I have friends down here or something

I am not alone over here in Officelandia. Apparently, a colleague from DCRP works down yonder about 8 blocks south of here. Today I will venture to a new part of downtown Oakland to meet Brendan for lunch...where there are actual stores, plentiful restaurants, and flocks of people walking around.

Dreary-office-life-song-of-the-day, Thursday

Deerhoof, L'Amour Stories

Don't doze off quite yet...

In a brief conversation the other day about writing on this medium, it was determined that sometimes online journal writing can provide a positive, creative, accessible outlet. At other times, it can simply spell out to you and your small, modest reading audience how trite, cynical, or tiresome your life is. I'm sitting on the fencepost right now but I am feeling the latter pulling me to one side.

Most recently I talked about the following:
1. Oakland
2. dune buggies
3. ticket fee schemes
4. company picnics

Good God.

I am very concerned - not only at the apparent mediocrity in topics addressed here, but also concerned for the trajectory of this journal and what ill effect it has on people's perception of my idea of publishable reading content.

Some suggestions thrown out by friends were to begin writing about sex (ding, ding!). Basically, I could strive to be Carrie Bradshaw or that annoying lady in Elle magazine, E. Jean Carroll ("Tormented? Driven witless? Whipsawed by confusion? - ugh...). But that gets tiresome in my book, and it's been done a million times over. Plus, the people who really know me would suspect abuse of creative license. Despite the fact I could probably write some entertaining pieces on this topic, at the end of the day I don't really want my personal life (or my supposed personal life) being consumed by my peers like cheap, over-salted snack foods in front of their laptop screens.

Another suggestion I thought might work is to start doing more mainstream stuff - commenting more on political maneuverings, the latest Washington, DC scandal, stuff that has a national appeal. But I don't want to get into that business more so than I do so already. I think my seven years working in Washington has given me my fill, so to say, and presently I have no great appetite to suddenly begin political blogging - unless it's an especially salient topic or scandal I cannot resist to address (like David Souter getting beat up while jogging).

I'll leave my doldrums here. It just might get better. But who knows.

Evading the fee monster

Do most people who buy tickets for shows at the Fillmore get them at the box office? The ticket service providers (BGP and Ticketmaster) on their page charge a hefty chunk of change. Almost $8 a ticket in fees. Aaaaa.

I guess it's a nice night, so I will run an errand into the city for said purpose.

Oakland's sister city

Oakland's sister city
Originally uploaded by Ms E.

It's like a sunnier Rosslyn, VA

Someone asked me the other day what it's like working in downtown Oakland. Because I lived in Washington, DC for many of my formative 20s, I use that place as a general frame of reference for questions of a comparative nature. I answered, "It could be Rosslyn, for all I know."

Rosslyn, for all you capital-phobes out there, is a "city" (more like an office park settlement with a Wendy's) across the Potomac River from Washington, DC. There's a Metro stop there, some big hotel and office buildings circa 1978, vehicle access points for the GW Parkway, but pretty much nothing else of interest can be found in Rosslyn, Virginia. (The Peace Corps used to have their administrative offices there, but I think they even moved) You can go a little further west to Clarendon and it only gets a TAD better because there are more restaurants. The problem with Rosslyn, as is the problem with Oakland, is that the place is a ghost town at any point in the day. There's nothing going on. There's hardly any stores. On the main drag, Broadway, there's hardly any cars! I'm looking down on the street right now, nearing rush hour, and I see exactly 6 cars down there. It's so quiet I can hear people whistling a tune on the street eight floors below me.

Word has it that the 12th street area of Oakland might be a little more chipper, so I will be more precise in the geography I am criticizing. I work at Broadway and 22nd Streets. Across the street to the north is a construction pit. To the south is a small parking garage. To the east is a commercial strip that has about 40% vacancy. To the west is another ground level parking lot. There are some hopeful spots: down Broadway is the Paramount theater, which looks cool, but they only have one booking every three weeks or so. There is a cool rooftop garden at the Kaiser Center. Also, Luka's Lounge is on our block, but I haven't been there because the last thing I want to do after working all day here in Oakland is to hang out here longer.

Oakland needs some revamping, that's for sure. Why does it suffer so? Does anyone know any gems of this part of Oakland? Also, does anyone know if the One Mile High club is still operating?

All these questions, it's almost as if I don't live here.

Gunshots in the Tenderloin - we still had drinks

So last night, around 9:30 PM, C. and I roll into the city. Our plans were to hit the Olive Bar on Larkin, perhaps have two rounds of drinks and a snack or two. Then we'd take a cab to Cafe du Nord where we would see the Lovemakers show. In general, a good roommate bonding plan.

The night started out with us on top. We found a great parking spot on Eddy and Larkin, which is only 2 blocks from the bar. Now on foot, we turned onto Larkin. In a matter of seconds, we heard some racket behind us, like firecrackers maybe. Then we noticed that the local contingent of homeless folks was hauling ass out of the way and people were running in the street down where the noises seemed to be coming from. Could it be? Could someone REALLY be firing a gun down there? At least 10 shots went off from what I could recall.

Despite the growing sense of chaos on Larkin, I remained cynical that our personal safety, and the general public safety, was being threatened. I explain my position by pointing to a profound sense of urban malaise within the Tenderloin - there's not much I can do about what is going on down there, therefore, I won't get all carried away and start dodging bullets unless they actually graze my pant legs. Yes, I do realize that sounds terrible coming from a person in city planning.

Don't get me wrong, I do know that there are CBOs and other parties working to make the Tenderloin a better place for all. But for now, the place is kind of a mess. However, seeing that I am hanging out there on a Friday night, I admit I must be attracted to that mess for some reason or another.

I recommend the Olive Bar. The bar staff is attentive. Prices are heading out of my range, but I have no qualms about paying $8 for a decent glass of wine. There is a meathead muscle guy that shakes the martinis there; he has enormous biceps. He didn't look to be incredibly sharp, but he has the martini shaking down pretty good and appears to be proud of his skills.

The Lovemakers show left me happy I made it into the city tonight. Sadly, the opening band was kind of terrible (they were called BoyJazz...go figure). As for the Lovemakers, they are playing again next Friday at the same venue and I recommend it, but only go for the opener if you're familiar.

Company picnic - attendance mandatory

Here at the office this week everyone is gearing up for the big company picnic to be held at Lake Chabot on Friday afternoon. But I guess it's not really a "company" picnic. It is, in fact, an organizational recreation event. In the nonprofit world, I have a feeling you'd get raised eyebrows by making the suggestion that we work for a "company".

Anyway, today there was a picnic committee meeting, the distribution of food and bev checklists, and recommendations for carpool schedules going around all day. I kept getting interrupted from doing my very important work (cough, cough).

With the picnic comes responsibility. I signed up for condiments. A visit this evening to the Berkeley Bowl ensures a proper dose of ketchup, BBQ sauce, mustard, and mayo will be present at the event. I wonder if these people will balk at the full fat mayo I bought? Damn healthwise nonprofiteers.

So the picnic is mandatory. I guess it should be, considering it begins at 12pm on Friday in a somewhat nearby park. I wonder if there will also be mandatory activities, like volleyball or frisbee challenges. That could be good and bad. I like picnics, but I get a little anxious when I feel like there are expectations extending beyond eating and socializing. Perhaps I will volunteer to man the grill - that would probably make me exempt from having to play capture the flag. Plus, as the resident grillmaster you have the opportunity to wow people with your coal-related cooking talents.

I didn't see any alcoholic beverages on the food checklists, though. What's up with that? A BBQ near a lake is the perfect place to enjoy a nice beer, in my book.

What is beatbox?

I am excited about tomorrow night - I am going to a beatbox event. I haven't seen this kind of performance before. I hope it won't disappoint. I am going to see this performer called Kid Beyond. He's mentioned in the beatbox link right above there.

By the way, I love Wikipedia for things like this.

Report from the 8th floor: Light traffic on Broadway below- slight breeze at 5 mph - partly sunny conditions, 72 degrees. Noticeable customer activity outside Green Medicine, which is kattycorner to my building.

Curry problems and Monday night bar fun

This will be a kind of random entry.

The first topic is the yellow curry I made tonight, which is now (the entire gallon of it) resting peacefully in my trash can. It was one of those cooking experiments gone awry. Despite having all the right ingredients in the appropriate quantities, something was indeed "off". And when I say "off" I mean that something wasn't so fresh with regard to the component of meat that pulls the dish together. I thought it was ok during the prep stages, but upon actually cooking it, and later tasting it, I realized its future belonged with my curbside recyclables.

Ugh. We actually had to leave the entire pot of questionable curry on our porch for 4 hours to cool before we could throw it out. I am amazed the racoons didn't get to it before we could pour it into three layers of plastic bags to be thrown away.

Next topic: The Monday night bar scene.

Why don't the beautiful people of Berkeley go out to the bars on Monday nights? Wait, I'll restate that, why don't the general masses of people in Berkeley go out to bars on Monday nights? My roommate and I were the only people out there. We hit two very run of the mill places, Club Mallard and the Albatross, and there was hardly 10 people at each establishment! Despite the lack of qualified patrons, we had a decent night out. C's been away for a few days in Michigan, so we spent the evening catching up and telling one another our personal tribulations and triumphs. A fine Monday, indeed.

But work awaits tomorrow. I better head to bed.

Go speedracer go.

Mini dune buggies

This is another report on the famed Berkeley Marina district. It being such a nice summer day, I went down there to run over the foot bridge that goes over 580 and around the marina.

At the western edge of the foot bridge there is a large construction site that has been there for some time. Earlier this year it was just cleared land, with clumpy grass and a lot of rocks. Slowly over the past many months, dump trucks have brought immense quantities of dirt to this site. Now there is a slope about 10 feet high, made of packed dirt covering an area at least several acres in size. What is going to happen here? Who knows. But that's not the point right now.

At this moment, the site is being used by a consortium of avid, competitive mini dune buggy operators. What I am referring to is the kind of remote control vehicles that make high-pitched noises and kick up smothering dust clouds as they accelerate. From my numbered observations down on the Marina, the cars are operated by young adult males who apparently have little else to do on a picturesque summer Sunday afternoon. They converge at the site to practice their dune buggy maneuvering skills or something. I was running by, so I didn't pick up on the fine details of it all.

I wonder when the construction project will progress enough to make it difficult for the dune buggy guys to play in the dirt? That will be a sad day for these guys. They looked like they were having a lot of fun, whooping it up and setting up ramps. But there are always more piles of dirt to be had, I suppose.

Finally reading that (those) book(s) I always meant to...

I just arrived home earlier than I would have expected from the Clue party I went to. I figured I'd plug in for a second to check up on some administrative details, but now I find myself making a late night entry. As to the party, for all of you who want to know the details, Mr. Green committed the murder tonight. However, the game was kind of botched to some extent. People were showing each other their cards, forming Clue alliances, all the stuff you could think could happen at such a party. However, much to my chagrin, no one made out with any dead bodies in order to create a distraction.

Costumes to note were the lovely, proper Mrs. Peacock (Karen) and myself, of course, as Mrs. White (the flames!). The men all kind of showed up in suits of one sort or the other. I couldn't really tell who was who except for Tom. Tom arrived outfitted in a fabulous velvet plum blazer. Tom - nice call - many women love velvet by the way.

Ok, so on to the real topic of this entry. Quite appropriately, for an entry at 11:00pm on a Saturday evening, the topic is reading.

I actually have some time this summer to dabble in the world of fiction. I am ecstatic. Last night I decided upon which book I will read, Nabokov's Lolita. Truth be told, I only have seen the movie, and not even the original. I saw the version with Jeremy Irons that came out on Showtime back in 1998 or something.

So while tonight millions of munchkins are devouring their Hogwarts editions and reading about a certain gifted wizard in training, I will settle down to H. H. and his caustic affection for a certain nymphet called Lo. Sounds good to me.

Not to be judgmental...

This moning my heart almost stopped while listening to KQED. Linda Gradstein (sp?) was introducing the next story - it was about Supreme Court retirements - and I heard the words, "Rehnquist issued his statement early this morning...(really long stressful pause) and he does not have immediate plans to retire..."

Phew.

Not that I love the guy but having him step down right now would be sort of a mess. I guess he needed to issue the statement because reporters have been stalking him in DC and near his house over the last couple weeks ever since Sandy threw in her towel.

I'd be pretty annoyed if the paparazzi was setting up camp outside of my house while I was finishing the spring session while simultaneously being treated for thyroid cancer. As a side issue, SC Justice don't necessarilly have armed or secret service personnel assigned to their detail. In fact, about two years ago, David Souter got mugged on Capitol Hill one morning or evening while he was out on a jog. The thief that mugged him had no idea who he was. I guess he kind of roughed up Souter, too, with some punches and pushing.

Also, this is off topic, but I guess Souter still drives around an '84 VW Rabbit. Yes, probably evidence that we don't pay these people enough money. But maybe he's just a mousy eccentric...

Haircut n' more

Attention: I now I have hair that is three colors, thanks to Christine at Barbarella (she has hair that is at least 10 colors). I'm poorer for it, but two colors richer than before. Not a bad swap.

Blech

Um, no disrespect to my roommate, but anchovy paste filled olives are kind of gross.

So we met our potential...

Since Monday evening C. and I have been charged with the task of interviewing potential replacement roommates. First there was Matthew, then Rob, then Geoff, followed by Jeff. I think there was also a Travis from Louisville last night. Also, there were a couple people that cancelled on us. All were nice people, polite people, but kind sedate all the while.

Last night we offered Geoff the place, but he decided to go with a single closer to campus (bad choice Geoff....incredibly bad choice!). So we were kind of at a loss this afternoon. And since C. was leaving for Ann Arbor this evening through the weekend, it appeared not much would happen in terms of solidifying the rather uncertain status of our search until she returned next week.

Then I checked my email for the 23rd time of the day. And there was Jonathan.

Jonathan got over here in less than 20 minutes after we called him. He happened to be visiting a house in our neighborhood and it was not any trouble to stop by. The first thing that I liked about him was that he accepted the glass of wine I offered him. The same offer had been made to all the other people - but none of them partook of my generosity. No one even wanted water. What's that say for trust??

Jon is also the first measurably gregarious candidate out of the whole bunch. He had me laughing with his stories about being a farm boy in Missouri. He owns a 1976 Bronco with a removable top. He went to culinary school, but now he's going into construction apprentice school starting in September. He plays topless volleyball in the park while drinking non-microbrew beer. And he has a three-legged dog.

Ah, he's so UN-Berkeley (okay, the dog is kind of Berkeley). We are tickled pink by the fresh approach to life Jonathan presents us. Tomorrow I have the job of calling Jon to welcome him to Bateman Street. Fingers crossed.

Mrs. White, in the library, with the lead pipe...

Clue party

This Saturday night I am going to the second party in two weekends hosted by my friend and planning colleague Eliza. Last weekend was more of a traditional dinner party for about 10 people. This weekend's party is a themed around the Clue movie, boardgame, and characters to create a fun evening of murderous antics.

I am going as Mrs. White by demand. Actually, people over the years have told me I look like her. I need a blousy black tube top to complete the outfit. Where does one procure such an item? I have the knee length skirt, pearl choker, and heels covered.

I am intrigued who will show up as Yvette and Wadsworth. I had a thing for Wadsworth in the 3rd grade. What clue character would you go as???

Report from Broadway, 8th floor

Today is the first day of my internship with a nonprofit organization in downtown Oakland that does workforce development and sector specific job training initiatives. Needless to say, this first day has been filled with the obligatory elements of joining a new office. First we did the rounds where we met all the critical characters in the office. Then we got our email up. Next, we went to lunch. After lunch, we had an organizational policy briefing session. The last item on today's agenda is a meeting with the HR person to do our paperwork for pay and stuff like that. Apparently tomorrow there is some type of intern happy hour. All the interns here seem like cool people - about 6 of us in all.

Ah, the working life.

But my office is hardly a cubicle. Although I am only going to be here about 3 weeks, roughly half the length of this internship appointment, I am certain I will have hard time saying goodbye to this office. I have two huge windows overlooking downtown Oakland (looking south from 22nd Street). I can even see Lake Merritt, the Port of Oakland and the radio tower at Twin Peaks. One annoying thing that I know will never cease to irritate: 8 floors below me is a crosswalk equipped with one of those bird whistle notifications for blind or sight impaired people. I can hear it going off every 45 seconds. And this is with the windows closed.

This job so far is feeling like a good fit. It only takes me 20 minutes to get here by bus and I can bicycle if I fancy it. Interesting policy focus. Nice, funny colleagues. Nice view. And decent hours.

Lazy Sunday song of the week

Built to Spill, Else

The shackles....have been released

Ah, this morning I awoke to a melodious combination of interesting noises: shuffling feet, squeaks from furniture being uprooted, a humming truck outside, and the front door swinging open and shut. Usually, those noises on a Saturday morning would cause me great angst, followed by under the breath expletives, and hopes for quiet to resume. But not today. Not today.

Todd is moving out.

Friday's quitting time songs

Blackalicious, If I May
Stars, The Vanishing

I cut the buh-jesus out of my finger

Lesson of the night: When you get home after a few drinks, and want a snack before hitting the hay that happens to be wrapped in shrink wrap (like cheese), do not use a serrated, ever-sharp blade to puncture it.

You will likely slice into more than just the cheese you are clumsilly holding in the palm of your hand. Moreover, bleeding on your cheese is kind of a downer, too.

Here I will lounge

I'm the proud new owner...

...of a used couch and loveseat set I bought last night from a lady in Temescal. It was sort of impulsive to buy without shopping around, but in the end I think it will be a wise purchase. Our roommate Todd is moving out and he is taking both of his interesting couches he has here, so replacement furniture is required. I got both of these for $400.

I didn't inspect them cushion by cushion or anything, so I hope I don't find anything glaringly wrong with them when they get to Bateman Street. My attention to detail sometimes withers when it comes to purchasing things like used couches.

Waiting for my honeybunch to walk in the front door

Ok, I admit it. I am giddy.

My roommate who's been in Kenya for the last six weeks is getting home tomorrow. Since I got home from work today ("work" is school, I sit around looking at this enormous spreadsheet model we have for our Thailand project) I have been busting my ass getting the house in order for her homecoming.

I labored in the backyard for about three hours this afternoon. Strange discovery: Our backyard has some basic infrastructure for a watering system - there's some black hoses pegged around the perimeter of the yard with some baby feeder tubes spiking off of it. Strange, considering the yard is basically an oversize petrie dish for weeds, bugs, and encroaching vines. What would you possibly want to water out there? I digress...

Then I went to the grocery store to get her favorite foods and a whole lot of fruits and vegetables. Apparently, a cholera outbreak during week 2 of her stay in Kenya made it very dangerous to eat anything that grows in the ground. So she's been living off starch and fried remnant meat for the last month.

I made a fruit salad. I am marinating chicken. I am chilling wine. Next step is to clean the bathroom and make sure her entry back into western civilization is as smooth and wrinkle free as her laundry I just tossed in the dryer (jk).

No, we aren't a couple. Just good friends I tell you. But I don't think I every cleaned up or made merry so much for any of my old boyfriends.

Back to the U.S. song of the week - Saturday

The Lucksmiths, There is a Boy that Never Goes Out

Another secret from the closet of Grandpa Joe

I just got off of the phone with my sister who just told me a very interesting story she heard from our second cousin, Rick Karash. Rick is one of those family members we bump into every so often. He's a kind of stiff Bostonian type, not much in common with us countrified Oregonians. But still he's a real nice guy who graces us with his presence once in a blue moon when he's in town on business.

Rick and my sister were having dinner about a week ago in D.C. at a very nice French place - one of my favorites, actually. Over a bottle of wine, Rick began to talk about the ol' Karash lineage. The Karash family originated in Utica, NY - apparently a very popular place for Russian immigrants to settle down after many long weeks on the boat over from the mother country. For those of you who don't know, I have a Russian background. And no, I don't eat or make borscht. Neither do I speak Russian, but my sister studied it in college and my brother studied it at the Naval Language Institute in Monterrey, CA. As for myself, sometimes I drink my tea with lemon, but that's about as "typically" Russian I get. I digress...

Ok, so the basis of this story is that my Grandpa Joe may be an illegitimate child. I will not use the "b" word - because I have some small measurable respect for the guy. As to Joe's origins, it is scientifically undetermined and will remain so, but it is known that his sister was a verified b-child. Thus the story of my grandpa's tenuous entry into this world:

My great grand mother, Teresa, worked in a candy factory as a single, young woman in Utica, NY. The operation was owned by who I will from now on refer to as "an evil Russian candy factory owner." This evil factory owner employed many young Russian immigrants, mainly women, to toil in his sweatshop. Not quite Willy Wonka, this man apparently made it an unspoken policy that he could have his way with those he employed. Simply put, there wasn't anyone to complain to back in the day. I guess people were just happy to have a paycheck, even if it required you to strip with the boss.

So long story short, Teresa gets pregnant and the town sort of goes haywire. The town elders or someone in charge demanded that a man step forward to accept responsibility. Now people knew about the factory owner and his "policies", so it was kind of a charade/song-and-dance at this point, but someone needed to help Teresa out and this may have been the only way to get business taken care of. Amidst all the chaos, a man named John Karash stepped forward and said he was responsible for the situation. (At this point, my sister said Rick Karash shed a poignant tear over his apple galette)

So John and Teresa get married and a daughter, Stacia, was born in, say, 1908 or something. Later a son, Walt, was born. Then another son was born in 1911, Joseph, my grandpa.

Rick then discussed the marriage of John and Teresa. Seeing that it was a very compromised union from the get-go, it is not hard to understand that the marriage was potentially abusive and disasterous. Rick mentioned that the children born after Stacia could have very well been offspring of the same wicked candy factory owner - because Teresa continued to work there after Utica found out her little secret. Apparently, Joe has verbalized his doubt about his father as well, although I don't know the details about that. Heresay at this point.

Perhaps a letter is in order to good ol' G'pa Joe soon?

As I told someone earlier, the moral of the story is to avoid working at Russian candy factories at the turn of the century if one can possibly manage it.

Back to the U.S. song of the week - Friday

The Walkmen, We've Been Had