file under things best left unpublished

But I can't resist. Sometimes ignorance deserves a public whipping.
A while back I worked for an Unnamed Principal Investigator. My job was to edit his turgid prose, but that turned out to be too painful for both of us, and I switched roles to become his office manager of sorts. It was not the worst job ever, but I definitely bear scars from a year spent reviewing epidemiological surveys. Nearly ten years have passed since I held that job, so it was an absolute surprise to hear that this very Principal Investigator had contacted my friend Office Manager at Famous Restaurant. He wanted to know whether he could secure forty reservations at said restaurant in order to photograph their meals to post on his diet analysis web-site. Actually, he specified, he was wondering whether he could get these forty meals at a discount, what with it being a bulk purchase, and whether it'd be ok if he brought his two daughters (one for whom he'd like the discounted "kid's meal price" since she doesn't eat much, and the other for whom he'd just like a chair and an extra plate, since she'd be eating off his plate).
I told my friend that I hoped she refused him on moral grounds; the people taking his surveys, the smokers and under-exercisers of the world, are not going to find matches of their meals on his web page of Forty Meals from a Famous Restaurant. Not to mention that this isn't exactly what the government has in mind when they award their research fellowships.

But it was my friend's sister who had the more appropriate response. Perhaps Principal Investigator would like to submit his request to San Quentin? Meals only cost $1.43 there, so he wouldn't need a bulk discount, and surely the inmates could whip up a kiddie seat in their workshop...

To blog is human

I read in Harper's that a new blog is created every second. An incredible number, if you think about it: if my math is correct that works out to 31,536,000 new blogs a year. I have no idea how many blogs exist at the moment (each word I type represents an additional blog to that number). As of this very moment, that represents a mere fraction of the population of the United States (and I'm really uncertain of my math here, it's late, my contacts are sticky and I've had a glass of wine) but I think it's something like 1% of the current population. And as I'm a literature type, not a math type (though I loved Freakonomics), I cannot postulate how long it will be before every person in the United States has a blog. (How do you account for people's potential access to a computer, given the discrepancies of income, access and after factoring in the inflation rate?) But -- if one person per second creates a new blog (does this outpace the number of people dying of anything?), then it seems that it won't be long before blogging becomes as pervasive as talking. That fifth graders will create their own blog rather than outline one another on a stretch of butcher block paper, as I did back in the eighties, filling in the self-cavity with images of their personal interests and hobbies. And how will this impact language? Will textual representation become mundane? Will the confessional genre become so saturated that memoirs cede their status as publisher's choice?

Bike Friday throws down the glove

My steel frame commuter bike from the 1970s has met its match: Bike Friday. Yesterday I saw a woman riding a Bike Friday in the East Bay hills. I do not know how she got up there, on those 12-inch wheels. Or, for that matter, how she'd navigate the 30 mph downhill. I am Duly Impressed.

culture or gender?

More than a decade ago, I lived in Ukraine for a year. At the time, Ukraine was still part of the Soviet Union; I lived in a Russified city replete with Soviet architecture, Soviet fashion and Soviet cynicism. It was a phenomenal year: I became very close with my Russian sister, travelled through Ukraine, Russia, Latvia and Lithuania, and ate more than my weight in colbasa. But what brings this year to mind today is a recent mini-series of public urination; for, while I lived in the Soviet Union, I became accustomed to the sight of men urinating in wide-open public. At the time, I found the practice astonishingly unclean. Somehow I thought that only happened in rural China, where the habits of blowing one's nose on the sidewalk or spitting were generally accepted, if not approved of, norms. Yet I came to realize that this was considered normal, if not savory, practice in the Soviet Union as well. In particular, women discussed it in terms of gender and politics: this is what Soviet men do in this godforsaken corner of the earth, where the government's indifference to people renders them into shameless animals. I began to understand the practice as one distinctly related to culture and history.

I am at a loss to explain public urination in my city. Oakland is not a godforsaken corner of the earth; while it has its share of ghettos and urban blight, much of the city is lovingly cared for. To wit, my neighborhood, cushioned between the city's lake and downtown, is full of lovingly cared for homes, their gardens and yards expressing in small ways the diversity of this city. So I did not expect to see, in the period of three days, three different men urinating in broad daylight on my street. Against the walls of private homes.

Is it gender or socio-econimics? Politics or culture? Contempt or brutishness? What compels, or invites, a man (For it is always men. I have never yet seen a woman squatting to relieve herself in public. In the woods, sure; but I submit this is a different issue.) to take a piss against someone's home?

coming soon to a freeway near you!

The United States government has a long and proud history of legislating on issues of health and safety; the evidence of these laws make up the fabric of our day-to-day life: seat belts, nutrition standards, risks of alcohol. The government's involvement in issues of health surpass mere laws. Huge campaigns make their appearances, in newspaper or on television, promoting milk or beef, dictating the optimal diet, encouraging people to eat five servings of fruits and vegetables a day. And it is no secret that the government has a vested interest in these campaigns: government aid to United States farmers results in an enormous surplus of agricultural products, thus it behooves the government to encourage its citizens to buy, buy, buy.

But the government has also campaigned on other health issues, such as the prevention of cancer, diabetes and heart disease. The government's most recent involvement in huge health campaigns is fairly recognizable to anyone who drives. Childhood obesity, in any language, is not to be taken lightly.

What I want to know, is why hasn't there been a campaign to prevent prolapsed uteruses? This is a problem that impacts nearly half of the population; women who have had children, women undergoing menopause, women with chronically low levels of estrogen, overweight women are all at risk to develop a prolapsed uterus. Not just uncomfortable, this condition impacts a woman's overall health and mobility. And, not surprisingly, this condition has a very simple preventative exercise. Most women know this exercise by name, but few remember to do it on a regular basis.

I think it's time for a billboard campaign.

Prevent prolapsed uteruses. (uteri?)
Do your Kegels while you drive!

ode to oaktown

My friend and I are meeting at Uptown, a new downtown place. I cannot help but think of its name in terms of New York, where distinctions between uptown and downtown are actually meaningful and the results of decades of race and class skirmishes. Not that Oakland lacks these skirmishes: race is possibly the most divisive aspect of this city, followed closely by drugs and gangs. Class seems to be somewhat less divisive, yet once you look beyond the surface of things, the divisions of money and class are everywhere evident.
By generous estimate, Oakland's Uptown is only about a block away from its downtown. It is perhaps easier to consider the place part of Oakland's downtown, given the acute necessity that downtown achieve critical mass. There is not much there, a dismal echo of Gertrude Stein's 'there's no there there,' and a stark visual reality once the working day ends and the streets empty out. Downtown Oakland can claim several restaurants and bars, quite a few of which opened in the last twelve months or so (Luka's, Uptown, Antojeria, B, and some that have been around for much longer--The Rex (which I just discovered used to be a theater in downtown Oakland), Radio, Ruby Room, Cafe Van Kleef). But compared to nearby as-it-were "destinations," in this food-and-commerce dense East Bay, downtown Oakland is practically a ghost town. Still wanting its elusive zeitgeist, something that will people the streets after the day-jobbers go home.
I'm pulling for this city, hoping against hope that it can become a vibrant urban space, where the disparate forces of art and commerce commingle with the unruly mess of humanity. But I, as are possibly many potential business owners and residents, am at a loss to explain how to bring this vision to Oakland.
Don't get me wrong: I adore Oakland, and am not complaining about a perceived 'lack.' But I want more for this city: I want her to become again 'the shining gem across the bay' that she was in the not-so-distant past.

nimby

I've been watching a small drama unfold on my street. The local high schoolers had gotten very comfortable smoking out in an alley nearby, between a ... and a ... (names suppressed to protect the innocent). It is a skinny, dank, concrete path behind an overloaded dumpster. Not the most appealing place to get high, but I can understand their choice: it is steps away from the school building, allowing them to maximize their lunch hour high. I'm not entirely clear on Oakland's position towards drugs, but it seems to be one of blind permissiveness. The drug dealers on the corner greet me personally as I walk by, deals are made at all hours of the day, in broad daylight and in the middle of the street. Students and dealers alike vacillate between blatantly flaunting and stealthily concealing their commerce. Some students walk boldly down the center of the street, exchanging large bills and small packets, ostentatiously rolling joints and passing the joint around. The others sneak into the alley, post look-outs, and try to avoid the principal's surveillance by hopping fences and skulking through backyards.
Petty crime and violence, however, has been increasing, so the school and police have upped their surveillance. It did not take the kids long to abandon their alley; they now head a block or two up, with that hurried nonchalance of an addict heading towards the source.
My feeling is that kids will be kids; whether its drugs, petty crime or just being loud, they are reacting against authorities and systems that would prefer to keep them quiet and meekly obedient. Eventually one approaches this as a personal choice--either to live according to a civic code or not; in adolescence, I think, it appears less as a choice and more simply as imposed 'rules.'
I have nothing against drug use and feel that if it were legalized, then many of the real problems associated with drugs such as violence and poverty would diminish. What does give me pause is the lack of respect: why does disrespect for others nearly always accompany drug use? Couldn't they just get their high and not steal cars for joyrides, not commit random violent acts?

Shogun

It's a funny thing to ride the Oakland hills on a beater bike. I don't know much about my Shogun, other than it's a Japanese bike and the eggplant color makes me think it's from the 70s. But I do know that it was the oldest bike in them thar hills today. Couple of raised eyebrows as I passed the lycra-clad on their Sevens, Cervelos and Calfees.
Uphill.
It's been raining a lot lately. So on the first fully sunny weekend after a spate of floods and downpours, I and the entire biking population of the bay area set out for a ride. Like most, I take Tunnel Road up to the hills; it's a nice, gentle climb, on a road that curves so graciously that it's fun going up or down. I knew that a mudslide had closed off most of the road during the week; but I also knew that it was walkable, from my inside source. So I wasn't too phased by the road-closed warnings from the bikers coming down the hill. Turns out They'd posted a live guard to keep bikes and people from walking on the footpath around the slide. There was no budging or bribing our gate-keeper, so I and another bike decided to kludge together an alternate route up to the top.
It was all downhill for a while, so bike guy peeled off onto a random uphill. I decided to keep going till I got to a road I recognized--which was just one more curve away. I knew I'd biked on Thornhill before, and knowing it'd get me somewhere, I decided to see where that was. On Thornhill, another nice, gradual up-slope, I passed what appeared to be a friendly neighborhood guy. And asked him whether I could get there (the top) from here. Yes, and he named a couple of streets and turns. But just as I was about to start off, he remembered a better route. Straight, then left, onto Thorndale, which is great, because there aren't any cars on it. You'll have to make another turn but it'll get you up there. Thanks, and away I go.
Turns out he was actually the friendly neighborhood sadist.
By 'straight,' he meant: straight up, as in up the 90-degree road, and then take a left. And he was absolutely right: there was not a single car on Thorndale. No small surprise, I discovered, as the road is practically impassably steep, with a blend of rut-gravel-mud terrain.
But it got me up there, gasping and cursing, and pretty glad I'd brought my thick-wheeled beater.

why not?

I am thinking about joining the local Y. Part of this is my personal perversion, best illustrated by the fact that I don't understand most of the languages spoken in the sauna. Part of this is my more general proclivity towards working class chic--I grew up wearing clothing that arrived in enormous garbage bags on our porch from our cousins in Illinois, delivered annually by my mother's cousin who brought his 7th graders to the nation's capitol during spring break. Alternatively, and on special occasions, we shopped at Zayre's--a version of K-mart, though much lower on the totem pole, and, as far as I know, only on the East Coast. I googled Zayre's and found out that my recollection of the store precisely matches this anonymous person's childhood experience.
Basically, the store was filthy, the floors stretched for miles, and you knew it was low-fi because the colors, garish, did not exist in nature, and the lighting, florescent, felt like an on-coming seizure, and because there just wasn't much there--I recall expansive aisles, spaciously situated clothing racks (circular), and literally empty spanses of floor. I wore this clothing through middle school...
Compounding my perversity, I am drawn to the Y because it too belongs to a childhood pigeonhole in my memory-desk. We went to the Y many times a week--now that I am older, I recognize this for the transparent baby-sitting that it represented for my single mother of four. But then it was such a welcome break from the home--to be in the pool, moving through the water, doing flips, doing laps (my mother, bearing no small resemblance to a drill sergeant, had us doing 20 laps --that'd be 40 lengths-- by the age of 7 or 8). It was scummy, the floor always reeked of disinfectant, the locker rooms were tiny, permanently humid dank, poorly lit, mildewy spaces with lockers that didn't completely close and insufficient benches. It was always freezing as soon as we left the locker room, and we always had to wait an eternity for our mother to emerge, with her hair in rollers, from the locker room. This Y was completely bare bones: in addition to the pool and locker rooms, there was a great room, which one could rent for parties (imagine the streamer bedecked great room in local Baptist Churches--this was where most of our birthdays were celebrated after the age of 5, with the Rondald McDonald cake for my younger sister, and certainly later than middle-school, judging by the woven-lace barettes in my sister's hair). My mother, consummate bargainer, had managed to get a major discount (single mother, four kids) on our membership. We went there for years.
And yet, I find myself drawn to the Y, for it's unashamed messages posted in 2-foot hight letters on the wall (honesty, being the only slogan that I recall at the moment), for the generic basic features, and more specifically, for the diversity of people, ages, colors, classes and languages.
So nostalgia meets up with life ethos and I find myself, of all places, back in the world of my childhood.

mongols on parade

Driving home along the lake, we notice a car stopped in the middle of the road. Both airbags have popped, and the right front tire is perpendicular to the wheel base. The driver is slouched low in the car, cell phone against ear, and I stereotype the driver as a woman.
We stop to make sure there are no injuries and ask if they need help. "Yeah," says the driver, who turns out to be male, "I'm all fucked up." We call 911 and try to figure out how his car got in this shape by itself in the middle of the road. No immediate signs of accident or cause, such as shards or another car, or a large, immobile object that could do such damage to his wheel. There's no getting much out of him, other than protestations that he's not a loser-guy, and requests that we not stereotype him as a dumb Chinese, because he's not Chinese, he's Mongolian. I am fascinated by Mongolia; it is a linguistic hybrid whose past is an intricate network of Empire seizures and overthrows. About a dozen languages are spoken in the country: in the north, Russian and Kazakh are spoken, in the South, Chinese and Mandarin; throughout the country Mongolian and various Turkic languages are spoken by about 90% of the population. But he is too drunk for me to ask him about his country; instead he takes a leak by the lake. My annoyance that he is in no shape to tell me about his country is compounded by the fact that it takes nearly an hour for the police to find us.

flooding the new year

We're driving along the Embarcadero, on our way towards the Presidio. It has been raining for days--mudslides and flooding up north, sand bags bordering storefronts. As an aesthetic experience, I love rain. This is due to my more basic lust for water--any water. Lakes, ponds, oceans, swimming pools, baths: catching sight of a body of water, my immediate response is an overwhelming desire to be in it. So it is not a surprise that my reaction to the flooded sea walls along the Embarcadero was one of joy: the water has come to meet us! Slowly, we drove along the Embarcadero, watching the brown waves foam and slap into the buildings. My happiness at the water's nearness was somewhat irrational, as M., who had been concerned of being stuck in the flooding, pointed out to me later. Irrational, but accurate nonetheless.