Suzy Says

My father would have turned 77 today.

He might have gone up to town and visited a gallery, maybe the Tate or the National, or done some research at the University library, or edited his journal, or gone for a walk on Wimbledon Common. He would almost certainly have done some gardening, spring being so near and his garden being so near to his heart.

Whenever I visited him, one of the first things we did was take a tour of the garden, with Dad pointing out the new additions and features (the one I liked best was the little table and chairs set above the goldfish pond which looked over the whole garden toward the house). At breakfast, we’d watch the birds in the garden while we had our toast and coffee and planned the pleasures of the day.

He would also have planned a menu meal, even though he never cared much about his birthday, or about fuss of any kind, especially when it came to himself, but an excuse for a menu meal could not be passed up. So here’s my menu meal for my father’s 77th birthday. It’s still his birthday, and it always will be.

My boss observed recently that “nothing works anymore” (I hasten to add he did not, at least at that point, mean Me), but rather the world in general, and he may be right. The evidence is certainly piling up in the chaos I call my life:

Cable & Internet
You guessed it, more fun and frolics with yet another utility company. In this case, the internet has the work ethic of a particularly lazy and capricious sloth. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, just to make it interesting, it stops working in the middle of something. This is especially effective when the user has been lulled into a false sense of security by the internet service actually working for a day or days at a time*.

The service itself is bundled into the phone and TV cable, and though my understanding of such esoterica is extremely limited, I will just say that when the cable guys come to “fix” the internet, nothing works for the duration. The phone unexpectedly cut me off during a very important conversation with the fabulous K, which is how I learned this hard way.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have seen more of more cable guys than I have of my friends and family. One visit lasted more than three hours, during which they changed all the cables, climbed around under the house, and had incomprehensible consultations with still other cable guys by radio.

The internet remained unmoved.

On the most recent visit, I was still in my pajamas and just waking up in the living room (see “Bed” below) when the latest guy in the series appeared. They are supposed to call first, but this guy didn’t get the memo, since he just turned up, peering in the door at PJ-clad Self. It was quite embarrassing. Or like the beginning of a porn movie. “Did you call for…service?” “I certainly did!”

Bed
Somewhere between here and there, the salt flats of Utah and the Donner Do Not Pass Go, my bed was mortally wounded. I did not become aware of this important fact until I got into bed, having been fully preoccupied with checking off the list of my earthly possessions as they were unloaded from the giant truck into my tiny house and wondering where I was going to put everything.

So the movers put the bed back together here, as they taken it apart there, and either didn’t notice or didn’t care that the center beam, which supports the whole cheap IKEA thing, was broken. Possibly they thought it would be funny for me to learn this the hardwood floor way after nearly a month of inflatable bed hell.

Either way, I was summarily dumped like a first wife when the trophy wife rears her cellulite-free rear. I propped up the broken beam with bricks, but this was a band-aid on a fatal wound. Since I now had all my all-too-many belongings, I got out the inflatable bed I kept on hand for guests. It features a sort of stand on which the inflatable mattress resides. As I unpacked it, I noticed that the stand

has a disturbingly bier like appearance.

I should have realized this was a sign, because the inflatable bed died a thousand deaths. At least it was already on the bier. All I had to do was give it a proper burial.

The dead IKEA bed, on the other hand, got an improper non-burial. I had to pull it apart with a hammer, and discovered that it was cardboard inside. It’s always upsetting to discover that someone you’ve been sleeping with is not who you thought they were. The remains of the bed remain in my driveway until I can figure out an inexpensive way to get them to the dump.

I went bed shopping, and discovered that they are surprisingly expensive (like children’s clothes, where the amount of fabric is in inverse proportion to the price). I actually ended up buying one from Wal-Mart. While I was waiting for it to arrive, I slept on the pull-out couch in the living room like the early Mary Richards, hence the close encounter with the cable guy (see “Cable and Internet” above). On the bright side, it has yet to collapse, but I still can’t believe I resorted to Wal-Mart.

I have the worst bed karma ever.

Car
The car itself is fine, despite the ticket, but I still haven’t received my license plates. It’s been three months since I bought it, so this may be a record. I finally made an appointment at the DMV, and and when I arrived there and saw the line and its huddled masses quality (I?m sure they were all yearning to be free of the line), I was glad I did. I eventually learned from a girl named Brazil that the dealership didn?t do the required smog check, or, if they did, failed to report it. I checked my bill of sale, which indicates the smog check was done, and, more importantly, that I paid for it. Brazil suggested that I call the dealership, so I did. They said they’d call me back.

They didn’t.

I called the dealership twice more. The last time, I refused to hang up until I got an answer, any answer. Eventually, I was assured that they?d submit the necessary paperwork to the DMV and I?d receive my plates in two weeks. Now, where have I heard that one before? I?m hoping that it just slipped through the cracks at the time I bought the car and that they really will do the paperwork this time. I?d hate to have to go to Fremont and wait for it. I?d rather wait at home, even if I am waiting for Godot.

*Great. Now I have that One Day at a Time theme song in my head. As if the constantly barking dogs next door weren’t enough.

I usually leave serious topics like politics to greater and wiser blogs than mine, but the need to complain has outweighed more weighty considerations.

Is it just me, or have the primaries gone on forever? I think they started when I was approximately 18, and now look! There are either too many states (really, 50 does seem a little excessive) or too many primaries. Isn’t there some way of streamlining this process? I can’t believe we have eight count ’em months until the actual elections. That’s almost a whole year, you know. Almost a whole year of bickering that would be considered petty in a grade school school yard. Almost a whole year of pointless, repetitive rhetoric. Almost a whole year of boredom. And you know how I feel about that.

Unable to escape the political tide every time I put the TV on (it’s either the primaries or Britney Spears, take your pick), I noticed that Barack Obama’s ears stick out in a truly comic manner. Now that I?ve noticed, I can?t stop staring at them whenever he?s on TV. I also think his name sounds like a noise a bird would make on ?The Flintstones?, maybe one of the ones they have doing all the work. ?Ba-ROCK, Ba-ROCK!? Something like that. I wonder if he ever wishes his parents had given him a middle name like Steve instead of Hussein. I did vote for him, though, in my spare time when I wasn?t musing over his name or mentally making over Hillary and then giving up on it.

As for the Republicans, I’m glad that Huckabee dropped out, not only because he’s a bananaheaded weirdo (“training our children to be our replacements”), but because it would be so embarrassing to have a president named Huckabee. It’s too silly. Maybe in Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, but not in the real world.

Whenever I hear McCain’s name, I think of frozen food. Coincidentally, his wife’s face is so frozen that she looks like a scary doll. Barbie for First Lady?

Audrey wonders if she has a new sister

Audrey kept biting the sequins off the toes of my slippers, so I got new terrycloth ones with kitty faces on the toes. OK, I saw them on the way to Safeway yesterday and had to have them. Fi’ dollah! Fi’ dollah! Anyway, I had to try them on as soon as I got home, even before the groceries were safely put away from prying paws. Audrey was totally mystified by them, and kept sniffing them suspiciously, then looking up at me as if to say, “What the…”

I’m sorry to tell you that Audrey isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact, she may be the butter knife. Adorable, yes (hence her official title of The Adorable Audrey Grey). Intellectual, no. The intellectual slack is picked up by The Beautiful June Bug, who is too clever for my own good.

I feed the kittens (they were 8 months old two days ago) twice a day. Of course they get fabulous, though repetitive food. I have to hide the bag in one of the few kitchen cupboards that actually closes, since June is accomplished at opening doors of all kinds. You can tell I learned this the hard way, because the bag is taped shut from all those secret snacks.

So twice a day (bi-daily?) I ask the kittens if they’re hungry. They race into the kitchen, where they proceed to mill around under my feet, making it almost impossible to extract the food and get it in the bowls without tripping or paw injury on all sides.

Once I get the food in the dishes (and June has grabbed the scoop at least twice to make sure she got everything that was coming to her), June starts eating and I go to look for Audrey. For some reason, when I put the food in the dishes, she runs away. So I have to go and get her and persuade her to come with me. I promise I’m not taking you to the vet! Finally after I capture her and place her wriggling body in front of her familiar bowl she looks up at me questioningly, as if I had given her a particularly difficult calculus problem to do.

Eventually they both eat, while somehow conveying that feeding time was far too late and the food disappointing. And such small portions.

I really should fill you in on the rest of the Film Noir Festival instead of blathering on about mundanities like my utility bill.

I soon learned that parking is nearly impossible in the Castro. I never had to worry about this during the halcyon days of living in the city: I either walked or took a cab. Sometimes I’d resort to public transit, but all the really important things, like the office, restaurants, gym and the lingerie store were within walking distance. And why waste valuable real estate on a parking lot? I discovered a street up the hill where there were no meters and am inordinately proud of my secret Castro parking space. I’ll tell you where it is if you come out and visit. I might even show it to you personally.

On with the show.

On Day Two, I saw Conflict (1945), which is widely regarded as the “lost” Bogart film, and is not available on DVD. Bogart and his then-wife, Mayot Methot, were known at the time of filming as “The Battling Bogarts”, and many people feel this played into his portrayal as a wife murderer with a crush on his wife’s sister. After spectacularly disposing of the troublesome spouse in question, he is haunted by her presence, smelling her perfume, glimpsing her on the street. Will his demons or Sydney Greenstreet catch up with him first?

Coincidentally, the woman Bogart couldn’t wait to get rid of is the same one Joseph Cornell was obsessed with: Rose Hobart. Cornell even took footage of one of her movies, cut everyone else out, colored it his favorite blue, and with a wild leap of imagination, called it…Rose Hobart. It is his most famous film. Like everything else, including your third birthday party and the time you stole that money from your mother’s purse, it’s on YouTube.

Also unfortunately unavailable for home viewing is Roadhouse (1948), with a sultry, sexy Ida Lupino stirring up trouble between friends Richard Widmark and Cornel Wilde at a small town roadhouse. Any movie fan knows you’d better not cross Richard Widmark, and after he loses the girl, he loses it and makes life hell for all concerned. With Celeste Holm in her always reliable gal pal role, and Ida Lupino singing torch songs in lam?. And driving Cornel Wilde wild in her tiny shorts and impromptu bathing attire. Yowza.

The final film was the bleakest, Night and the City (1950), with the most radiant star, the gorgeous Gene Tierney. Tierney plays a trusting woman in love with a scheming hustler played by our old friend Richard Widmark. Dark in every sense of the word, it ends in disaster. No happy ending here, but beautifully filmed on the mean streets of London and absorbing in its headlong rush to ruin.

I always disliked book reviews when I was at school. To me, deconstruction and analysis of a book, especially by self-centered adolescents, ruined the magic. If you dissect a bird to see how it’s made, it never flies again. Almost every book I was assigned to read and report on in school were thus ruined for me forever, save two, which I can still read with the same awed enjoyment: The Catcher In the Rye and In Cold Blood.

So it’s a little ironic that I have actually volunteered to write book reviews. I’ll put it down to bowing graciously to popular demand, but I’m not going to compare and contrast anything ever again. Just so you know.

Let’s get this party started.

Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking, by Aoibheann (how on earth do you pronounce that one?) Sweeney

Given my fondness for “Catcher”, it may not be surprising that I enjoyed this postmodern coming of age novel, the first by its unpronounceable author. I could say it’s the story of a girl who grows up on an isolated island in Maine with her isolated intellectual father, her mother having died under somewhat mysterious circumstances. I could say it’s the story of this same girl approaching life in New York with na?vet? and charm. It is those things, but it’s also the girl’s discovery of herself and her father. The writing is lyrical, and I found myself turning back to re-read certain passages to experience their singular beauty all over again.

740 Park: The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building, by Michael Gross

It’s as if the author knew about my love of gossip, especially high society gossip, and my love of fantasy real estate (as pictured in the New York Times) and wrote this book just for me. I revelled in the descriptions of the impossibly luxurious apartments inhabited by Rockefellers and Bouviers and the baroque lives they lived. A delightful break from the reality of living in Oakland, though some of the 740 Park denizens also had trouble paying their bills.

Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave, edited by Ellen Sussman

I found this one a little uneven, to say the least, but what else would you expect from a collection of essays that includes a meditation on the penis? Not to mention Erica Jong’s self-indulgent rant which unfortunately concludes the book. Joyce Maynard’s explanation of why she broke her silence about her youthful affair with JD Salinger was fascinating (I hope she’d be pleased that I sympathize with her despite loving his work) and I was delighted by Ann Hood’s account of making up a cool life to impress a makeover artist, but on the whole, not as fun as you’d think. You’d be better off getting together with your girlfriends, having a few cocktails, and swapping stories. Being bad might be one of the activities that are better to do than to read about.

The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold

I have to agree with most of the critics who call it a disappointing follow-up to 2002’s best selling “The Lovely Bones”. The magic of the writing in “Bones” is missing in action in this tale of a woman who smothers the elderly mother who has destroyed, literally and figuratively, the lives of those around her. The characters and events are unsympathetic and unbelievable, and it’s hard to believe that the two books were written by the same person. Maybe some people really only have one book in them, and maybe we should be grateful that Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell stopped when they did.

Dark Victory: The Life of Bette Davis, by Ed Sikov

A breezy recounting of the star’s life by a true fan who keeps it light and witty. I could have done without his constant drooling over Errol Flynn and knowing that Davis was difficult for costume designers to dress due to her refusal to wear underwire bras despite being in extremely desperate need of same (think National Geographic), though. If I have to suffer, you do, too.

Portraits and Observations: The Essays of Truman Capote

Someone once said “Anyone who says ‘I love Truman Capote’ has never actually met him”, and that may be true. Geniuses and artists are notoriously difficult to live with. But I do love his writing, so it was a treat for me to read all his short pieces all in one place. I just dove right in and didn’t come up for days. If you have never read Capote, this is a great introduction to his art. And if you have…oh, honey, don’t let me commence!

The Sweet Birds of Gorham, by Ann Birstein

Really, Tru? I can’t believe that this slight, unsurprisingly out of print effort was Capote’s favorite book (though I can believe he’d say so as a joke). Supposedly a satire on the world of academe, in which a girl moves to a small town college from the big city and supposedly makes a stir. I remained unmoved. The best thing about it was the cute cover.

Up next:

Bridge of Sighs, by Richard Russo

An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke

Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster, by Dana Thomas

I hope luxury hasn’t really lost its luster. There’d be nothing left to live for.

Real life being so very unfabulous these days (stormy weather; three arrests accessorized by car towings on my block-and-a-half-long street in one week; a stinging case of mystery hives; the living room still garnished with unpacked boxes; my collapsing bed; and is that a bullet hole in the glass on my back porch?), I took refuge in the fantasy world of the New York Times Style Magazine. I can now tell you important things like:

• Orange is the new lip color for spring;
• I somehow managed to overlook the Osmoth?que perfume museum in Paris on my many visits;
• The perfect gift for the truly bitter: wedding ring coffins;
• Disco may not be back, but “disco waves” are (think Marisa Berenson); and
• I still can’t afford an estate in the Hamptons or a townhouse in the Village.

Besides the lack of escape from the horror of reality TV, the worst thing about the writers’ strike was the lack of glitz and glamor on the red carpet, the only good part of any awards show. It’s been months since there have been gowns and gems to admire. Withdrawal was setting in, so the Oscars are arriving not a moment too soon. I’m particularly looking forward to the million dollar Retro Rose shoes to be worn by Diablo Cody*, the writer of Juno. Who needs a glass slipper when you can have diamond slippers? And as Marilyn Monroe’s Lorelei Lee would say, “I just love finding new places to wear diamonds!”

I’d settle for these until I marry a millionaire or write an Oscar-nominated screenplay.

*If you think that name sounds like a stripper, you’re right: she was. You can read all about it in her memoir Candy Girl. Needless to say, I have it on order at the library.

Last night’s lunar eclipse was eclipsed by clouds here and sadness at my sister’s house. After a battle with acute leukemia, her beloved 14 year old dog Bear was laid to rest in the red moonlight, beside our adored Jed. They are together under a big tree in a sunny meadow where the wild irises grow. And my sister’s little house seems so empty now.

Snow flurries on the east coast seem to cause work flurries on the west coast, as businessmen flee the snows of New York for the sun of California.

I’ve had something of a blizzard this week, with early morning conference calls to the snowbound (and I do mean early; 5:30 yesterday and 5:00 tomorrow*); a visit to a money manager in a nearby city (where I was surprised to meet and chat with the CEO); and a day of meetings at our San Francisco office. I still find it weird to be clacking around the Financial District in heels, even though I did it for so many years in my former life.

I’m still getting used to the commute time from Oakland. It always takes longer than the schedules state, and I hate being late. On the other hand, I don’t have to feel guilty about driving, or find a parking space, so I guess it’s a trade-off. On my way home today, I took the bus from the BART station and felt like an overdressed freak. Two girls were conducting a loud, profanity-laced conversation about a mutual acquaintance who is a “gift ho”, a new one on me. The driver turned around and said very sternly, “Ladies, no cursing on my bus,” and a hush fell over the bus.

So, what with all the homicides this weekend, and the woman getting arrested across the street with three cop cars in attendance (and having her car towed), it seemed like a good idea to take a break from urban life.

I meant to leave today, but the meetings dragged on, so after my conference call 11 hours from now, I’ll head up to visit my brother and sister in beautiful Mendocino County for a few days. I’m expecting fewer murders and more wine.

*I used to start work at 6:00 am for years, along with the New York Stock Exchange. I haven’t done that for a few years, and now it seems inconceivable to me that I ever did. And that word does mean what I think it means.

Mail these days is rarely, if ever, fun. Since most of us use the instant gratification of email instead of the delayed gratification of the USPS, mailboxes now rarely contain love letters or cards or just plain letters. Sometimes you get a birthday card, and sometimes a postcard from a friend whose life is far more interesting than yours, but my mail mostly consists of items meant for the former occupants (who apparently don’t know that their friends at the post office would forward their mail if only they had been asked) and bills.

Last week, I got two horrifying bills in two horrifying days. One was for gas and electricity, and they wanted $127 from me. The other was from the Franz Kafka Utility Company, and they wanted $107. Apparently odd numbers are oddly popular among the odd. I was mystified by both bills, since I turn the heat off whenever I leave the house, turn it down to 57 when I go to bed, and rarely keep it above 65 or 66 ever. I also only light the room I’m actually in. I tried those eco lights in the bedroom, but it made it look like a dentist’s office or the dressing room of a cheap and cruel department store, so I had to go back to the warm glow of real light bulbs. I do have the ugly eco lights on the porch and in the laundry room, where atmosphere and appearance are less important, but every time I drive up to the house and porch light is on, I think, God, that light is ugly.

It’s not pretty being green.

Anyway, I was pretty much resigned to the gas & electric bill, but there were so many inexplicable line items on the FKUC bill that I called them and asked them what the FKUC. The person on the phone was very nice, and nearly the first thing she asked me was if this was my first Oakland water bill. She wasn’t surprised to hear it was – apparently my reaction to the bill is pretty much universal. The good news: the $15 new account charge is a one time thing – unless I move elsewhere in beautiful Oakland, in which case I will get to see it and pay it again.

The bad and the surreal news:

• The “water service charge” isn’t for the water usage. It’s for the meter, long since paid for, that the FKUC uses to read the water usage. The actual water charge is listed under “water flow charge”, and is considerably less expensive than the charge for the long paid off meter. Does this make sense to anyone?
• The sewage charge was nearly $40, and that’s apparently the least it will ever be. I asked what the most could be, and was glad I was sitting down when she informed me it could go as high as $110. As soon as she said “it can go up and down”, I knew I was in trouble. Has anyone ever known a charge such as this or, say, an adjustable mortgage, to actually go down? Didn’t think so.
• Since I don’t have a dishwasher or water the lawn (the Almighty, as my father used to say, has been doing an almighty good job of that lately) and turn the water off when I brush my teeth, etc., I couldn’t understand why the bill was so high. Here’s fun news: it isn’t. According to my utility company, I am a good citizen who uses half the water that the average Oakland resident does.

I’d hate to see their bills. But then, I hate to see (and pay) mine, too.

Speaking of paying bills: remember that ticket for not pausing enough at the stop sign? Yeah, well, it was worse than either utility bill: $159 (again with the odd numbers). And they charged me a “convenience fee” for paying it on line. I wonder whose convenience that was?

Am hung over from unwise brandy after the Film Noir Festival at the beautiful Castro Theater last night. I must have missed the “please drink responsibly” warning on the label.

The movies were wonderful. It was, appropriately, a dark and stormy night. The theater was built in 1922 and has been restored to its full glory. When I arrived, the organist was playing the Wurlitzer organ on stage, which sinks out of sight when it’s time for the movie. It’s a movie palace, all right.

The movies were introduced by James Ellroy, one of the premier weirdos of our time and author of many books, including one on the Black Dahlia and one about his mother’s still unsolved murder, which took place when he was around 10 years old. He is a noir aficionado and helped to finance the restoration of the prints we saw last night. Both movies were written by Dalton Trumbo, who was blacklisted in the dark McCarthy era and whose name therefore does not appear in the credits. His grandson was also there.

I had never seen the first movie before, “The Prowler” from 1950. Attention-grabbing opening scene of Evelyn Keyes (Scarlett O’Hara’s little sister in “Gone with the Wind”) clutching a towel to her otherwise nude quite the figure and screaming as she catches sight of…The Prowler!!! She calls the police, one of whom is very taken with her and ends up being a homme fatale, as well as very possibly the original prowler. Ev really should close the blinds when she’s taking a bath. I think she learned her lesson.

I had seen the second, “Gun Crazy”, but it’s great to see it on a big screen in a beautiful place and enjoy the crowd’s reactions. The movie, released the same year, pairs a carnival sharpshooting lovely with a disillusioned WWII veteran on a crime spree.

Up next: “Conflict”, a Bogart rarity, on February 1, and “Night and the City”, with the luminous Gene Tierney, on February 3. Stay tuned!

I was chatting with my sister on the phone and minding my own business when I noticed an old man carrying a red plastic gas container coming up my front stairs. There’s a big window overlooking the stairs and porch, and the front door is mostly glass, so when I have the blinds open, it’s pretty much a two-way show. I can look out, and anyone who cares to peek past the giant camellia bush or come up the three front stairs can look in.

Since I rarely, if ever, do anything interesting to passersby or the police, this isn’t usually a problem. However, when strangers appear and start peering in, it is.

I told my sister about the unexpected visitor, and she told me (somewhat unnecessarily, but she tends to be protective of her older and sillier sister) not to let the guy in. Her view was that he was using the gas can scenario to get in the house. At this point, I had fled to the kitchen, making me temporarily invisible to Gas Can Man, though the TV and other stealables weren’t.

After a few minutes, I peeked out from my refuge and saw that my porch was once again weirdo-free. On further peeking, I noticed Gas Can Man shuffling away, presumably to scare someone else.

Nothing makes you feel like you live somewhere more than getting a library card and registering to vote.

As soon as I started camping in my house, I did both. Registering to vote was the easier of the two, since it can be done on-line, whereas the library requires a personal appearance. And the ability to read maps. The Oakland Library site just shows you a map of where the libraries are and lets you figure it out, not easy for the map challenged*.

Imagine my delight when I learned that the closest library to me did not require freeway driving and was in the Dimond District. Like you, I assumed that it was a misspelling of my favorite word, but no. Apparently it is named for Hugh Dimond, who made his money in the Gold Rush (how appropriate!) and bought the land in the 1860’s.

However…the library has a policy whereby new patrons such as myself have to be on probation for six count ’em weeks. Though I didn’t have to report to a probation officer, I couldn’t request more than four books at a time or have more than two out at a time, which you can imagine was quite the hardship for a book addict like Me, especially because I didn’t find out about the request thing until I had requested the first four of my long list. If I’d known, I would have selected the ones with the fewest holds/shortest waiting periods.

And you know how I love to wait.

I am pleased to report that I successfully completed my probation, and now have a comfortable 24 books requested and three in transit, which is just the way I like it.

In case you’re wondering what I’ll be getting in the next few days:

The Almost Moon,by Alice Sebold (how I adored The Lovely Bones)

Bad Girls: 26 Writers Misbehave, edited by Ellen Sussman

Among Other Things, I’ve Taken Up Smoking,by Aoibheann Sweeney

While I was on probation, I picked up the following:

740 Park: The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building, by Michael Gross
If I can’t be rich, I can read about those who are. And the real estate section of the New York Times is, after all, my porn.

Edie: Girl on Fire, by David Weisman and Melissa Painter
Purportedly the true story of Warhol muse, style icon and all around 60’s It Girl Edie Sedgwick.

The Sweet Birds of Gorham
Out of print; Truman Capote, whose writing I adore, always said it was his favorite book.

It occurs to me that I should perhaps review the many books I read. Any thoughts? Hit me at speakall@earthlink.net. You’re registered to vote, too.

*You know how it took me practically no time to buy the car when faced with not having one? It took me approximately the same amount of time to get a GPS to tell me where to go. I now have an unreasonable fear of the word “recalculating”.

I came across this cartoon while catching up on my backlog of New Yorkers. All I could think was, “Tonight, and pretty much every night.” Most days, too, in my case.

Fun factoid: the artist, Bruce Eric Kaplan (aka BEK) wrote several episodes of the incomparable Six Feet Under and was Executive Producer during the show’s final season.

Not all that surprising, is it?

Up next: Suzy’s Library Adventures!

The land of the free and the home of the Sharks.

Besides the legendary Neal’s Yard cheese, I have recently indulged in some truly Velveeta (or possibly Cheez Whiz) moments.

Last Saturday, I headed down to San Jose to watch the Sharks in action. The Sharks lose no opportunity to joke about their name (or maybe they’re not joking). They skate onto the ice through a giant shark’s head. The head gets hoisted into the rafters, still in sight, because every time they score a goal, besides the traditional horn honking, dry ice floats out of the shark’s mouth in a huge mist, like in a horror movie (or a heavy metal ballad). Before they even come out, the scoreboard “fills” with water, using stunning graphics and convincing water sounds, before informing you that you’re in the Shark Tank. Get it? Also, every time the Sharks had an advantage, they’d play the Jaws music and their fans would make snapping motions with their arms.

Add in the quite scary nachos with actual Velveeta being consumed around you, throw in an $8 beer or two, and you have a truly cheesy experience.

And I can say that I do in fact know the way to San Jose.

Devo in action.

On Tuesday, I went to see Devo play at MacWorld Blast, which as far as I can tell is a big budget office party given by Microsoft. My friend R had obtained tickets through convoluted means. When I finally met up with him outside the historic Warfield Theater on one of the skankier stretches of Market Street, the line extended around the block, so of course I immediately wanted to leave, especially after I told R I was having a bad day and he actually asked me “What were your challenges today?”

Really? Seriously?

Fortunately for him, at that point the line started moving and the rest of the night was too loud for conversation. I think I’m now officially old, because:

• The first time I saw Devo was on Saturday Night Live, which I was watching with my chronically insomniac mother (who had very good taste in music right until the end. She may have been the only 73 year old who liked Blackalicious). On further Googling, I learned that this historic event took place in 1978. Even the most math-challenged among us (Me!) can tell that was thirty years ago.
• I felt assaulted by the bright lights and literally ear-smashing volume, and I was partially deaf for a full 24 hours afterwards.
• The Devo guys are either graying, balding, or both. But they are in amazing shape, leaping around and on and off their knees for two hours. The lead singer was particularly manic that night. I’ve met him twice, once in New York, and once in LA, and I didn’t know what to say. But I never do.

I couldn’t help noticing that most of the crowd was recording the concert on their cell phones, and at least a third of them were iPhones. All the little screens held up in the darkness reminded me of how people used to hold up lighters.

When I left the theater, a stripper handed me a card for the Crazy Horse and asked me if I wanted to go to a strip club. Because, really, who doesn’t after watching Devo? It’s only logical.

It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning. Personally, I was glad to wake up to the sunlight after a week of rain, but we’re supposed to be all thankful for the rain and tell each other how glad we are to get it, how much we need it, etc., while the weather people on the news keep telling us “The storm door is open”. For some reason, that expression annoys me out of all proportion and for no particular reason.

Anyway…I ventured out to inspect the be-Juned featherbed and see if it had aired out sufficiently and whether the Nature’s Miracle was miraculous as advertised (it was – I think). While cautiously sniffing the featherbed, I noticed a guy in the backyard of the house behind mine, the house whose back door light is always on, day and night.

It was hard not to notice him, since he was beating on the back door and screaming, quite the little monologue:

“Open the door, bitch! Open the damn door!”

Pause while guy looks at door, which looks back. At this point, I noticed that the light was out for once.

Guy resumes pounding door, with added attraction of kicking it:

“Open the damn door! I know you in there! I know it!”

Second intermission. Guy gives it one more try:

“Stop doin’ all that damn oxycotin ‘n’ sleepin’ all damn day. Then you can answer the damn door. Damn!”

And on the Lord’s Day, too.

One final kick, and he lopes off across her back yard. I found it slightly surprising that he closed the gate behind him as he muttered away.

I am definitely not in Pacific Heights anymore.

Oh, my. I am certainly crabulous today.

Last night, I was punished for unpacking by June. You guessed it: she expressed her horror at my doing something housework-esque by peeing on the bed. As if unpacking boxes wasn’t punishment enough in itself. It’s truly amazing how much liquid can come out of one skinny little kitten, let me tell you. So I hauled the sodden featherbed and linens off the bed – how she managed to include some of the pillows in her displeasure is beyond me – and washed what I could. The featherbed has been sprayed with Nature’s Miracle, and here’s hoping for one.

Now that the kittens have passed the 6 month mark, they’ve really kicked the naughtiness up a notch. Or three. They’ve been extremely successful in their search and destroy missions, and their escaping skills would make Houdini jealous. One evening this week, June escaped twice: once, she was under the car and had to be prodded out with a broom (Finally! An actual use for it!), and the second time, she ran into the Mexicans’ flowerbed and thought she was invisible. Of course, it was cold and raining, but she didn’t seem to mind. I did.

I wonder if I can get a nanny to teach these wayward girls to behave. A really mean one, like the Mary Poppins in the books. Or maybe reform school.

While I was in the city to admire Joseph Cornell’s amazing work, I decided to visit the old neighborhood and pick up some delicacies and delightfuls which are unavailable in Siberia by the Bay. Besides not actually being San Francisco, having to drive nearly everywhere, and the shopping cart people, the worst thing is the near-total lack of Suzy-standard take out and delivery in my immediate neighborhood.

In the month or so I have lived here, I have had the worst pizza and Chinese food of my long life. Seriously. And shocking in an area with such noted Chinese and Italian communities. In my desperation for decent pizza not made by Me, I drove to Berkeley to pick up one from Zachary’s. Zachary’s has starred reviews in the Zagat Guide and the New York Times, and folks far and wide proclaim its fabulosity, but I hated it.

They’re famous for their deep dish pizza, which I dislike, preferring the more refined thin crust. I ordered a thin crust, but the toppings had been shovelled on (I actually removed some of the cheese) and it was like eating a casserole with your hands. Add in the metallic sauce ordinaire and you have yet another pricey addition to my green bin.

~shudder~

So you can’t blame me for getting a real pizza, with house-made sauce and handmade, properly blistered crust from dear old reliable Victor’s. Though you could, and probably should, blame me for picking up:

• Some Neal’s Yard Marlborough Cheddar at what used to be Leonard’s but is now Cheese Plus. Good, sharp cheddar is as hard to find as decent pizza and Chinese food in my area.
• My favorite old fashioned doughnuts (only two!) at Bob’s Doughnuts, which happen to be the best doughnuts in the world. If you’ve only had factory doughnuts like Krispy Kreme, you don’t know what you’re missing. Bonus: there’s always a crazy person or three providing free street theater in or near Bob’s. If you’re visiting San Francisco, go off your diet it and check it. Suzy says.

My hair looked like a Muppet’s when I woke up this morning.

My email inbox contained one of those cute chain letters with photos of sleeping kitties and kiddies. Imagine my surprise when I recognized one of the pictures as one I originally posted on my blog three years ago, almost to the day.

So someone found that old post, clicked on the link, copied the picture, and included it on some massive chain mail message. Go figure. The photo was taken in Prague in the 1960’s by my friend’s uncle, who gave me the scanned photo on disk as well as a hard copy, since I found it so charming, so I know its true origin.

The title of the email is “tired”, and apparently it’s still making the rounds. The net can be a strange place. Can Six Degrees of Suzy be far behind?