Rockin Beantown

Being booked for the 6 a.m. flight to Boston was beyond my control. So was the fact that I hadn't made it to bed until 2 a.m. the night prior. As was the additional fact that I slept through my alarm for the first half an hour that it went off. It's not my fault that I lack that biological trigger that propels one swiftly from sleep mode into wake mode; my transition into the land of waking is an excruciatingly gradual process, which the snooze button was actually designed to accommodate. I know people who bound out of bed in the morning, click their heels and do a little jig, then burst into song as they are greeted by bluebirds at their window with the sunlight pouring in. I am not one of those people - in fact, I very much try not to loathe those people. My room, aka "The Cave", gets no natural light, which means I could quite possibly sleep straight through the day without even realizing that daylight had come and gone. I do not sing or dance or smile first thing in the morning. For the first hour or so that I am awake, you're lucky if I will look you in the eye or say anything to you at all, and even then, you're likely to get little more than an unintelligible grumble of sorts.

Imagine then, if you will, my state of being this one early morning after something like three hours of sleep when I arrived sans coffee at the airport at such an ungodly hour that even the birds were like, "Seriously?" My roommate had insisted that we needn't be to the airport more than an hour in advance of take-off, and because his theory worked so well in my favor as it allowed me to oversleep that much longer, I went along with it, despite some lingering reservations I had. I may be chronically late for some things, but flights have never been on that list, right up there with movies at the cinema. I will go early and sit through the thousands of previews just to ensure that I get the seat I want. Likewise, I will generally arrive early to the airport just to avoid the quiet panic that sets in when being told I'm too late to check my bags, and I have to take the next flight, which is two hours from now and packed full, so basically, I'm fucked.

"Um, no, I have to get on this flight."

"The flight is boarding as we speak, and you can't check your bag."

If there's one way to wake me up that does not involve a caffeinated beverage or a gun, it's telling me I'm about to miss my flight to my first work conference ever. I went into instant 'go' mode and in the middle of the airport, I threw open my bags, shoving this and that here and there, emptying all liquids with which I could build a bomb, and at one point, sitting on my suitcase in order to get the damn thing to zip closed. I managed to consolidate my three bags into two, and miraculously breezed through security, which is slightly unnerving because I later discovered all the gels and liquids and sharp objects still left in my bag with which I could have caused all sorts of mayhem but had gone undetected on the security screens.

I was literally running down the concourse to the gate in my knee-high boots that are in fact not made for walking, let alone running, and I got to be that person who is last onto the plane after everyone is all settled in and already contemplating their drink orders. All eyes up front to the jackass who's delaying our departure.

I located my seat (conveniently at the back of the plane), and as the plane was taxiing onto the runaway, I had a private laugh with myself, in a mix of utter disbelief and relief that I had actually made it onto my plane, bags and all.

For most of the four days I spent in Boston, the city consisted of little more than the Hyatt Regency hotel, where the conference was being held. I was obligated to flash smiles and pleasantries for a multitude of new people, most of whom I had little to nothing in common with, beyond the fact that we happened to be sharing the same breathing space. The days consisted of business talk and formalities, while the evening consisted of booze, booze and more booze. The conference attendees in general were spouses and parents who clearly didn't get out much, at least not since their Sigma Chi or Kappa Kappa Delta days, so they were letting it all hang loose as this was more or less a vacation for them. Our firm, being arguably the youngest and hippest of them all, despite our affiliation with retirement planning, kept up the fast pace and made our presence well known, particularly on the night scene. For two and a half days this went on, and I essentially went along in a sleep-deprived daze, juggling my professional mask with the party one, and managing to sneak away to my room now and then to do some work and catch a few minutes of sleep.



One night, while riding in a cab sandwiched between two guys whose names I couldn't remember, I declared that it was my goal of the trip to have a Boston boy "talk Boston" to me. Talk Boston? they asked. Yeah, like when Casey Affleck says in Good Will Hunting, "My boy's wicked smaht."

One of the guys proceeded to disagree with me that it was actually Ben Affleck who said that line, and a full-fledged debate ensued, which carried on for the rest of the night and surely annoyed everyone around us. My opponent, who was very clearly wrong, foolishly bet me $50. He then managed to rope in someone else who was even more foolish and declared that she would bet her house that it was Ben.

Here are the results, my friends (wait 'til the end):



Indeed, I rest my case. I never got my $50 or the house, though. Bitches.


Andy and I managed to make some cool friends from the conference though, and that last night in Beantown we ditched the hicks from the Red states who were looking for a face-to-the-pavement kind of evening, and went off on our own to hit every variety of bar imaginable for a true sample of Boston nightlife. We wined and dined in Little Italy, rubbed shoulders with the blue blazer boys at Liberty Hotel while they were on dates with Buffy and Cricket, visited the frat boys over at Whiskey's and crunched some bared sandal toes with the spikes of our high heels, then stalked Andy's doorman at Whiskey Pete's - who was ultimately straight and quite content with his girlfriend, which meant all of us were simply S.O.L., so we just danced the night away instead.

The last day in Boston, after the tedium of the conference had come to a close and everyone scattered like ants, a few of us went on somewhat of a speed tour of the city, devoting some time to traumatizing the Christian Scientists and dancing in public fountains.



Before Boston and I were able to get very well acquainted, however, it was off to the airport (an hour and a half early, this time).

As it usually goes for me, my trip home couldn't simply be normal, and my flight was overbooked by 60 people (still not quite sure how that happens), so I got bumped to a later flight. I gave my most pitiful, doe-eyed expression to the lady behind the counter, and said, "I need to be spoiled. Can you tell?" She happened to agree and set me up with a first class ticket and a voucher for a free flight. Victory!

I sat under a solitary light in the darkness of first class, while everyone around me slept, and I read my book and sipped my English tea, feeling rather content with things. I never did find the Boston boy to talk Boston to me, but I'll be back.

Check this out

As someone who believes the art of making the perfect mixed tape is highly underrated, naturally I can appreciate this immensely.

"The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules. Anyway... I've started to make a tape... in my head... for Laura. Full of stuff she likes. Full of stuff that make her happy. For the first time I can sort of see how that is done." - Nick Hornby, High Fidelity

Thoughts for the Week

1. I turned to my friend the other night - I believe I was in the midst of constructing luminescent jewelry in an Irish pub - and I said, "For the record, I love my life." My friend hadn't questioned this in any way - I think I just needed to hear myself say it out loud. He smiled and said, "I'm glad - you should."
2. We're meant to go through various stages of self-reinvention. That's why God invented hair dye.
3. If the Republicans win the Presidency, I'm headed back to England. Just ask my friend, Karl - he might actually refuse to have anything to do with me otherwise. He still hasn't gotten over Election 2004 - but then, who really has?
4. Every time somebody says, "McCain for President!" a little baby panda dies. Remember that.

How to survive a pub crawl

We have another non work-sanctioned pub crawl tomorrow night (oh dear, my liver), which means I should be sleeping now to rest up for a late night - but we all know that's not happening (see previous post), so I thought I'd compile some notes in preparation for tomorrow night's hedonism.

Tips for surviving a pub crawl:

1. Eat first.
2. Establish the "buddy" system, i.e., "you hold my hair back for me while I puke, and I'll hold yours."
3. Never have more than one drink at one location (2-for-1 at Badlands to kick off the night would be considered a terrible idea).
4. No shots without a chaser.
5. For the love of all that is holy, do NOT say at any point during the night, "I'm not even drunk," because someone will hand you a Long Island Iced Tea and you will drink it. And thus, the night for you will end.
6. No cameras. Unless YOU own it and control the rights to all images captured. Do NOT pose for pictures taken by anyone else.
7. Don't even try to meet up with anyone or wait for them. Because while you wait, you'll need a drink at all times, and you will inevitably break the one-drink-per-venue rule because people are flakes and who knows how long you could be waiting.
8. Somehow along the drunken trail, have some pizza. Grease helps to soak up booze, thus prolonging the evening.
9. NO RED WINE - you will get emotional or sleepy. In either scenario, the fun will end.
10. End the night with some dancing to work off the potential for hangover.
11. Deny everything tomorrow.

I am Amanda's one firing synapse

I'm currently conducting a study on sleep deprivation, and the idea is to go on as little sleep as possible before I just collapse in mid-stride like one of those Sims characters who's been awake for too long. Pretty soon, I'll be in the middle of fixing breakfast then I'll just pass out on the kitchen floor and no one will be able to wake me until I'm back in the green on the Energy meter. And yes, I am a bit of a computer geek - if I haven't made that abundantly clear by now.

A recap on my Boston trip is soon to come, but not just now - not while I have one firing synapse working overtime.

"With insomnia, nothing is real.
Everything is far away. Everything
is a copy of a copy of a copy."
- Fight Club (a flick I need to watch again soon, as it's been awhile)

And just because I went to a viewing of this last night and I'm still laughing, here's an episode of Yacht Rock:

Thought for the Week

It felt great to come home to San Francisco tonight.

Hangin with Wendy

So I've been in Boston for two days now, and so far, the height of my excitement has been paying a visit to Wendy's. "That's just plain sad," you say. Well, you clearly have never had french fries, soggy with grease, dipped in the smooth chocolatey goodness of a Frosty. That there is a lil bit o' heaven, my friends. San Franciscans, being all healthy and shit, have apparently banned Wendy's from the city or something, as there are none. What is the world coming to!

Having just gorged myself on fries and ice cream, I'm now off to dinner where I will be that girl who just pushes lettuce around on her plate with a fork and bitches about how fat she feels all night.

Hard Knox life

Brunch at Hard Knox Cafe this morning transported about 15 west coast snobs to the Deep South, complete with aluminum walls, Telemundo and our server, E.T. ("Extra Tooth").

We didn't quite know what to make of the menu at first; spare ribs, ox tail and grits were among our many options ("Where are the mimosas?? And the blueberry pancakes?"). We considered ordering the intriguing-sounding ox tail, then with further discussion of it likely being delivered to the restaurant in a cooler of ice, freshly chopped off the ass of a poor southern ox, it lost any semblance of appeal to us, so we opted instead for the spare ribs as a starter. Our young mustached waitress with the protruding extra tooth (aka E.T.) grew weary of our snooty inquisitiveness about the source of their meat, and proceeded to all but entirely ignore us from that point forward. We begged for water, then dared to request straws as well, and eventually they spared us some cornbread muffins to chew on, but only because Bryan had begun to lick the walls.

While the patrons at every table around us were being served their meals - including other members of our party who were sitting at separate tables - we were being restricted to meager rations of cornbread and water (Bryan had started sucking on the butter tablets at this point). We'd begun fighting over the last crumbs of cornbread, snarling and gnashing our teeth like wild animals. We gazed longingly at the plates of food on nearby tables and begged shamelessly for french fry donations just to keep ourselves from wasting away.

Needless to say, half an hour later, we still had no mimosas - the key ingredient to any Sunday brunch. If only we'd been drunk off mimosas, we might have forgotten food altogether. However, our stomachs were grumbling and our collective blood alcohol content was entirely too low for our liking. Our busboy had a fascination with delivering things to us in phases (more specifically in threes, even the straws), almost as a sort of cruel tease. First came the empty wine glasses, which sat in front of us, empty, for a good five minutes before our personal mini champagne bottles with their plastic caps arrived. We got to stare at those wistfully while the staff stood back and contemplated the orange juice that would complete our mimosas. Eventually we said fuck it and declared "Cheers!" before tearing off the plastic caps and drinking straight from the bottles. The orange juice arrived at long last in three mugs (for five people), each mug with its own straw, which meant siphoning the oj from the mugs and splashing it into our wine glasses for build-your-own mimosas, one teaspoon at a time. My mimosa ended up being approximately one part orange juice, nine parts champagne.

The spare ribs finally came, and we started eating them with forks and knives like true queens, then succumbed to the impatience that generally comes with starvation and resorted to ripping them apart with our teeth like savages. Our breakfast plates arrived to a round of applause and sheer jubilation; we proceeded to all but lick them clean. Bryan was even chewing the cheese off the ting of his fork.

After having eaten everything but the table itself, we sank back against our seats, feeling fat, happy and satisfactorily tipsy off our build-your-own mimosas, and declared to the world our undying love for the Hard Knox Cafe. Maybe that's all a part of their ploy - take the wise-cracking cynics and starve them to the point where you could serve them a plate of cardboard and they will tell you it's the best thing they've ever tasted. Well, it worked; we love that place.

Happy Birthday Madonna baby

No artist had greater influence on my childhood than this woman.

Rock on sista

mesmerized

this is wicked.

in search of inspiration

Here are some photos from today's walk through the Mission and Noe Valley. I've never seen such a city oozing with so much artistic inspiration. I love this city.

I'll get all of them up on flickr eventually, but this will give you a taste.

life in a movie montage

I've had two major love affairs in my life - one turned out to be a major car accident, the other a big fucking train wreck. And then, in between, there have been some rather unpleasant fender-benders and missed opportunities. I think it's safe to say I might be a bit jaded; however, despite this well-known fact, I still love to be in love. Because falling in love is the fun part, and if I can relive that feeling a thousand times over, it won't be enough.

I will see a man on the street and instantly devise in my sick little mind some elaborate story about him that is probably nine tenths untrue, but I'll convince myself of his amazingness and pretend to know everything about him. When you love to be in love, the daily routine becomes speckled with chance encounters and flirtatious opportunities that bring a little rush to your otherwise ordinary day. In the three minutes it takes that sexy coffee barista with the gooey brown eyes to pump the vanilla, brew the espresso, and steam the milk to create a foamy cup of deliciousness (read into that all you will, sickos), I have already traveled through a whole movie montage in my mind of the passionate love affair I could have with him, consisting of every sappy cliche imaginable - from kissing in neon-laced streets, to playing and splashing in the surf at the beach. I take comfort in the fact that I’m still capable of daydreaming and romanticizing because it means the romantic inside me hasn’t completely shriveled up and died yet, despite having taken some repeated heavy blows to the gut recently.

I'm so grateful to have been in love in my life and truly know what it feels like - and here I don't mean random, superficial "love" with strangers on the streets, as fun and girlish as that is, but I mean the kind where you actually know the person well enough to appreciate them for being perfectly imperfect. There is nothing that will make you feel more alive than to absolutely adore someone for just being a human - crazy, imperfect and all. Same goes for the excruciating pain of a broken heart. I have never felt more alive than when my heart was splayed out on the floor and completely trampled on.

It helps while I'm missing someone terribly to think of the way it made me feel when I once felt so blissfully in love with him, and I can appreciate having that experience. A simple song can trigger a memory of soaring down the street in Ziggy (my old Civic), windows down, singing at the top of my lungs because I was so disgustingly in love. We bitch - or at least I do - about being tormented by our memories, but I do think that sometimes memories can help us through as well. And the sweet memory of what it feels like to be so insanely happy and enamoured of someone is enough for me - for now.

heartsick crazy talk

I just finished talking to my mom and my heart fractured a little as we talked about our family friend who has recently been diagnosed with cancer and may not be with us for too much longer. She's just the sweetest person, and she's so amazingly upbeat about it all - despite all she's going through. Every day she takes a pill that costs $1000 - and yes, I mean the pills are $1000 EACH. Imagine if you dropped one down the sink drain - for $1000 a pill, you'd be breaking out the tools and tearing that bitch apart. Our dear, sweet friend is popping $1000 pills daily and taking chemo and getting poked and prodded and put in and out of the hospital - and despite the nightmare of it all, she's being such an amazing soldier - just further testament to what an incredible person she is. My heart is so broken for her and her sweet family.

Talking about all that was making me just really miss my family and want to be closer to them. I mentioned to Mom - very hesitatingly, mind you - that Mark and John and I had been discussing over dinner the other night that there is a chance we all could end up in - gulp - Salt Lake again someday. Her response: "Ya - HOOOOOOOO!!!" I think she'd be cool with it.

It could be just my rapidly progressing insanity combined with this perpetual state of sleep deprivation I'm in, but at the moment I actually kinda believe it. It wouldn't be for years from now - seriously, I just moved and am not looking to start fresh yet again so soon - but could be in the long term plan. It did kind of get to me when a couple of weeks ago the boys and my parents were all in SLC with Dennis and his whole crazy brood, and I was the only one not there. Poor Mom got to deal with me blubbering on the phone to her, but that's nothing new.

Anyway, just feeling extremely grateful to have a family I not only love, but actually kinda like, too - and I feel like I'm missing opportunities to enjoy them more, particularly Dennis's kids who are just so amazing. I haven't even met Gracie yet, and she'll be turning one in a couple of months.

Two of my fantabulous nieces who can't help but be natural badasses:



I do love SF at this stage of my life - not really feeling like home yet, but we're getting used to each other, and it's been a perfect healing place for me. I got a view of the city from across the bay today and it took my breath away. I mean, seriously, it's ridiculous how picturesque this city is. I wouldn't be opposed to spending maybe 4-5 years here then possibly moving on at that point, and SLC is just a thought. When you discount all the psycho-mormons, it's actually not a bad place. If there's one thing I've learned though, it's that you can't really plan for anything too far in advance. I suppose you never know what life is going to bring; anything could happen.

Like Mom said on the phone tonight: "What is life, anyway? It's a damn mystery, that's what it is."

I really like her.

Thoughts for the Week

1. Hell hath no fury like that of a diva who doesn't get her way, particularly when that diva is my brother-in-law. He has proven that I have much to learn in the ways of tantrum-throwing. Likewise for a certain diva-esque co-worker/friend of mine, known best as Master Bates. When I informed Master Bates a couple of weeks ago that I would not be having a drink with him as I was giving Madame Booze a break (and by "break", I meant abstaining from alcohol for more than 24 hours), suddenly the earth began to tremble and I saw angry little gremlins dancing in his eyes. His face turned a deep shade of furious and his features contracted into this piercing glare that could have shattered glass. At that point I would have shot heroin if he'd asked me to, simply to spare myself from his wrath.

As for the aforementioned brother-in-law, he still refuses to speak to me directly and will only screech at me through text messages - something to the effect of "fuck you and the horse you rode in on" - all because I didn't meet him for happy hour last night. His tactics are working, too, because my guilt trip is enormous, and I am officially convinced I am the lowest life form on the planet. You win, bitches. I will never defy you again.

2. New favorite person: Chuck the Italian with the bottle-dyed red hair (which makes him a bit like a wanna-be-Irish Mario Canton); his ankle-biting dog, Satan's Little Helper, whose reputation precedes him; his famous cat, aka The Fiercest Cat in the World, with its E! True Hollywood story; and the beast of a Durango that kills pedestrians for fun. Cue Niecy Nash impression: OOOOHHHHHHHH!!! You made my night. Heart hug! Love, Miss Castro.

3. Quote of the week: "Don't carry stuff. That's why we have straight men."

4. Being back in the dating world again, I'm reminded that there are definitely good dates and bad dates. You forget how good the good dates can be until suddenly you forget you're on a date in the first place and the last thing you want is for it to end. On the other hand, you don't know just how bad a bad one can be until it's all you can do to keep from excusing yourself to the ladies' room to drown yourself in the toilet. Yes, the bad dates certainly make you appreciate the good ones.

5. San Francisco is one big small town. It's just an island full of people you think you'll never see again, and in some cases wish you wouldn't, but inevitably do, i.e., that anorexic lady with the grapefruit kneecaps and toothpicks for legs, whose bones you can hear grinding together as she walks; the homeless con man with the elaborate sandwiches-for-the-homeless scheme to get you to follow him to a parking garage where he will likely kill you and eat you; and every guy you've ever made an ass of yourself in front of. (Talking hypothetically here.)

6. You may think your life's a hot mess, then you look at people around you and see that you're not the only one with issues - everybody's struggling in one way or another. We're all living the same life - we just have different stories attached. You're never the only one.

7. We love you, Susan.

into a land of fantasy i wandered

I visited the Chihuly exhibition at the de Young museum yesterday and had an orgasm of the eyes.

Click here and enjoy

coffee elitists and me

I randomly decided the other day that instead of hitting my usual Starbucks locale for my daily caffeine fix, I would pop in to a locally owned coffee shop just a few blocks from my house. It's the kind of place where regular patrons congregate each morning to wax political over their cappuccinos as their dogs throw their own early morning doggie party on the sidewalk. I stepped over a yellow lab sprawled across the doorway and tried to pretend I come here all the time too, because after all this is my 'hood - shocking as it may be considering I'm female AND straight.

Fielding glares from some rather territorial-looking regulars, I walked up to the counter where a barista who looked like he hadn't smiled in weeks gave me a quick look-up-and-down, as one might any tourist in the wrong part of town. I instinctively spouted off my coffee order, which to my horror came out as: "Grande vanilla latte, please."

The shrieking of the milk steamer immediately stopped, the emo music that was playing in the background fell silent, all politically-soused conversation stopped midstream, and the dogs ceased their yapping and turned to look - I think I actually heard a Chihuahua let out a tiny gasp.

I felt like somebody who had wandered into a vegan restaurant and ordered a hamburger. Not only was I fully exposed as a tourist, but an ignorant one at that. Like the tourists in London who, try as they may to blend, will attempt to pronounce "Leicester Square" and butcher the hell out it - at which point there’s simply no saving themselves from inevitable ridicule.

I wanted to explain that I've been frequenting the Starbucks across the street from work for about four months - primarily for the convenience factor of it, mind you - which is why I've fallen a brainwashed victim to their trendy little euro-chic lingo, like "grande" and "venti". But really, I do support the locally owned shops in my community, and I'm against corporate monopolization of the market, and I swear to God I don't shop at Wal-Mart, and I support free trade and all that, really, I do.

Then I think, why do I have to be apologetic? Starbucks started on the ground level just like you elitist snobs, and just because they're now taking over the planet like the plague doesn't mean I can't enjoy their coffee and spare myself the discomfort of walking that extra half-block in heels to buy a latte that's going to cost as much but taste half as good, does it?? It's 8am and I'm cranky and I know I'm over-thinking this but please, I just want my fucking coffee, sans the guilt trip for being a part of the problem and not the solution.

The barista then actually cracked what in some cultures may have been considered a smile and said, "Sixteen-ounce vanilla latte, coming up."

The music started up again, and I let out a breath. When that latte finally came out ( what - are you growing the vanilla beans?), I promptly got the hell out of there, with the "Starbucks Whore" tattoo on my forehead blazing. The Chihuahua called out after me, "Die yuppie scum!" Or it may have been “Take me with you!” I’m not too sure. I don't actually speak Chihuahuan.