phil). Sexy lyrics included "I kiss you, I hold you /hump you (I gotta look this up... I do have a hearing issue), "I come to you," and, if I'm not mistaken, something like "I miss you" or leave you... drat, should have taken notes but it was sad and sexy at the same time. Of course, Suzanne has this lovely voice with about a single octave range. A tight and pretty single octave, so she sure knows how to use it to its best advantage.

The revelation of the evening was Nellie McKay, who gave us a lively, witty set with the orchestra and her own excellent piano playing. She can tickle em like a cathouse boogie woogie man or with the polish of your favorite cabaret artist. Really fun, racy, sassy, rough lyrics, and a wild voice that wraps itself around a nonconformist scale with aplomb. I'm going out and getting her new CD, and I will NOT buy the pirated version!!

Sorry, Joan Osborne, but your rendition of a classic Earth Wind and Fire love song just didn't rock my world. Kiddo, you're a fine singer, but I already heard the same version of that stuff in '72 or '73 and you didn't illuminate it any, now that a few decades have passed.

Okay, so I am back in the States and will move my stuff that was parked here at the inlaws, all the way to Californy. Road trip time again. Stay tuned. Hope it gets better. Not the same as a rainbow's promise, but the snow is awful pretty out there. We'll go through the south.

Rest in peace, Doc. Thank you for giving the world your wonderful son, who takes such good care of me. I love him and adore him and tell him so, every day.

Mini Break in Denpasar

Anyone want to know what a big day in Bali is like? They are never typical. There are days I play tour guide, charity days, supply roundup days, days I snorkel, days I write.
Once a month, a charitable group of which I am a member, has a luncheon meeting. The incentive for attendence is a meal at a quality hotel or restaurant, and a raffle of interesting prizes. The real reason for the meetings is to let members know what activities are going on, including fund raisers for our charities. It is also the time when we hear what our officers are doing, and what we have been able to give to which charities.

I am happy to say that the group gives its money to the right places, more often than not. Some of the benefitted: widows of the Bali bomb who set up new businesses to support themselves, handicapped kids' institutions (good places), and primary schools in east bali. We used to have about half an hour before the lunch would start which was used for an optional meeting in an ante room, where members could hear about a charity or learn about a new service or product available in Bali, or even meet an interesting person (usually an artist or volunteer or visiting figure of note). Those extra gatherings seem to have been left by the wayside, and I'd like to see them reinstituted. Really, the group is a great, dedicated club, held together by a number of hardworking women. I could probably make some suggestions and help get the info sessions going again.

So one day a month is a club day for me. Club, not clubbing, mind you. I may not be an old fogie juuuust yet, but this is how exciting it is for me here in the resort capitol of one of the world's largest countries.

I try to add in some extra activities and errands to justify the trip south. It's an awful drive, an hour and fifteen or more minutes of trying to overtake slow trucks, avoiding motorbikes who weave in and out of traffic like mosquitos, and watching for vehicles coming at me in my own lane. I don't like to make the drive often.

After breakfast, I try to get in half an hour of writing, and I deal with my staff guys (all very boring, you don't want to hear it). I got my stuff together and jumped in the car. I drove the hair-raising trail to Kuta's FAMOUS RESTAURANT CHAIN FULL OF MOVIE MEMORABILIA wink wink (we can call it Celluloid Earth), site of this month's lunch. You know, I pass the Celluloid Earth almost every time I go south because it's at Simpang Siur, possibly Bali's busiest roundabout. I always figured that inside the massive walls was something like the museum-esque Celluloid Earths of San Francisco and New York and Hong Kong. Actually, I'm not sure if the one in HK still exists. But my memories of these places are of wall-to-wall movie memorabilia and autographed photos and huge posters and fun art and expensive-looking collectables.

Doesn't the Hong Kong Celluloid Earth have a wookie suit from Star Wars? There are big movie posters, glamorous items of clothing, all that wow factor stuff. I mean, kind of memorable memorabilia.

Well, the Celluloid Earth Bali looks like someone's basement bar collection that is now distributed on twenty times the wall space of the average basement rumpus room. It's a little bit sad. Lots of dead wall space. I didn't see one theatre-sized movie poster in the whole joint. All the movie posters I saw were the size of magazine foldouts, like an advertisement in Variety ahead of release day. I admit I kind of liked the huge mural of NYC in one of the dining areas. It had a (purely unintentional, I'm sure) fuzzy resemblance to the Manhatten mockup Tom Cruise dreamt at the end of Vanilla Sky... twin towers, a sweet sight. That was the room where they seated all the various determined (if not embarrassed looking) tourists, so that they would not be encroaching on our private function. I guess now they can check off another "must see before I die" item. Actually, as a group they all seemed so unsmiling, their room became in my mind some kind of hall of shame.

For dubious pizazz, a permanent light show inside a strange sculptural interpretation of a tornado graces the bar. Maybe it looks good at night, because the whole joint looked an awful lot like a tv set: very very worn, lots of "squint" needed to tolerate the decor... you know what I mean. But really, it is my theory that the guy who bought the Celluloid Earth Bali franchise just didn't have deep enough pockets to decorate properly. He bought the franchise and then had to choose from the approved Celluloid Earth catalog of memorabilia. Perhaps his contract even said that he had to have at least twelve posters, three costumes, ten props, and fifteen autographed glossies. He stopped at the minimum, and probably selected each item based on lowest prices alone. It's my theory and I'm sticking with it. I don't know how else to explain the complete lack of wow factor.

Seeing a 12 by 18 color image of Sean Connery (luger in hand) posted next to an actual, framed, machine gun on the wall, I paused to read the item's label. Apparently this machine gun was once used in a Bond film (unnamed), which probably means it didn't grace Connery's golden fingers, or they would have proudly stated the fact. Sigh. Coolest thing I saw at the restaurant was a signed 8 x 10 glossy of John Astin, dressed as Gomez, the Addams Family patriarch. In fact, I dined under his venerable image, mortified as I was.

I was happy to sit with powerhouse Mary N-, whose Yayasan Senyum is bringing expert medical operations to Indonesian kids with cleft palates. She is also a women's art maven, owner of the Seniwati Gallery in Ubud. She brought with her Sue F- from Australia, who is a volunteer acting as Mary's admininstrator for two years. It was her first meeting. Also at our table was Anna G- who is considering joining the group, and who wants to relocate to my neck of Bali's woods. So I'll be seeing her soon, I am sure.

We sat through a number of speeches given through a PA so bad, we could barely understand the speakers. No one told those behind the microphones. Everyone was either too embarrassed or too hungry to make the effort. Bonus guest was the wife of the governor of Bali, who praised our group for being humble. She doesn't know the half of it. Okay, okay, as a group, we like to give our money to good causes, but our individual stake is that we get to pig out in relative luxury this one day each month, gabbing with pals and wearing something besides a sarong and a tee shirt.

At last, mealtime. The buffet tables offered us Bali Buffet 101, my name for what the Balinese feed tourists en masse. Actually, BB101 can be pretty good if there is a samovar of muddy Bali coffee and dessert includes black rice pudding and fried bananas. No such luck; dessert was papaya, honeydew, and water melon. There was nothing out-and-out wrong with the food, it was freshly prepared, hot over sterno, and tasted fine, but it was the usual fried rice, white rice, sweet sour chicken, fish with veggies, mixed veggies, and spring rolls. Salad and corn soup and the fruit dessert on the other side. Can someone tell me what you get in America at a Chinese buffet in a shopping mall? And how much you pay? Before someone castigates me for being a fussbudget, can I just say that the Rp180,000 price tag buys a diner a spectacular meal anywhere else on the island. I pray that a good chunk of my 19 US dollar expenditure went right into the coffers of our group, because I shudder to think what profits Celluloid Earth garnered from this. To think that only a few luncheons ago, I paid the same amount and had a three course, 5 star meal at the Bali Hyatt. Waiters came to us at table, with some kind of bisque soup and fresh whole grain rolls, all you could grab. This followed by delicately grilled fish and al dente vegetables, and a dessert platter loaded with chocolate. So this meal at the movie place doesn't compare well to some of our other caterers.

The raffle. One of the greatest prizes was organic red rice from west Bali. This stuff is so healthy and so good-tasting. I just love it. And I actually won a bag in the raffle. I also won a lovely little carved soapstone elephant. I shelled out Rp50,000 for my raffle tickets, so I feel like a gambler who came out ahead, that's for sure. Now, as a winner, I must bring some prize or prizes to next week's raffle. After the last prize (weekend for two at the sumptuous Maya Ubud) was raffled off (lucky winner last year's president), everyone shuffled out. I stopped at one of the little tables set up by a well-known Gianyar yayasan (NGO) for kids in wheelchairs and with other disabilities. They were selling handicrafts and I bought a few items before going to my car.

Okay, so I have been meaning to case out a couple of Jimbaran hotels, the Puri Taman and Puri Jimbaran, which advertise cheap rates and are close to the airport. It is always useful to have places like this to stay, in case of a late night or alcohol consumption, when we can't make it back to the ranch. I cruised the jalans Uluwatu and could only find the more expensive of the two: Puri Jimbaran, which has basic, clean rooms for 200,000 a night with breakfast. A little disconcerting that a recycling depot is a stone's throw away, and the neighborhood is light industry and large commercial. Pool in back is okay for some frustrating laps, more of a cool-off pool. Bathrooms fine, includes tub. No guarantee it's cockroach free, but at least the doors and windows all shut and there's air con. I still like the Harris better (in Tuban), a less bizarre neighborhood.

Time for a massage from "Iron Fingers" Ketut, over at my chiropractor's office. If a patient is on the prepaid visit plan, free massages can be booked at any time. I always leave a tip for Ketut because I don't know what his salary actually is. A damn good, hard 40 minute massage, back side only. Not as atmospheric or as good-smelling as a spa massage, but at a 20 to 40,000 Rupiah tip, a good value. I poured myself into the car and went to get my manicure at Soap Suds. I was early, but by the time they could actually accomodate me, they were late. It's okay. I have my copy of Point to Point Navigation by Gore Vidal to amuse myself.

The manicurist took off my USA acrylics and started me off on a scary set of acrylic nails from powder that is pre-colored and glittery right from the get-go. The only polish is a clear top coat. First time I've had this done. As I'm sitting there, I'm starting to worry what they're going to charge me for this new technology. No worries, it's well under fifty bucks, way ahead of the Hong Kong prices, probably what fancier nail places charge for this service in the States. I've had my nails done in salons from Oneonta to Quito to Hong Kong, and I have to say that the most careful service has probably been here in Bali.

The salon offered me a stack of Australian celebrity gossip mags, and a very interesting article was in this month's ish of Cleo: photos of naked "real" women, edited side by side, so that you can see a number of very different -let's say, size 8 bodies, then the size 10s, etc etc. It was hard to not gawk, impossible not to compare self. Every kind of tits you can imagine, but due to frontal poses, I didn't get to compare my cellulite with these gals, most of whom looked well under 40. It was meant to help us non pinup types feel a little better about our bods... I mean, honey, the chicks went up as far as size 22, I think. Yeah, a little scary there on the last page of the article. But not one of them, size 6 to 16, looked like me.

I rushed on up to Seminyak, glorious sunset happening off to one side, to Fabio's Restaurant because I thought I was going to be attending a WWF (um, that's the animal organization, not the steroid one) fundraiser: the screening of some films about Indonesian nature. No, no screening here tonight. Duh, I look at the ticket. It's for the next week. So I high tail it down Jalan Double Six and park the car near Gado Gado Restaurant. I grab some necessities and walk, barefoot, down onto the beach and walk south, the magnificent sunset to my right. This is Seminyak beach, which eases seamlessly into Legian and then Kuta. It's miles of beige sand, ultra flat and wide, firm and perfect for a walk of nearly any length. I love walking the beach there, even if I live 2 hours away. So I do it when I can. Everyone is retiring for the evening... beach attendants gather up long chairs and empty beer bottles, couples head for their hotel rooms, and dogs get a last walk in with their masters.

I head up to Zanzibar Cafe, where my son and his friends liked to eat when they were here in 05. It's loaded with tourists (including one drunken table of retirement age Europeans who, I swear to God, had a jerry can of tuac ...local palm wine... with them). I order what was to be the best grilled snapper I have ever eaten in my life. Bar none. I wanted to kiss the chef, but he would have taken it the wrong way. Five bucks for that, and it came with a darn good salad and delectable grilled veggies. I finished with a chocolate mousse because, after I grilled the waitress, I found out that it was the one dessert prepared just that afternoon. Drinks? My fave to start: watermelon and lime juice. Then, with the mousse, some iced mint and lemon thing that was the perfect tart compliment. What a meal! So, go to Zanzibar and get the snapper. And I do recommend bringing a little Gore Vidal to read while you wait for your dishes.

I got a taxi back to where I parked my car (no, I am not going to walk way back up that beach, and besides it pumps money into the economy), and took off for the Galeria 21. I bought my two dollar ticket for the 9:15 showing of Babel and waited in my plush seat for the film to begin. What a movie! The director tells his story without relying on narrative tricks like a time line. It was so beautiful, full of great acting and evocative faces. Hearing impaired as I am, I related to the deaf Japanese girl on a couple of levels. But because it's all about human nature and human foibles, I could relate to everyone in the film, just about. I do recommend it.

I was not too tired to drive home. About six other people were on the road in Bali at midnight, so I sailed home in about an hour and five minutes, nearly a record for me. The waxing half moon had slipped away earlier, but I wait for it to get full in a few days, when it will light the roads and gardens at night. Yawn and to bed.

Scorcese Wins Golden Globe

Yes! Yes! Martin Scorcese gets the Golden Globe for Best Director of a Motion Picture. The Departed was incredible. Thanks, LA Foreign Press.

Hong Kong Went One Way, I Went the Other

I am sitting in an 11th floor corner room at the sumptuous Wynn hotel and casino in Macau.

I am in a state of shock and my sinuses are burning from the bad air (think: LA, 1978).

I'm on my way home to Bali, but had to take care of a little business in the former colonies. I find Hong Kong a little humbler and friendlier, but because no one's turned in my dropped pouch of wristwatches to the First Ferry lost and found, it seems to me worse for wear.

I had a great visit to the Cattle Depot Artists Commune in Kowloon City. I saw Kwok Mang-Ho's studio, and we spent quite a while chatting about our art and careers. Too bad Cho Hyun-Jae wasn't there; she is Kwok's wife and a sensitive creator of often powerful artworks.

I went to Annysa Ng's show at the Fringe. She has turned out some amazing assemblage sculptures that manage to show power, femininity, and protest. More on that, later.

But so much about the people. The environment is as forgotten and as sad as Tai Wan Shan Park, that enormous boulder sitting in the harbour on Kowloon Bay. A smooth rock as big as a circus tent, graced by a swath of shrubbery and a little pagoda, the park appears as a frightened chunk of Mother Earth chased to the sea by encrouching high rise apartment blocks.

Hong Kong has finally instituted trash bins for recyclables, but the region is not doing enough about this haze. At dawn, my husband and I walked up Guia Hill for some exercise, and the rising sun could be viewed only briefly as a salmon shimmer on the delta waters. The cloud cover (or smog) is so thick, it's hard to believe there's a sky up there. Macau and Hong Kong are two canaries to China's coal mine. Will someone please take notice?

It is a delight to be able to be measured for a bespoke wet suit, choose from ten brands of bottled green tea, get passport photos in the tube station, bargain down the price of a fox stole that's already reduced to a tax-free sixty US, and buy a Laura Ashley skirt for ten... all in a three block area. Hong Kong is like that. In Macau I can find a dozen vintages of porto, five dollar Dao and one dollar flagfall in the taxis. But no one holds the elevator door and even the Wynn doormen don't offer to help me out of my taxi, laden as I might be with shopping bags and a foot stuck under the front seat.

I am less strong, less energetic, and the walking wears me out. These special administrative regions are charging ahead like athletes on steroids, and I just want to go snorkeling two thousand miles south of here. From where I sit, on land that was brought from a dynamited hill to a shallow bay, I can't tell, looking north or east, that I am on a tiny peninsula. I can't tell that this city is anything more than two months old... cranes and the highrises behind them obscure the five-hundred year old lighthouse, the Parsee graveyard on the vine-laden hill, the Sun Yat Sen house. This once sleepy little enclave with funny cars and winding alleyways has become one of those never-rest cities that attracts Dickensian droves of people, filled with hope, charged with just a little fear. I may be visiting a boom town, but I have accelerated on past to the dubious maturity of philosophical ramblings, nostalgia, and wide-eyed exhaustion.

Iwao Takamoto 1925-2007

Hanna-Barbera loses another great artist.

Takamoto was known for his ability to draw quickly, as if his pencil were merely revealing an image obscured in the paper. But he was also able to create personality on the page, turning a Great Dane into a goofy neurotic pal we can all love. He apparently created more than a hundred characters for the animation studio, many not making it to the screen.

It's interesting to me that he began his cartooning while interred at Manzanar during WWII. He was 17 then, several years older than my family friend K., a great ceramicist who, I believe, began the fourth grade at that godforsaken place. K. was just over at the house by the beach on Sunday, telling some stories about her studio. Interestingly, and sadly, my brother recalled the family tale of one of my uncles being approached by a lynch mob of Scots-Irishmen on his Wisconsin farm. He was taken out to a tree on his land, and was told that if he didn't stop speaking German (at home, and, I supppose, in town with other German speakers), he'd be back there, hanging. WWII wasn't all that long ago. Lots of wasted energy on mistrust and intolerance.

But at Manzanar there was enough idle time that arts and crafts classes were organized by internees who had a talent for these. It's nice that children were given this outlet, but it's not as if there was a lot of paper or materials to use. Furniture, crafts, and paintings from the camps can be seen today as coming from fruit crates and even the paper notice to leave for internment.

Anyway, thanks, Iwao Takamoto, for sticking with your art. I saw a flag at half mast yesterday, and as far as I'm concerned, it's for you.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia

Entitlement

Having virtually visited my recently titled friend Don, I sought the Philomath of Fishbourne Sneething for advice.

Is it really so great to have a title, I asked the Very Lady R the P of FS?

She lowered her demitasse and sighed disappointedly. If you must ask, she admonished me, you probably don't deserve a title.

I excused myself and walked out along her lane in the direction of Marble Arch. I gave the matter two minutes' thought. Really, I concluded, except for most OBE's and knighthoods, titles aren't usually deserved. Lords and Ladies are usually just born into some entitled family. So what's the big deal about deserving a title? Sorry, Sneeth Sister, I did the cheap thing, and grabbed myself a title as though it were a one-dollar bra on Wing On Lane.

The virtual land grab:

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Lady Madame Seraya the Subservient of Bumswick by the Hole Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Hmmm... Kind of reminds me of my Chinese name, Fok Wan-Lei. Lesson of the day: stick with the culture and class of your birth.

James Brown's Last Gig at the Apollo

I went. I went to Harlem and paid my respects to the remains of the Godfather of Soul.

I was brushing my teeth in Pafman's Gramercy apartment, half watching some inane morning chat show, and they flashed a live heli-cam take of James Brown's funeral hack, somewhere way the heck up Lennox Ave, ready to make its way to the Apollo Theatre. I said to the family, "I gotta go." It didn't take much to convince them to come along with me.

Somewhat dazed after a high speed subway map-checking session and painstaking black wardrobe selection, we raced out across E24th, and I nearly met my maker myself, dashing out in front of a garbage truck making a left turn.

I got a small bouquet of gold and purple flowers (seemed appropriate for the man with the most flamboyant stage wardrobe) at a Chinese lady's deli, and we got on the express train to 125th.

There outside the Apollo, hundreds were already gathering behind steel barricades for the 1pm viewing. Some OTHER hearse went on past, inadvertantly getting massive amounts of respect as bystanders gawked in wonder. It would be another hour before I jumped the barricade to see the actual cortege of the Hardest Working Man in Show Business pass right in front of me, a golden coffin pulled by two graceful white horses. There was a politely celebratory mood in the people who marched alongside it, no cops stopping common folk from joining the procession.



What a sight, though.

I suppose 4 or 5% of the crowd were white, like me. A family of Torontoans were there near us, as well as the random white couple or group. But it seemed like a cross section of rich and poor, men and women, young and old African Americans.

I got back in line, found myself interviewed by reporters two or three times, ate a fish sandwich brought to me by my hubby, and damn near froze to death despite the wonders of microfleece. By 4 pm, when we'd finally surged to a position under the Apollo Theatre's marquee, I basked in the amazing warmth of the light bulbs. They let us in 15 at a time, making us file singly through the lobby. People were good about the rules: no photography of any kind, take off your hat, no turning around.

The lobby was a jarring melange of white, bordello gold and red flocking, with breathtaking faded collages of original photos of the legends made there in that hallowed space. The theatre itself is delightfully ornate, just like last night's Shubert Theatre. But smaller than I'd ever dreamed. Maybe could seat 1200 people. Appropriately enough, "Live at the Apollo" played on the PA as we entered the orchestra aisles, lending an air of cheer to what was actually a somber event.

Family members and friends, & even probably some soul celebs sat in the front orchestra rows, and suddenly Reverend Al Sharpton brushed on past my son, led by two dishy young ladies and followed by 4 or 5 beefy bodyguards. BTW, Sharpton is shorter and slimmer and younger looking than I'm used to seeing him on the Larry King show.

By this time, we were pretty close to the stage, where the big man was lying, not faking it this time, and finally taking a day off (as my son said).

It was open casket all the way. How could I not be moved? Brown was in a purple suit all right, and his high living really had ravaged his strikingly handsome face. I knelt and put my flowers as near to his feet as we were allowed. I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.

We filed back out into the cold back alley world of asphalt, festooned with paintings vendors, and bargain clothing stores. I think we weren't fifty feet from the Apollo's back door when I spotted a pimply techno geek in his car/home, tapping out his own blog entry on this moment in rock history.

I really regret never having seen him perform in person. My husband saw him put on a great performance at the Fillmore East in 1970, and in fact his Hong Kong band Blue Wail used to do a bang-up cover of I Got You (I Feel Good) back in 1990.

But James Brown will forever remain the man who introduced me to soul music, the voice I'd hear as I'd dance in a mirror, trying to look cool at age 9.

The Big Apple is a Macintosh

Strewth! Under the New York Christmas tree was an iPod Shuffle, bringing me back to my computer-coming-of-age days in the basement art department of the Hong Kong Marriot. My new little white brooch is chock full o' hits from my various family members, who scrambled to second-guess my taste in music, uploading what they had. As I write this, I am grooving to Sublime, Sting, and The Troggs. (My son, my sister-in-law, my husband).

Next thing I know, I am strolling down Fifth Avenue in Manhatten and see the gigundo Apple store, 24 hours free internet stations. My family is way too cool for my drooling and gawking, and I almost don't make it to the 57th street subway station after we celebrated Barbara's birthday at the Michael Feinsten Christmas show.

So what is the deal with html and the Mac? Is it this computer's settings, or is it true that the Mac can't do html blog entries? If you want the link to Michael Feinstein, this is it: http://feinsteinsattheregency.com/

Want to know just how musical this family is? Here's what my kids gave the whole clan for Christmas.... a musical revue of seasonal songs. Standing before the tree on Christmas aftersoon, we were treated to this a capella 'stravaganza (some names blanked out to prevent stalking):

We Three Sisters (to the tune of We Three Kings)

We three sisters of T_____ family are
Ten hours we flew from places afar
Georgia, New York, California
Our family's Broadway stars
Oh-oh
Stars of music, stars of song
Stars of making boeuf bourguignon
Cheerful laughter, witty banter
Staying up all night long
Oh-oh
Stars of teaching, gardens for us
Stars of removing asbestos
You all possess ageless beauty
Please pass it on to us

I Saw Santa Wearing Cowboy Boots (to the tune of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus)

I saw Santa wearing cowboy boots
Over at the Meadows Christmas day
He sang to one and all
Everyone there had a ball
We listened to the baritone as he walked down the hall
Then we all asked hey why is Santa Claus
Dressed like he just flew in from LA
Oh, what a sight it would have been
If T- had only seen B-- kissing Santa Claus today

Up At Heathcote (to the tune of Up on the Rooftop)

Up at Heathcote W-- stands
Ready to tend to our demands
Fourteen pockets filled with parts
The job gets done before it starts
W--, check the shed
See it its paint contains lead
Down in the basement, the furnace creeks
He's go the wrench to fix the leaks
Outside we see the snow fall down
Up jump the kids from out of town
Don't eat the snow warns W--
The NH4 count's ten PPM
Down in the front room the door was jammed
All it needed was W--'s hand

Dot Brought Her Cookies (to the tune of Frosty the Snowman)

A--- came from
New York to Short Hills
D- was there at the train to say hello
And to drive to Cooperstown
She cooked up her lasagna
And she froze it over night
It travelled up in our car
And we ate up every bite
Oh, D- brought her cookies
Like always in a tin
And we can't believe she perfected them
While keeping herself thin

Sam S- is Moving to LA (to the tune of Santa Claus is Coming to Town)

Oh, he's packing his bags
He's loading the truck
We're all wishing him good luck
Sam S- is going to LA
He's finished up at Cornell
He's ready for his trip
He's graduating from race cars
And moving on to rocket ships
Oh, he's selling his skis
And buying some shorts
He better say bye to winter sports
Sam S- is going to LA

Going to the Store (the the tune of Jingle Bells)

Dashing to the plane
Speeding in the car
Almost missed the train
Travelling very far
Bags stuffed to the seams
Gifts for all to share
Booking tickets in their dreams
Yet they always make it here

Liquor store, hardware store, driving to the mall
Ev and Air know what to do when they hear R--'s call:
Jay!

Clothing store, nail salon, buy three kinds of milk
Don't forget that A--- can only drink the Silk
Yum!

Packing up the bags
Maple syrup here
We will bring the telescope
When we see you all next year


Merry Christmas, everyone. Gotta rush up to the Met.

Illiterate USA?

Man, what is the deal with this country?

Am back in the old country, having another bout of culture shock. It's manifested a little differently each time I return. In 1990, it was "clueless ATM queue etiquette." In 1991, it was "shampoo aisle, conditioner aisle." In 1992, it was "you mean to tell me you're having a recession?" In 1993, it was "why are the streets so empty?" And so on. But this year, it's "can't you people read?"

I really really want to apologize (not apologise, which I would use to address my Canadian & UK pals) to all of my Stateside friends, those of you who can read and spell. But you ARE living in a country that is starting to have a big problem.

I was just in an Old Navy store in Tucson's Park Place Mall. The guy in the checkout line next to mine had on a sweatshirt that blared the prefaded words: Team Baseball. What is that supposed to mean? Guy obviously isn't a baseball fan, or else he'd have on the shirt the name of an actual team. At best, he's a nice guy who doesn't want to take sides. At worst, he can't even read, doesn't care about grammar and meaning, labels on his own body. And what is this Old Navy enterprise, anyway? What does Old Navy mean? What bizarre marketing decision was this? Chimps with darts and a wall covered with words that might be associated with a clothing bargain? I can see the selection: Navy Army Surplus Old Overstock Overage Remainder Sale et cetera. Please, please, do not inform me that this Old Navy name was focus grouped. Please do not tell me that a group of consumers had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi for the words Old and Navy.

In our nation's capital, I was walking from the Metro station to my son's apartment and passed a fast food joint. Called Booeymonger. What, pray tell, is a Booey, and why would I want to eat it? It was an anagram of Booger money. A food outlet. It's downright creepy to see names that don't make sense. I mean, they are English words (Navy, monger, old, baseball, team) or at the very least follow one or two English spelling rules (booey). But this is every bit as bad as Chinese tee shirts I first encountered with mirth and incredulity in 1989.

When I first came to Hong Kong, I saw on tee shirts, jackets, and handbags such gems as "It's the Strange Active Dog" and "Dramatic Establishment Since 1957" and "Fight an Enemy" and "Funky Milky Girls." Ye-es, these are English, but does it mean anything? I held a fascination for these bizarre sayings and would try to memorize them, but because they make no sense, they defy memory. I had to start writing them down in my diary. I started stalking the funniest ones, missing tube stops and lunch appointments as I followed and scribbled these in my notebooks. I should blog a full list of these.

In the same way that Madison Avenue brainiacs of the 1960's went for the annoyance button to get our attention onto brands ("Mother, please; I'd rather do it myself" and "but not for boys" et al), marketing men just want us to give our attention to brand names. And here I am, blogging about Old Navy and Booeymonger, giving them free press coverage.

But, can you dig this? It's not China, and I'm reading these same ridiculous messages on contemporary fashions here in the largest English speaking country in the world.

Blasters, The

Okay, I've got a new favorite bar band: The Blasters.

These guyses come from LA, but have friends in Tucson and play here whenever they can get a gig. I saw them Saturday night at Club Congress, which is a hip little joint in downtown Tucson.

We arrived well after the announced 9 pm start of the triple bill, but we listened to the opening acts from our little table ten feet from the stage. The two rockabilly acts were fairly unique, eschewed covering the Stray Cats and early Elvis. Telecasterman Al Perry performed with a competent percussionist on snare, and a fine standup bassist. Al looked the part with sideburns, sweat, and grease, and his smooth voice was... sweet as Tupelo honey. Lookswise, I thought he could have passed for the little brother of late, great, Texas-born artist Jim Pomeroy. It was the night of the Al's, for the badass and pared down Al trio was followed by a larger band that brought in a larger repertoire of Freddie King intstrumentals, ballads, and bluesified country tunes. But this frontman didn't really connect with the audience, and the crowd thinned out a bit to gossip in the hotel lobby and get beer in the pump room. Best of Al's lost sheep was the inventive harp player, an innocuous-looking guy who looked like his day job was librarian or tax accountant. Forgive me, but Al Foul looked eerily like Willem Dafoe!

And when the Blasters hit the stage, wouldn't you know lead guitarist Keith Wyatt was a dead ringer for Geoffrey Rush!

But who cares what these guys looked like. It was an evening all about the SOUND! Wyatt has the kind of creative energy and musical genius which I haven't enjoyed since Chai Soo Heng's never-the-same-twice solos in Hong Kong's original Blue Wail blues band. It was a mind-blowing evening of mostly original music played with passion. Yeah, these guys may have their roots in rockabilly, but they pretty much defied that narrow categorization. It was all guitar-driven Americana, true blue rock and roll that ranged from blistering surf instrumental Boneyard to redneck Johnny Paycheck ballad I'm the Only Hell my Mama Ever Raised.

Frontman Phil Alvin sweated and wailed nonstop through just under two hours of songs about troubled romance, hot cars, and they were tight, tough, and thoroughly INTO the music. Supreme entertainers, Alvin grabbed our hearts in the way that inspires fan behavior ranging from cool respect to slobbering stalkation. Viz: one drunken, past-her-prime groupie yelled out "you're a babe," and Alvin lost his cool composure. Not that he showed annoyance; to his credit, the man blushed and stammered with ingenuous charm. When you can meld innocence and rock n roll, you've pulled off the coup de grace.

Jerry Angel, drummer with finesse, brought in the surf cred as a bona fide surf instructor, but in true Americanarama, the band hails from Downey, LA's white bread lower class suburb, not some spoiled-brat velvet ghetto like Redondo Beach or Orange County's Newport.

While we're on the topic of working class integrity, I've got to heap a little praise on the noble settlement of Tucson, Arizona. Its current boom phase has blasted the population just over the 1 million mark, but that doesn't mean it ain't a small town. And the economy is depressed juuuust enough, to be a kind of annex to the developing world. Judging from prices, it almost doesn't belong in America, but it is totally American in every other way.

Dig, it's $5.25 for a Glenlivet at the Congress and $10 cover charge to see a semi major rock act with two openers.

But gas was at near-Texas prices (207 a gal), and Freixenet (low budget cava) hovers reasonably at 7 bucks (inflated for the holidays in California at 10). A Safeway iPod giveaway was enough to pack the store at 11 at night. Cheap tacos abound, and you can bring a date to the movies with a twenty dollar bill and still have money left over for popcorn.

The cute part of Tucson is that the girls are a little bit behind in the fashion realm. Checking out the 'competition', I was kicking myself for not bringing my leftovers of trendy 2001, a year when you could still get away with wearing chunky black platform boots. Evidently, it's not at all passé to wear these relics in a size-each-other-up venue like the Congress. I went for "intellectual backpacker" in my Keen walking shoes and wool beret, but every other gal there was clearly "too young to be a punk rocker" retro... black on black with silver stud accents. Not one exposed belly button in the joint, so that means they haven't discovered 2005 yet. Take a wardrobe like mine (please), and it's loaded with whatever was daring three years ago, fleece wear, and my fetish collection of scarves and handbags. From San Francisco to Soho, I'm a joke. But I can be riding the crest of fashism in the Sonora Desert.

Three cheers for Tucson!

Ragtop Sunburn

In honor of my husband's sunburn (he drove around sunny San Francisco all day with the top down, doing errands), I offer the following cocktail:

Ragtop Sunburn

Stir together in a collins glass:
1 shot Pearl vodka
1/2 shot deKuyper Cinnamon Schnapps
several cubes of ice

Fill up with cranberry juice. Can be garnished with lemon or orange "wheel." Make it a lime "wheel" for Christmas color scheme.

Weapon of Mass Destruction Cocktail

You heard it here first, folks!

The cocktail of the year: Weapon of Mass Destruction
(as invented by a junior diplomat in Washington DC):

Mix together in beer mug/ pint glass :
1 oz Peach schnapps
1 oz Vodka
2 oz Cranberry juice
Fill with soda water
Drop 1 shot glass full of Jaegermeister into glass (boiler maker style)
Chug
Like any good diplomat, the guy adds this explanation:
"Basically it's a Red-headed slut (peach schnapps makes the Jaeger palatable) only served and consumed like a boiler maker."

Enjoy (I guess).

Blogger Beta, Evolution and Me

I am always suspicious of "new and improved," thanks to Joy of Cooking's various revisions, and thanks to Victoria's Secret changing the pattern of their "Rio Brief."

So it took me a really long time to get into the whole Beta Blogger thing. But I've taken the leap.

The changes? Well, it's nice to see the blog comments, finally, but I am now listed as living in Bali, Idaho. That's cool, as long as I still get all the miles coming to me on Star Alliance.

Thanks, Blogger, for these updates.

Just Testing

This is my first test, posting blogger via email.

Thanks for ignoring this test.

Tiki

I have been enjoying the realm of high speed internet, now that I'm visiting America. Just amazing what a person can waste her time looking at!

Latest discovery is Tiki! Now I have my two tiki mugs and a Filipino wood carving that could pass for tiki, and I spent some of my 21st birthday at the now defunct Tiki bar, Tahitian Hut. I have my copy of Taboo: the Art of Tiki. I have about three vintage Aloha shirts and a couple of awesome Hawaiian dresses from about 1964. You could say that I have a mild interest in the realm. But finding the Tiki Room has upped my interest. Uh oh. Like I need another hobby.

Ramba Zamba has some pretty good photos of Tiki culture from his trip to Bali. He really did a good job finding decor, artifacts, and art depicting or at least reminiscent of Tiki.