tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76981616168785120512024-03-04T23:47:27.611-08:00Too VastA discussion of all things in this world.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-38573235670648066032012-07-13T12:06:00.000-07:002012-07-13T16:41:54.868-07:00The New Neighborhood…At Last!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XHX0TILDwkOfxmRin-l_lnucfquKEVx9HAeb9RBd-Q5vnli9ziQ5jh9jYGpuw8g3qUockBZGDwfE2Pn_J6VY7LAXKRksvP4uGZhph6Chw91ZI4jBY-sAvr-5vfKcMBEpLkCRwvZGkFo/s1600/IMG00670-20120712-1938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4XHX0TILDwkOfxmRin-l_lnucfquKEVx9HAeb9RBd-Q5vnli9ziQ5jh9jYGpuw8g3qUockBZGDwfE2Pn_J6VY7LAXKRksvP4uGZhph6Chw91ZI4jBY-sAvr-5vfKcMBEpLkCRwvZGkFo/s320/IMG00670-20120712-1938.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Howard Street at Mary Street<br />
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<img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEintTq694ZZXSa6Z8zCVMUKxvTP0uE4ihdq5PSIP9ehqMcadRODhoTo1wG2zvKbhqeQqAXiYvA7QjfdE06vH-TEbddKfY4xHStxPGMXVKLEtbym1cO-Jo-u3-K673ETCdh-UcZrfxgScio/s640/IMG00669-20120712-1938.jpg" width="480" /><br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/_1uunRdQ61M">At Last!</a><br />
<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-90135740766779714412012-07-13T11:58:00.004-07:002012-07-13T12:25:22.227-07:00Style article for SOMA Magazine<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Summer 2012 issue</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.somamagazine.com/tee-llc/">Rising above the surplus of twee screen printed tees offered at your local indie boutique are three companies using high-grade fabrics and apparel design techniques, along with fresh aesthetic sensibilities, to create T-shirts that transcend the mundane…</a></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br />
<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-10030342407870322252012-07-13T11:57:00.000-07:002012-07-13T12:28:40.047-07:00Node Future<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Published 7/13/12 <a href="http://livesoma.com/">livesoma.com</a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_424020904" style="color: #38b63c; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><em><strong>SOMArts’ Performing Community</strong></em></span> (934 Brannan St.) is a month-long curatorial experiment that asks the question “How is community built and practiced?”</a> <a href="http://www.livesoma.com/2012/07/13/node-future-at-somarts/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s a fitting topic for our sprawling and sometimes disconnected-feeling urban neighborhood, and guest curators Laura Poppiti and Kara Q. Smith address it with a series of events and parties intended to engage SoMa locals in an artistic consideration what the community means to—and for—us.</span></a></div>
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<br /></div>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-83725023673530113932012-07-13T11:55:00.000-07:002012-07-13T12:27:57.999-07:00Del Popolo Pop Up Story<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Published 7/11/12 <a href="http://livesoma.com/">livesoma.com</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.livesoma.com/2012/07/11/american-pitchers-pizza-pop-up-event/"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><em style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><strong><span style="color: #003366;">Del Popolo</span></strong></em><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">, a lovely-looking four-ton food truck featuring a wood-fired brick oven inside a modified, glass-sided shipping container, is pulling up to the </span><em style="color: #003366; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><strong></strong></em><em style="color: #003366; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><strong>American Grilled Cheese Kitchen</strong></em><span style="color: #003366; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"> (1 South Park) on the evening of July 19th…</span></span></a><br />
<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-25855283126023326782012-05-15T08:31:00.001-07:002012-05-15T08:32:50.425-07:00Citified With KidsHere's a long essay I wrote that was published in the May 2012 issue of <i>Golden Gate Mother's Magazine</i>. (And no, I never ran naked in Bay to Breakers.)<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it me, or does it seem like little kids are street-people
magnets in this city? In the months after our son was born, my husband and I
got a hearty “Congratulations!” from just about every homeless person we passed.
Once, at an outdoor market at UN Plaza, a street person chastised me for
letting the sunlight shine in my baby’s eyes. If you think unsolicited
parenting advice is irritating coming from friends and family, try getting it
from a wild-eyed stranger who appears to be wearing three pairs of legwarmers
in lieu of pants. I looked down at my son, who was in fact squinting against
the mid-morning light, and wondered what he made of all the glaring gritty
hubbub of Civic Center.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My son is two now and still occasionally attracts the
stranger danger element. Recently we were walking past the bus stop at Howard
and 5th Streets when a man with a prodigious white beard and a paper bag full
of beer started waving and making googly eyes at us. An unrepentant flirt,
especially when it comes to people I’d rather avoid, my son grinned and waved
right back. A conversation was inevitable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“How are you doing today, ma’am?” the man asked cheerfully.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We’re doing well. How about yourself?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, I just got a ticket for public drinking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I made sympathetic sounds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Of course, I’m not going to pay it. But the cop was real
nice. He said, look, ‘I’m gonna give you a ticket for public drinking, but I’ll
let you keep your beer.’”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“That was nice of him,” I agreed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, well, I was a cop for 8 years…” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The story that followed was probably a fascinating one—in
fact, I’m still wondering about it—but, knowing that such conversations can
sometimes go from fascinating to unpleasantly weird on the turn of a dime, I
was wary. Besides, I had a hungry toddler in tow, and so we bid the man good
day and he waved us off amiably.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
When I told my husband about my encounter with the former
cop, I was triumphant. “He was a really nice homeless guy!” I enthused, “I’d be
happy to run into him again.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
In the pre-kids era I worked by the freeway and sometimes took
a bus that passed Howard and 5th, so I’ve seen a lot go down at that
intersection. As the city makes its odd, abrupt shift from Financial District
to SRO-row, I.T. types mingle with hobos and dealers at that particular spot along
the number 27 MUNI route. And while the stop is sometimes used for waiting for
the bus, it is also a great place (apparently) to smoke a spliff, take a nap,
make out, or just celebrate being alive at 10am on a Tuesday by cracking open a
beer. Once I saw some kind of spontaneous urban<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
exorcism take place at that corner, with a dozen or so
people in matching shirts forming a tight circle around a teenage boy, their
heads bowed in deep and concentrated prayer as though the demons of Howard
Street were threatening to rise up and snatch his soul in broad daylight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next month our family is moving in right around the corner,
into one of the grittiest parts of downtown San Francisco.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Oh my god, why?!” gasped one of our current Cole Valley
neighbors, when we broke the news about our move. Her shock was palpable, but
she soon collected herself and managed to say something vaguely positive about
how it’s great when kids learn to ride a city bus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I think her question was a valid one. Why? The word
ricochets inside my skull in the middle of the night, as our move-in date looms
nearer. Why are we doing this? Why are we trading our homey, green, safe,
kid-friendly spot in a “desirable” neighborhood for the scary inner city?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The easy answer is that we wanted to buy a home in San
Francisco and this neighborhood was one of the only ones that fit our budget and
wasn’t bordering the runways at SFO. And while our new home is two blocks away
from the rock cocaine epicenter of San Francisco (I’m making that up, but it’s
probably not too far off the mark), two blocks in the other direction is
SFMOMA, the Children’s Creativity Museum, Yerba Buena Gardens, and the
Contemporary Jewish Museum. Furthermore, the home we found happened—remarkably,
in that neighborhood—to come with two bedrooms and a rather nice backyard. So,
in a way, our decision was a simple one. Before we even started looking for our
home, though, we had to face a more complicated dilemma, the one that haunts local
parenting message boards and city officials: why stay here at all? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Families leave San Francisco by the hundreds each year. If
you didn’t read the recent <i>San Francisco
Chronicle</i> article about family flight, check the newspaper’s online
archives—you’ll find similar articles, on the same topic, from 2011 and 2010.
The number of families living in our city has been in decline since 1960, and
the number of residents 18 years or younger has dropped to 13 percent of the
population—one of the lowest ratios in the country for a city of our size. In
the ten-year period between 2000 and 2011, San Francisco lost over 5,000 school-age
kids. The families who are leaving are primarily middle-class. A meeting of
city supervisors was held, and a task force set up, to ponder why these
families are so likely to move away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Housing and schools” were the two answers that rang out
from the blogs and comment exchanges that proliferated after the article. Some
believe it’s more of one than the other, but the two issues are entwined. First
you have to find a place to live (preferably one that’s not just a bathroom
attached to a hallway), with a mortgage or rent that’s affordable when combined
with paying for childcare (or budgeting for a stay-at-home parent). But that’s
not enough. You also have to think about kindergarten and wrap your head around
the neighborhood schools vs. school lottery debate, not to mention the
perception that SF’s public schools are terrible and its private schools are impossible
to get into. Task force or no, the goal of keeping any but the most determined middle-class
families housed, and schooled and within city limits, may just be an intransigent problem.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Housing and schools are huge, but there are related but less
publicized pressures that caused me, in my weaker moments, to ponder Oakland,
or Austin, or Petaluma. It’s not just housing that’s an issue, but also the
people who don’t have a home; the friendliness of certain bus stop denizens
notwithstanding, the homeless population in this city doesn’t always mix well
with curious toddlers. It isn’t easy to explain to your kid why there’s a man
sleeping on cardboard boxes on the other side of the<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
playground gate, and it’s even harder to explain to yourself
why you hardly cast a second glance at people living on the street anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not just the public school situation, either; it’s the
Preschool Panic Syndrome: the sense that if you didn’t get your child’s name on
the lists for all the “best” preschools by by his or her sixth month of gestation, you’re
a negligent parent. There’s also the pressure to teach your kid to properly kick
a soccer ball and count to twenty in Spanish, English, and Mandarin by the time
she’s three, the need to extensively research the most engaging swim teachers
at La Petite Baleen, the temptation to throw a catered birthday party for a
one-year old, or the worry that if you don’t have the latest wooden German
balance bike, your progeny may never become the facile and confident cyclist
you hoped for. (Not all of these neuroses will apply to all of us, but there are
enough to go around.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What happened to us? We went from laughing it up at the
naked people running in<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bay to Breakers (or actually being one of them), to agonizing
over a toddler’s foreign<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
language skills. How does a city that is so exhilarating and
liberating for so many young people also have the potential to turn into such a
competitive slog for families? It may well be that the most difficult thing for
parents in San Francisco is keeping our perspective and remembering what living
in the city meant for us before the kids came along. If we once took such joy
and sustenance in the spontaneous strolls over misty hilltops—or the view from
a picnic blanket on Crissy Field; or the jumble of treasures and treats on
offer at the Alemany Flea Market; or Mission-style tacos; or whatever else
about this city that makes our mouths water and our hearts race—who’s to say
our kids won’t be just as enchanted and edified by the same things? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep down, my husband and I knew we were playing a rigged
game: as an at-home<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mom with a couple of freelance contracts and an arts
administrator at a not-for-profit, there was no tech IPO in the world that
would make it so we could afford a palace in Pac Heights. Or, really, even a
condo in Cole Valley. Yet in the years since our son was born (and I left full-time
work) we kept at it anyway, somehow finding room in our budget for toddler
dance classes and picturesque birthday party rentals. But eventually we came to
realize that those things aren’t why we want to stay here. And we met other
families like ours—families working in the arts, and/or families with stay at
home parents—who were living in San Francisco too, by hook or by crook. It’s not like we didn’t scour the
suburbs of Berkeley and Oakland for better options—we did—but something kept us
coming back to San Francisco, back to our beleaguered realtor, saying, “There’s
got to be a place for us here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So while our decision to stay here was in part to make a
stand (“We’re here! We’re<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
middle class! Get used to it!”), and while much of the
activity in our new neighborhood gives me the shudders, my husband and I also
find something intriguing in the unbeautifulness of the South of Market area
we’re moving to. As lovely as many of San Francisco’s more established
neighborhoods can be, they’ve already been colonized by shops selling biodynamic
coffee and locally-made soaps and desserts with bacon in them. In whatever way
a geographical area can be self-conscious, those neighborhoods are Mandarin-speaking
Soccer Tot stars, and they’ve got the real-estate prices to prove it. Theoretically,
I want our new neighborhood to “transition,” or at least become a place where
people are less likely to do drugs on the sidewalks. But these days, I’m
unexpectedly thrilled about the fact that we get to experience the city outside
of that self-conscious parenting bubble—that my son and I can escape the
heightened expectations of the “nice” neighborhoods for a time and just be what
we are: a city kid and his mom, kicking around the busy streets in search of a
good place for hot chocolate (hold the bacon).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That, as much anything, was part of the choice we made when
we signed our mortgage and committed to stay. In retrospect, I realize this
wasn’t a conscious decision or a recent one, but something that happened a long
time ago, when we first came to the city, with all its tragedy and
transcendence and high housing costs and gritty possibility, and said, “We want
to live here, no matter what.” And I could be wrong, but, fancy preschool or
not, I think our son might someday thank us for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
-<i>Megan Bates</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<i><br /></i>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-22460591907358525332012-05-03T19:58:00.000-07:002012-05-03T19:58:16.523-07:00Where soothing gel masks go to die…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfhhfTZkrn2Cu54SzV0I3QJTKFHH9jue-iqbFLyRA0RNLLVwx3RjEiEDiG_czV566MEsXSu6t9d-2wp7OuhpcjwYKX32pfqNDutQRiNN5wllmF7sOHzBG8a2qXtXUGg2kqgZ7acpZSFY/s1600/facemask+on+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggfhhfTZkrn2Cu54SzV0I3QJTKFHH9jue-iqbFLyRA0RNLLVwx3RjEiEDiG_czV566MEsXSu6t9d-2wp7OuhpcjwYKX32pfqNDutQRiNN5wllmF7sOHzBG8a2qXtXUGg2kqgZ7acpZSFY/s320/facemask+on+post.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Post and Broderick, apparently.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFAvAngzij-KIHcQ-yKkGDXJtPj8qCOlmlv_xKTNZJqQZyCuzend-BBQWyYXXU6GQRRwQ3MjSjptUmkNuBDSbtEEQS_ysRv9HhfSI9tDdjJFGy0IHuKY5NPgBLCYUCyuVviSHR8z5Tk8/s1600/facemask+on+post+b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFAvAngzij-KIHcQ-yKkGDXJtPj8qCOlmlv_xKTNZJqQZyCuzend-BBQWyYXXU6GQRRwQ3MjSjptUmkNuBDSbtEEQS_ysRv9HhfSI9tDdjJFGy0IHuKY5NPgBLCYUCyuVviSHR8z5Tk8/s320/facemask+on+post+b.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-74220737688695777252012-05-03T19:52:00.000-07:002012-05-03T19:52:02.603-07:00TV on Noe & 14th<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0MTrHKzyoLYjs_iGfn8aguzfOroGhUwhuAQMBuO2kZTtDxMoJhwlyi1PrSHsevdZH8AKNR_hEtiHq8jOweiD6Z1wn59TA_oC_qt9cmIfCtmG5u_cpxANFqDQTXyUGDouxrOI2IxZVY5k/s1600/TV+on+Noe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0MTrHKzyoLYjs_iGfn8aguzfOroGhUwhuAQMBuO2kZTtDxMoJhwlyi1PrSHsevdZH8AKNR_hEtiHq8jOweiD6Z1wn59TA_oC_qt9cmIfCtmG5u_cpxANFqDQTXyUGDouxrOI2IxZVY5k/s320/TV+on+Noe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Beautiful old thing.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-77576983550812346742012-05-03T13:53:00.000-07:002012-05-03T13:53:04.513-07:00Tilting at Windmills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHcRvGgToTpQUt2dudICSc_jiVFXTpHKLCZVkEV2IWr72TEG48MbUAZIpzEAl7eZ3j7qOpvtkcdggqk6TWIAjkusMjfXwSQLV_UDkJHQkSoiA62DO4e3A-oykG6i0lXBW8zZ2jF2eIDY/s1600/Y+and+Windmill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHcRvGgToTpQUt2dudICSc_jiVFXTpHKLCZVkEV2IWr72TEG48MbUAZIpzEAl7eZ3j7qOpvtkcdggqk6TWIAjkusMjfXwSQLV_UDkJHQkSoiA62DO4e3A-oykG6i0lXBW8zZ2jF2eIDY/s320/Y+and+Windmill.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
On Saturday Y and I went to see Murphy Windmill in action at Golden Gate Park. It was apparently the first time it'd gone round in twenty years and there were Queen's Day-related festivities to commemorate the occasion. Y tilted. Later we had <a href="http://www.thedutchtable.com/2011/07/kroketten.html">beef kroketten</a> and patat frites and Orangina. And then the beach.<br />
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<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-57880333129704599052012-03-30T16:24:00.000-07:002012-03-30T16:26:28.344-07:00Not Too Terrible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Y. turned two a few weeks ago. It wasn't altogether unexpected but somehow took us by surprise anyway.<br />
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We had a birthday party for him. A real birthday party, not just a couple of bites of a carrot cupcake at his grandparents' house, which is what he got last year. This year we had cupcakes, gift bags, and even rented a party spot. I felt sort of giddy and nervous, as though this shindig were somehow a test of my skill and worth as a mother. Which, of course, it was. But everything turned out fine, and and a couple of out-of-costume mariachi players even showed up to provide musical entertainment.<br />
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Can't even imagine three, but I guess it'll happen someday.<br />
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<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-30778666389049109022012-01-20T17:23:00.000-08:002012-01-20T17:23:57.465-08:00January 9/Partied-out Poinsettia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Cole at Grattan (northeast corner)</span></div>
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Feeling sad about leaving this neighborhood we've inhabited since 2003, and excited about seeing what we shall see on the streets of <a href="http://therumpus.net/2011/11/meanwhile-6th-and-mission/">the new neighborhood</a>. My guess is far fewer poinsettias and abandoned vocabulary worksheets.</div>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-65250787065689093302011-12-18T11:13:00.001-08:002011-12-18T11:16:05.457-08:00Cole St. at Grattan (Northwest corner)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-27167601825107533972011-12-18T11:09:00.001-08:002011-12-18T11:16:05.448-08:00Valencia at 23rd (Northeast corner)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-887061608697642922011-12-18T11:08:00.000-08:002011-12-18T11:16:05.465-08:0023rd Street at Valencia (Northwest corner)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNSPX2-148h2Fp7CU5aiUWyrM0br1sBykyOtJdN6VU2kok0ihL9lXs0VC5vgZhgTH23EjodggMTRDYkP2tHXUTVhYgG_TJ9aOGWohPJs2Erq-BOajRVTz_ynyZYYCQ9Pa5E8LOChSCxw/s1600/23rd+at+Valencia+%2528Northwest%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisNSPX2-148h2Fp7CU5aiUWyrM0br1sBykyOtJdN6VU2kok0ihL9lXs0VC5vgZhgTH23EjodggMTRDYkP2tHXUTVhYgG_TJ9aOGWohPJs2Erq-BOajRVTz_ynyZYYCQ9Pa5E8LOChSCxw/s320/23rd+at+Valencia+%2528Northwest%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-30128084730979009392011-12-18T11:05:00.001-08:002011-12-18T11:15:56.647-08:00JFK Drive at Pompei Circle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ6G9mNFfplGpRqqBsnjonxelUQWnL1WVQoS-RkQzQ36oiBAtTiSmCf1u4DSsmuJ8xI2gsN5UNOGikXjG3KDHelarq01B-u-RBXi0xzB_Ak7yP_Uh_QrJpfZ4lWcGa4ijPkTNCizbQq0/s1600/JFK+Drive+at+Pompei+Circle+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXJ6G9mNFfplGpRqqBsnjonxelUQWnL1WVQoS-RkQzQ36oiBAtTiSmCf1u4DSsmuJ8xI2gsN5UNOGikXjG3KDHelarq01B-u-RBXi0xzB_Ak7yP_Uh_QrJpfZ4lWcGa4ijPkTNCizbQq0/s320/JFK+Drive+at+Pompei+Circle+.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-6143659302148991192011-12-18T11:03:00.000-08:002011-12-18T11:14:14.867-08:00Grattan Street PairGrattan street at Cole (Northwest corner)
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Grattan Street at Cole (Southwest corner)
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OxZoe24nUWOoUFdjpwGDBgnHgU4b4aeOEF21P21kM76HAXBLBEWhQ0DYa1mXz-JhMHtV89npsga8oevR0X0LYsEQxmIWh5T6fVjDI3M6h_p5QBuo0ocATj12XvXpsgdmogNMDyaQ2OY/s1600/IMG00183-20110929-1423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0OxZoe24nUWOoUFdjpwGDBgnHgU4b4aeOEF21P21kM76HAXBLBEWhQ0DYa1mXz-JhMHtV89npsga8oevR0X0LYsEQxmIWh5T6fVjDI3M6h_p5QBuo0ocATj12XvXpsgdmogNMDyaQ2OY/s320/IMG00183-20110929-1423.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-86196424517138407842011-08-28T10:12:00.000-07:002011-12-18T11:15:50.451-08:00What my neighbors eat, what my neighbors do not eatThrowing food waste in your garbage can will now earn you a fine in the city of San Francisco. Composting is legally required. Some people I’ve run into (mostly cab drivers or people who live in other cities) think this is an egregious violation of privacy and free will. And I have heard stories of sanitation workers slashing garbage bags on the sidewalk to find that errant apple core, which does seem a bit extreme.
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But I like composting. I mean, c’mon, what makes more sense than turning our food waste into fertilizer to grow more food? (Or, in the case of San Francisco, <a href="http://www.sfenvironment.org/our_programs/topics.html?ti=6"><span style="font-style: italic;">organic</span> food and delicious wine</a>). I also like looking at my neighbor’s food waste.
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Mind you, I’m not sorting through the garbage paparazzi style. The actual garbage bin totally grosses me out. But for some reason the contents of that green composting bin keep me coming back for a peek. When disposing of my own household’s waste, I hold the lid open for as long as I can before the swarm of fruit flies attack. The side of the bin is coated in this black slimy substance that is like nothing else. When it’s empty, there’s always a kind of sticky muck at the bottom with at least one bright orange orange peel glowing up in a sweet, hopeful way. And when it’s full, It’s just kind of amazing that six cramped one-bedroom apartments can generate that much foody goop. It smells strongly, but not in the nasty, threatening way the actual garbage bin smells. Instead it’s just…well, “pungent” I think describes it well. I find it sort of pleasant. Once last week I saw a little something shuffling around in the juicy detritus. Maggots?! Rats?! Either way, pretty exciting.
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Last week J. caught me staring into the void. “Close that lid!” he yelled from the back window.
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I’ve never seen anything that exciting in the actual food compost, though. It’s always just a slurry of eggshells and old pasta sauce and orange peels and paper takeaway containers, whether it’s coming from apartment 1034A or 1036A. Maybe that’s why I like looking; it affirms the sense that we are all common beings, subsisting in our little, expensive apartments on eggs and pasta and oranges and cheap Thai takeaway.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-67054187247144871642010-06-08T09:13:00.000-07:002010-06-08T09:22:39.785-07:00Niagra Biscuits**I found this jotted in a work notebook from 4 years ago...<br /><br />I went to New York for the first time last week, stayed in midtown, in on business only for three days and when I tell my grandmother Priscilla about it she tells me a story about when she first went to New York, also when she was thirty. It was a package tour that included Niagra Falls. What was Niagra Falls like? I ask her. She tells me that when she was a girl (she's 89 now) her family always had shredded wheat biscuits for breakfast, and that the box they came in had a picture of Niagra Falls, and that was exactly what Niagra Falls looked like.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-10173658031262771992010-06-08T09:01:00.000-07:002010-06-08T09:11:58.600-07:00And nowAnd now, of course, I have to take back every shitty, cynical thing I've ever said about being a mother*, because here he is, asleep on my belly, making grunting little animal sounds and rooting, occasionally, for a warmer, softer spot to put his nose. And I love him unconditionally, of course; I don't care if he says dumb things outside a Japanese restaurant or (of more immediate concern) if he vomits on my shirt. Actually, I'm going to love him no matter what he does, and I'm probably going to love 97% of every <span style="font-style:italic;">thing</span> he does.<br /><br />P.S. re: the previous post: yes, his cheeks are fat like peach pudding and his hands almost constantly engaged in a fascinating duet, and all that awful poetic blablabla, but really those things have very little to do with who my son is or why I love him.<br /><br />*And, in fact, I retract every shitty & cynical thing I've ever said about anything, because while I'm fond of saying such things, they nearly always end up being misguided and embarrassing and wrong in retrospect. From now on I will say only sunny and optimistic things.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-46771227327888854912010-02-26T13:46:00.000-08:002010-02-26T13:48:23.850-08:00Cheeks and HandsBaby: the whole organism is too much for me to comprehend—the shadowy spine and ribcage on the ultrasound screen, the delicate transparent planet of the skull, nestled in the bony cradle of my pelvis. Too much, too much. <br /><br />But I can think of these disparate things, pieces of the whole; I can comfort myself with these notions: <br /><br />Those Cheeks--squirrel-fatted, exaggerated for extra suction, flush in a pattern of miniscule new arteries, swelling in unbelievable beauty and abundance, then melting like some kind of delectable peach pudding into the fat of the neck.<br /><br />And Fingers--tiny functioning tools, topped with razor sharp little fingernails. Fingers and hands that will grasp at so many things in the course of a lifetime, but now, in the moments and months after entering the world, grasp only at the notion of grasping, caressing the air, pinching the monstrously larger fingers that adult humans offer it. And perhaps they grasp at a breast, the better to feed those cheeks. I will let you know.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-21307609111166060252010-02-26T13:04:00.001-08:002010-02-26T13:45:53.179-08:00What the hell, E.L.?I read E.L. Doctorow’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Ragtime</span> as a teenager and was enthralled. Reading <span style="font-style:italic;">Homer and Langley</span> led me to wonder if he’s become a terrible writer over the years or if my adolescent literary sensitivities were simply not as developed as I like to believe. This novel, which is loosely based on the lives of a couple of Manhattan crazies, is a <span style="font-style:italic;">Forest-Gump</span>-style survey of the 20th century, but without even the questionable charm of Tom Hanks’s goofy fish-lips to keep it going. That gimmick (because I did not go to creative writing school, I will call it the “guy who experiences everything significant within a generation” genre) is one I find someone clunky and contrived, but at first the writing itself is not so bad--it moves along at a nice clip and the way the extremely (psychopathically) quirky characters are introduced is rather subtle. The narrator, Homer, starts out as a neat, smart, rich kid but after weathering the great war and the great flu he comes out in his 20s as a blind and aimless grownup and then proceeds to pretty much stay that way for the remainder of his (looong--remember, this story’s gonna cover most of the significant events of the 20th century) life.<br />But that limited initial charm quickly wears off. Here’s a short list of this novel's ruinously (in my opinion) distracting flaws:<br /><br />THE WOMEN: While ingenious, sensitive and inspired in their decisions to sleep with our narrator, once they’ve come out from under his covers and are fully clothed they all turn out to be conniving and coarse, or at the very least kind of idiotic. Perhaps (and it's a long shot) this is meant to reflect the character flaws and limitations of the narrator himself, but it’s done so blithely—such a naive execution of unthinking misogyny—that it instead reflects rather poorly on the novelist.<br /><br />THE BLINDNESS: Most of the time it doesn’t matter, and there’s something to be said for that. The narrator generally doesn’t see himself as particularly handicapped, and manages through sound and memory and assumption to describe physical settings in great detail—and it’s believable. All fine so far, right? Unfortunately Doctorow uses it as a crutch (or…er…cane?) when he needs to describe something in greater detail. All along we think old Homer is getting along just fine, familiar with the world, comfortable and savvy in it through a certain refined sensitivity to the molecules in the air and solid matter around him. Then, when Doctorow wants to go into deep description mode, he up and turns to the nearest sighted character, usually Langley, who actually SPEAKS the description in expository dialogue directly to his brother Homer. It’s jarring and out of place and reads like so much blah blah blah.<br /><br />THE STEREOTYPES: Are stereotypes necessary element in the “guy who experiences everything” genre? I seem to remember a few in<span style="font-style:italic;"> Forrest Gump</span>. In Homer & Langley the black cook has a son who’s a self-taught musician and basically single-handedly invents jazz (somebody had to, right?), and the Japanese couple are ever so tidy and decoratively inclined, with “reedy” accents and quiet, respectful ways…aaaand…get ready for it…they also eat sushi for dinner every night and own a netsuke collection (this despite being impoverished and homeless housecleaners).<br /><br />THE DESCRIPTIVE DISSIMULATION:<br />…or whatever the proper term is for when something is described in enough detail that we know what it is but the writer, out of sheer obstinance or ignorance or I don’t know what, refuses to name it… For instance, the Japanese couple mentioned above doesn’t “make sushi for dinner,” but rather are observed decoratively laying pieces of raw fish on delicate mounds of rice. And we don’t know that they have a netsuke collection, just that they collect small ivory carvings. I guess the sushi example is forgivable if one assumes that in the 40’s sushi was not a commonly acknowledged cuisine choice, but if Homer is interested enough to narrate all the details about these little ivory figurines, why wouldn’t he have just asked the couple what they were? (Then Doctorow could have them respond, in their polite and reedy accents, “Oh, they’re netsuke, of course, all Japanese people collect them!”)<br />The worst example of this, though, is the R. Crumb type of character. We know he’s tall and thin and morose and perverted. We know he draws dirty old men with women with big legs’n’ behinds. We know one of his stock characters is a cat. We know he soon becomes famous for his zeitgeist-y comics…but we somehow miraculously don’t know his name! Mind you, this isn’t a passing acquaintance; in the novel the “Crumb who shall not be named” lives with Homer and Langely for over a month, and all of his hippie cohorts are identified by name. Either it’s R. Crumb or it’s freaking not, but what exactly is achieved by not being specific?<br /><br />Because of the abovementioned issues I cannot in good conscience recommend Homer & Langley. However, I do recommend the Wikipedia entry under “Collyer Brothers.” Their actual story (including a good deal of psychopathic nastiness missing from Doctorow’s version, and minus the novelistic gimmicks) is absolutely fascinating.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-90099620475056859112010-02-18T10:21:00.000-08:002010-02-18T11:21:07.570-08:00Photo AlbumBefore my entire memory of the world is washed away in a tidal wave of maternal hormones--at least temporarily--here are some of the places I've been in the last two years.<br /><br /><br />CHILE:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6q_9IShur_56wsIl1JjyeX0sG2q0EujoYNxngo7Vkh-jzwdkux4bhh1OuW6tkSh4SVtFZpckV4bszOcTbSMJgFDsjmQ8VwKLyE7whQZ2WQuTbbC4badPCqa-xS1Z12Dz7-QfD4Eg7n8/s1600-h/PablosBeach.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6q_9IShur_56wsIl1JjyeX0sG2q0EujoYNxngo7Vkh-jzwdkux4bhh1OuW6tkSh4SVtFZpckV4bszOcTbSMJgFDsjmQ8VwKLyE7whQZ2WQuTbbC4badPCqa-xS1Z12Dz7-QfD4Eg7n8/s320/PablosBeach.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439653769752257394" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8baUZL8Aad4ZGZfq6StopiRS-dEUCXTK-I8-AU6tAER_wbbAzUagD2giuZ__T8PGSYpKLKNoSTYXCVm1lVmuOKndvSB30xzHIk-mTU-dkV9JpHZOFRMh-AxJkNKDhmlSALyZHmrkTs4/s1600-h/CapitalBldgChile.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8baUZL8Aad4ZGZfq6StopiRS-dEUCXTK-I8-AU6tAER_wbbAzUagD2giuZ__T8PGSYpKLKNoSTYXCVm1lVmuOKndvSB30xzHIk-mTU-dkV9JpHZOFRMh-AxJkNKDhmlSALyZHmrkTs4/s320/CapitalBldgChile.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439660470971837810" /></a> Two weeks with my friend C. in Valparaiso, Santiago, and C.'s family's country house somewhere in the middle. Above are images of the view from Pablo Neruda's backyard, and the <a href="http://politicalpathologies.wikispaces.com/file/view/350px-MonedaBombing.jpg/31301219/350px-MonedaBombing.jpg">refurbished</a> presidential palace (La Moneda) in Santiago.<br /><br />TOPSAIL ISLAND, NC:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2R7QUcM6lsf0R7-8jf6ruS85OuGiD082AS8qW_jRMwa5XrNhZ7wSyDLaNXwFqpuR-Ffwad6TsWLhrdplEeU2mnobPolNJVe5UctzautE0P8MCRKfAJk2PhC_FYtyrTGVSuP9f4kcCohU/s1600-h/Topsail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2R7QUcM6lsf0R7-8jf6ruS85OuGiD082AS8qW_jRMwa5XrNhZ7wSyDLaNXwFqpuR-Ffwad6TsWLhrdplEeU2mnobPolNJVe5UctzautE0P8MCRKfAJk2PhC_FYtyrTGVSuP9f4kcCohU/s320/Topsail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439656032716467810" /></a> J. Family vacation. A week in June 2008 and a week in June 2009. A certain microscopic hanger-on returned with us from the 2009 trip, though we didn't realize it until a few weeks later. The goofy green wheelbarrower in the foreground is my nephew G. <br /><br /><br />MEXICO:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPW6l5TNpe9eCOCBIEM_9Sck3dMEXQMPAL_iEcvdReU4Q_cG0w_3SROvHLesbvU0ET-5tErUAr1zf6BuhwMRKBH_ziXGQgznZoInm3zzlLnop81Dl3Oi5qoNbXo2AuOpf349jQ83mNdtE/s1600-h/BigChurchBalloons.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPW6l5TNpe9eCOCBIEM_9Sck3dMEXQMPAL_iEcvdReU4Q_cG0w_3SROvHLesbvU0ET-5tErUAr1zf6BuhwMRKBH_ziXGQgznZoInm3zzlLnop81Dl3Oi5qoNbXo2AuOpf349jQ83mNdtE/s320/BigChurchBalloons.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439657086580484466" /></a> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsyuGx2mITrIyLRCN1_NopHNKwjM1q5CEBWB8tmO08WgaUUs_53Nl0NYbupTxppgANY9aoeOGL0PfC4bGusKg8AtwycY8rYi_CWppEah80nsJ6F-tzj05pyQgtNrtfr3WqCBaFyc4BoY/s1600-h/RoofViewTwilite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBsyuGx2mITrIyLRCN1_NopHNKwjM1q5CEBWB8tmO08WgaUUs_53Nl0NYbupTxppgANY9aoeOGL0PfC4bGusKg8AtwycY8rYi_CWppEah80nsJ6F-tzj05pyQgtNrtfr3WqCBaFyc4BoY/s320/RoofViewTwilite.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439662953869836786" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gS8dAyUoPLPUbQrkMSNgDCvYG6j9qgHp_-qunnVPvb-IrgmWxqfkmbP45MPwMTkwE9F7BhHY3NHjMixOsMv3DOYKfECS0avoKR-OUQfwGqqV_wdleflWh9b05cz343GL4AH1ZDy87WM/s1600-h/Me&Ronnie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8gS8dAyUoPLPUbQrkMSNgDCvYG6j9qgHp_-qunnVPvb-IrgmWxqfkmbP45MPwMTkwE9F7BhHY3NHjMixOsMv3DOYKfECS0avoKR-OUQfwGqqV_wdleflWh9b05cz343GL4AH1ZDy87WM/s320/Me&Ronnie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439665422963202226" /></a>Three weeks in San Miguel de Allende and a week in Bucerias, visiting friends R. & J. One of the most beautiful and intense trips I've experienced. Beach trips to Mexico are ridiculous waste of time--the cities are where it's at. I hope to return to SMA and Guanajuato sooner than later.Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7698161616878512051.post-79712100016469881072009-07-22T10:38:00.001-07:002009-07-22T10:39:37.310-07:00Wall painting, corner of Market St. and Rose St.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2L7MRv3pOF_e5RbRFsWPVYjqrl37o_b1nc02PUNHN7_IqhGcIUJHAgl3DRFA-awce2Wuge1OodFTOIoNXJLDHkad-FeaOT6oV4yOk3Q_TvLLMnXV-H5pTO0et-y6oJrKLh9HeSzh6qLw/s1600-h/Mural.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2L7MRv3pOF_e5RbRFsWPVYjqrl37o_b1nc02PUNHN7_IqhGcIUJHAgl3DRFA-awce2Wuge1OodFTOIoNXJLDHkad-FeaOT6oV4yOk3Q_TvLLMnXV-H5pTO0et-y6oJrKLh9HeSzh6qLw/s320/Mural.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361340466038622546" border="0" /></a>Too Vasthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16164988052506509439noreply@blogger.com0