Beer Circus
You try to live a good, honest, simple life and then, just once, you slip up and the next thing you know you’re at a Beer Circus in Sonoma County. And if you’re thinking of The House of the Rising Sun, I only wish.
I won’t tell the story of how I ended up signed up for this event, as it doesn’t seem plausible even to me, but I will say that I ended up carpooling from SF to Petaluma too early Saturday morning. The people I rode with were on a later shift, so they dropped me at the fairgrounds and went to a gym (?)... these crazy kids today. As we were pulling in I noticed a Lumberjacks restaurant out on the main street. I had had an early breakfast (too early) and, since I had time to kill and was looking at working a long, hot shift, decided a second breakfast would be a good way to fuel up and kill time.
The Lumberjacks motto is “Where the big boys eat.” It seems they are a national chain and it also seems that competitive log chopping and sawing are a thing. Where I was seated I could see the video screen showing these competitions, mixed with info on the chain. It made for one of those, “you’re back in Kansas” moments.
The food was fine, if nothing to write home to SF about. I avoided the four egg omelette and ordered two eggs scrambled plus potatoes and toast off the “Senior” menu. This was my first experience with a senior menu. I over tipped a little so it cost about what my breakfast out usually costs. And now for the “circus.”
This was a beer event sponsored by Lagunitas. We’ve worked beer events in SF that featured a range of different beers, but this was just Lagunitas, plus circus like events and many people dressed up with some sort of “circus” look. Though, as it turned out, it was no more of a freak show than our more normal events. What it was, however, was hotter than those of us from SF are used to this summer. Which is actually fine as we need to get in shape for the next month of hard-core events that often get hot weather.
So we came. We greened. We left... but didn’t drive directly home, as I would have preferred. Someone was hungry so we briefly cruised Petaluma at the hour when most restaurants are closing, before finally stopping at a Chipotle for a late dinner. It was actually surprisingly good. Then we drove home. And while we were driving home my cell phone slipped out of my pocket, as I discovered when getting ready to take my shower. Fortunately, we were all working together the next day at Opera in the Park.
Opera in the Park
I’ve never liked opera and many, many years of working this event -- which is an outdoor sampler of the operas the SF Opera will be performing this season -- has not changed that. Except that now I dislike opera and despise opera goers. They are the absolute worst. Talking with a woman working an earlier shift, she mentioned how entitled they were, and then the remainder of the day each person seemed to be in a competition to prove that they were the most entitled of them all. The over-served crowd at the beer circus were actually less annoying -- though the vendors at the circus made up for that, nothing new there.
Since OITP is in Sharon Meadow, I had breakfast at the Pork Store. When I arrived at the park, the weather was perfect. Not too hot last last year, when half the crowd was hiding in the trees, or too cold and foggy like three years ago when they cut the show short, presumably to save the singers from pneumonia.
We can’t make noise or block the view of the audience picnicking on the grass, so aside from keeping the perimeter in good shape, we take our lunch and other breaks during the performances and rush around trying to catch up during intermission and especially at the end. And by the end the crowd is both over-self-served (they bring in bottles of wine, mostly) and even more entitled. They dump their picnic debris at the nearest eco-station, or at least near the eco-station, as everyone knows that leaving your personal bag of unsorted trash, like an offering, near the eco-station is both proper and avoids the problem of deciding which container to put it in. Let the help sort it out.
My favorite crew chief, who usually works this event, was replaced this time by the boss. So the final cleanup took longer. The boss was trying to make reality conform with our stated goals for the maximum weight of bags to lift and the like, when all the glass bottles made this impossible. Usually we just manhandle everything into the trucks as best we can, J__ is a great organizer of trash loads, but yesterday it all went slower with more conversation. But it got done. And the diversion rate was much higher than the day before because Sonoma County doesn’t accept half the items we can put into compost in SF and Oakland. That’s the problem with greening in Kansas.
And we also got a beautiful Golden Gate Park sunset. And, unlike at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass -- which is now on my calendar -- we got to enjoy it after the noisy crowd had left. Though there’s something to be said for both experiences.
You would think this would be the end of this story, but not quite. The curious thing about Sunday is that, not only is it the day of the week I have the most greening shifts, it is also the night I put out the trash for my building. And because we’ve recently had problems getting our trash toters back in the morning, I have to listen for the sounds of the garbage men in the alley so I can go out and reclaim our bins -- including the special locking one we have for recycling. Or had until last Monday.
So, last night as a crazy woman decided to set up camp in our doorway and spend the hours between 10pm and 6:45am ranting and laughing to herself, while periodically throwing garbage around the alley and at the buildings, I couldn’t do what I would normally do, turn up my music until I couldn't hear her. (When debris started hitting the buildings I did call the police -- three times -- but they never showed.) So I got as little sleep as she did.
And so I got some retaliatory pleasure in getting to wake her ass up around 7:15 when the garbage people arrived. My favorite Recology employee and I quickly cleaned up the worst of the trash -- I had my picker, of course -- but I needed to make a second pass that afternoon when I watered the garden out there. And he found and returned our “special” blue toter, which I promptly decorated with bands of tape and signs requesting it be returned locked -- so that the other buildings can’t use it. We’ll see how that works.
I really do wonder what it is with crazy people and their constant trail of trash. Just did a Google search and got nothing.
Genji
A Branch of Plum
“ ‘We live in a degenerate age,’ said Genji.” According to the book, everything, perfumes and calligraphy in particular but also fabrics, were better in the past. And this is the 10th century. How often have people thought they weren’t living in a degenerate age?
I’m at my new favorite Peet’s again, the one at 8th Street and Brannan, and just finished the first volume of Genji. Besides the superior chairs, decor in general, and clientele, what sets the cafe apart is the music they play. I wouldn’t say it’s the finest jazz, but it is quite good jazz, and far better than the more common hits from the ‘60s.
New Herbs
Just when you think the “romantic” complications at Rokujo (Genji’s primary residence) couldn’t get any more convoluted, they do. One of Genji’s brothers, the former Emperor, is ill and withdrawing to a religious life as he prepares for death, and the best way he can think of to protect his favorite daughter (who is very young but even more immature) is to marry her off to Genji -- who isn’t even particularly interested in her. At the age of 40 (or 39) he is now saddled with a child bride to look after.
The poor man would rather spend his nights with Murasaki, but he’s concerned about hurting the feelings of the former Emperor. And his new wife, who is only known as “the Third Princess,” is revealing herself to be something of a twit.
This reminds me of what I imagine the sad reality of the Islamic martyrs’ Seventy Virgin reward would actually be like.
But fear not. Genji is still Genji and is now chasing after one of his new wife’s kins women, a woman he has a romantic past with. The lesson being, I suppose, when your romantic relationships get too complicated, chase after someone else.
“The world has an unpleasant way of gossiping about people in high places. How, everyone asked, was Murasaki responding to it all? Some lessening of Genji’s affection seemed inevitable, and some loss of place and prestige. When it became clear beyond denying that his affection had if anything increased, there were those who said that he really ought to be nicer to the princess. Finally it became clear that the two ladies were getting on very well together, and the world had to look elsewhere for its gossip.”
After describing, in considerable detail, the presents and display of two spectacular events in a row organized first by Murasaki and then by Akikonomu (the Empress for whom Genji acts as guardian, without hitting on her for once) we get this, “...We have all read romances which list every gift and offering at such affairs, but I am afraid that they rather bore me; nor am I able to provide a complete guest list.”
After praising the short chapters, this “New Herbs” chapter is endless and even divided into two parts. And lots of things are even happening, births and deaths as well as the usual romance. Genji’s daughter has now given the crown prince a son. And after learning of this, the daughter’s grandfather -- the Akashi Lady’s funny father -- has broken entirely with the world and gone off into the mountains to pray and die.
Leaving the “world” behind is something much talked about in this book. Genji wants to do it but keeps getting pulled back in. (Godfather 3 reference) The Former Emperor, the father of the Third Princess, is doing this, but the Akashi Lady’s father is the most extreme. This would seem to be a consequence of the Buddhist influence on Japan at this time. It isn’t that different from the Christian emphasis on the Next Life, and seems to be ignored in general about as much.
Everyday impressionism
I set down the book and pensively turned my gaze to the street outside the Market Street Peet's. I was enjoying the vagueness of seeing the street with my reading glasses on. And then it occurred to me that I could go even more impressionist by simply taking off my glasses entirely. Better. Semi-translucent blotches of color.
I can spot the crazies walking past even when they are just blotches of color due to the way they move.
Windows
I had to print out some documents this morning so I fired up my Windows machine. Before I could do any work it had to complete the installation of the “April” OS update. Since this is late July, I can only hope they mean April 2018. This process took forever. Having some previous experience with this nonsense, I did other things while waiting. I did my daily exercises. I shaved. I brushed my teeth and changed my clothes. I washed out the compost toter. I swept all the carpets and tile surfaces in the building. I changed my clothes again. I addressed the envelopes for the HOA mailing I was going to print out.
How is it, one wonders, Google can update the Chrome OS without my being aware of it and Microsoft can’t? Maybe Microsoft just doesn’t care? When the process was finally complete, Cortana seemed to be gone. I feel bad about this. I never once engaged Cortana. I could have said “Hi.” Unfortunately, all the questions I thought to address to Cortana included profanity, which seemed even ruder than ignoring her. “Why does the software for displaying files and folders on my computer seem NOT to be part of the fucking OS but some slow add-on? Why do I have to force an update of the list of files it shows me when I’ve just opened the list (when trying to select a file to enclose with an email for example)? Are you people all high or just stupid?”
A new paint finish
The other day I was running around trying to feel a new paint finish. I’ve been a big fan of the semi-gloss finish, for both inside and outside, because it both looks good and stays clean longer/is easier to clean. I still think this is true, especially outside.
I’ve come around to the satin or eggshell finish for inside, as it does look better and is still better than flat for keeping clean. Benjamin Moore, in the latest issue of Dwell, is advertising a new line of paints with a matte finish they claim feels like soft leather. I was intrigued enough to look up some of their stores near where I was, in hopes of getting my hands on a finish sample.
While I did an excellent job of spreading the word about this new “Century” line of their paints, I had no luck feeling the feel. Upon a little further online research I discovered that this line of paint is, as they say, but didn’t in the ad I saw, “for the trade.” I now have a list of fancy paint stores that do carry it and I still plan to get my fingertips on a sample, but this product is probably not in my future. And for so many reasons. First, I’m not sure they would even sell to me, not being in the trade. Second, they don’t offer any shades of white. They only offer seventy some colors -- very nice ones, I will say -- but nothing even close to white. And third, my current schedule for repainting my apartment -- whether it needs it or not -- is for nine years in the future. Since I’ve been changing my mind about my next paint color every year (or month) for some time now, my second reason may not hold up, but I really do anticipate painting the walls and ceiling to match my largest piece of “furniture,” a large storage assembly in bright white melamine. Now I’m imagining myself being thrown out of the “to the trade” paint boutique for admitting this. As soon as the words “white melamine” leave my mouth, security is summoned and I hear, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. White melamine indeed.” *Spits carefully into an understated vase sitting on the counter.*
Anyway, thinking about my nine year plan reminded me of Ari, my next door neighbor when I first moved to SF. His lover visited SF regularly but didn’t live here, so Ari was frequently at loose ends at night. One of his favorite ways to pass the night was repainting his kitchen. Noisily. I would sometimes get up in the middle of the night and go over to inquire if possibly a bear had broken into the building and to see if he needed a bandaid or a tourniquet. We would then talk for hours as he painted -- driving me nuts as he was a sloppy painter who did not do the prep. (There’s a reason my paint still looks fresh after twenty years.) My nine year plan (it was a ten year plan before I made some small changes and touch-ups last year) would have made him laugh. Given ten years he would probably have spontaneously painted a dozen times and quite possibly retextured or gutted and plastered. (Retexturing is what I would like to do, but it’s really too much work for how little of my walls you can actually see.)
I wish I could recall exactly when Ari died. I think it was right around ten years after I met him, so about ten years after he became Ari Ash, as this was a name he invented for himself. It was the AIDS version of tuberculosis, curiously, that took him. He wouldn’t have lasted a week on the Magic Mountain -- he would have gotten bored and run off to reinvent himself someplace more interesting. “Taking stock” was not his thing. He was more of a Peeperkorn character.
Not a day goes by...
The other day I was at the Bank Cafe and then went ‘round the corner for lunch at my favorite Vietnamese sandwich place. On the way back to the Bank Cafe, it occurred to me that I had not run into a strikingly crazy person all day.
I managed to get one of the nice chairs facing out onto the busy intersection of Post and Kearny. Some time later, looking up from Genji, I noticed an odd looking person, barefoot, standing in profile right in front of me on the sidewalk. While I watched, he unfastened his pants, gave his genitals a good inspection, re-fastened his pants and then strolled across Post Street against the light.
