my saturday clothes

A Midsummer's Sunday Afternoon

2009-06-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

I realized only yesterday that today would be the longest day of the year. I should be aware of things like "solstice" in advance, but somehow, I ain't.

It's a strange notion to know that days will start to shorten, incrementally, as the planet continues turning and the part you inhabit is beginning to angle away from the sun. Since I live in San Francisco and our best weather is still a couple months out, it's not really an issue, but for folks like my friend Charles and his clan who make their home in Minneapolis, he can't help himself from becoming aware that he just passed a sign that says, WINTER: ONLY TEN WEEKS AWAY!!

It just ain't right to sequence thoughts that way, when Wimbledon is just beginning, but there you have it.

Headed to MOMA Sunday afternoon for the Robert Frank exhibit of photos. Mid century American misery and joy, a time when folks lived without air conditioning, traveled by Greyhound and gazed hard-eyed at the world around them as well as at a future that was very far off indeed.

These photos feel more real to me in a way than the world around me now does. I think it must have something to do with how you take in images into your brain when you're growing up; the mechanism in those first years is so profound and powerful that they will never leave and are embedded forever. Which is kinda reassuring actually.

Yet I also had the sense that we're only here for less than a second it seems like; time has a way of collapsing into itself - totally a Joseph Torchia/Kryptonite Kid moment: "Good mourning, Superman."

Before leaving I went to the cafe for something to eat. Earlier in the day in some weird, random interaction a dude I met online (allegedly 27) offered to buy me ice cream if I would let him have his way with me me for 30-45 minutes non-stop. Ha, like my ass could be bought by a frozen dairy dessert. I informed him as a general rule, I don't eat ice cream. "You can have any kind you want!" was his response. Anyhow, in the cafe there was a piece of carrot cake under the glass that said, "eat me." So I did.

And found myself riveted by the woman sitting a few tables away, so i snapped some pix as subtly as possible. And while they don't do justice to her palpable inner tenacity nor how really red her lipstick was, you can see that she knows how to wear a hat. Click to make larger

That said, it wasn't until looking at the photos that I saw the almost epic facial expressions on the Asian woman sitting one table over.

From Russia With Love

2008-07-19T13:19:00.000-07:00

Well, maybe love is too strong a word ...

The Flounced Sleeve

2008-07-08T07:18:00.000-07:00

She wasn't only a great, great singer. But man, she could really work the flounced sleeve. (Click on the pic to watch the performance)

Je ne suis pas ici de participer, je suis ici de juger

2008-06-22T16:30:00.000-07:00

Turns out blogging takes work.

What was easy on vacation, taking a few hours every other day to assemble a piece + some pics, seems out of reach when back in the terrarium one's real world.

Of course it isn't, but the natural enthusiasm one has when wandering around Berlin or Paris gets tamped down somewhat on coming home, getting back to work, and dealing with inevitable minor romantic disappointments, which happened when a certain mister X cancelled out hours prior to dinner, with what appears to have been a read-between-the-lines narrative that said either I'm involved or not interested.

While I was in Paris, a comment was left on a post that basically accused me of being a flaneur. I say accused, because that's what it felt like, as in my head I'd mixed the term up with manqué, which basically means a failure at one's given profession.

Great, I was a failed blogger. And not only that, but i was a failed blogger in Paris. And the French had just the mot juste for it.

But then she sent me the correct definition: "a disengaged and cynical voyeur on the one hand, and man of the people who enters into the life of his subjects with passion on the other."

Now we were getting somewhere.

And further - "a flâneur's active participation in and fascination with street life while displaying a critical attitude towards the uniformity, speed, and anonymity of modern life in the city."

Bingo.

As a guy who feels his Irish DNA coursing through him every day, there is probably a "Flaneur O'Connor" joke in all this that i can't quite locate, but it definitely feeds into the personal tag line I've been pushing these past couple years - I'm not here to participate, I'm here to judge.

Je ne suis pas ici de participer, je suis ici de juger

The Gum Line Chronicles

2008-06-10T07:29:00.000-07:00

I love getting my teeth cleaned. But, you have to wonder what kind of personality decides to go to school with the idea of becoming an expert at getting into someone's mouth and then scraping teeth both above and below the gum line.

My dentist is one half of a handsome Iranian brother duo schooled in London who bring a great deal of gravitas to the dental experience. Suave, I guess you could say. The hygienists on the other hand are more of a mixed lot. My former hygienist at the office--a large shouldered, dour woman who looked as if she might've been Martha Stewart's less attractive twin given up for adoption--invested in New Orleans real estate prior to Katrina, lectured me on the dangers of pasta and basked in the brutality of process. She used a scalpel as if it were a push mower and she was looking at an unruly yard.

Her replacement was always so pleasant and sort of winsome, always burbling about her son's high school achievements and friends. She handled the tools of her trade as if she were Blossom Dearie ... all detail and subtle movement. But something has happened. Yesterday I hardly recognized the woman shuffling slowly by me with her head bent, a good twenty pounds heavier.

I sat with a New Yorker on my lap as she set up around me. She looked at the cover depicting a graduating college class of five and sighed. "I don't get their covers. I enjoy them, but someone always needs to tell me the message."

"Yep," I replied. "They can be evasive. Sideways. That's their appeal, I think."

"This one's easy," she went on. "They're graduating!!"

"Yup," I said, "but notice, only one of the five has a future so bright he needs to wear shades."

She looked at the illustration again, peering at the line of smiling graduates requiring no protective eye wear to deal with the ultra violet promise of their futures. "Oh," she sighed as she gave the magazine a lingering second look before placing it on the shelf and adjusting her goggles. "OK, open wide. Any sensitivities I should know about?"

I shook my head.

Figure Eights and Destinations Unkown

2008-06-04T05:33:00.000-07:00

travel really makes you see how well worn and proscribed your footsteps become in your everyday life.

i think that's part of the difficulty in heading home, because inevitably you know you're going to gradually fall back into the figure eights that somehow define the life you live there. what travel holds is promise. what home holds is routine.

allegedly anyway.

what i'd like to take away from the trip is try looking at SF and the Bay Area as a place i not only live, but also visit. which means making it a point to explore it more.

but that's going to have to wait until after the jet lag expires. bleary-eyed after being out to a dinner part til 1am and then having to pack in order to get out of Koburger Strasse by 5 am, followed by 15 total hours of travel time, i knew i had to stay awake. this was only possible by unpacking, doing laundry and getting the place back in living order.

oh, and a burrito. Berlin has many, many charms, but if you've ever experienced Mexican food there, you know that isn't one of them.

tortilla. beans. arroz. pollo. salsa picante.

but instead of the fall back position of a Sierra Nevada or Anchor Steam, i chose a Trumer Pils ... which is in the same dense-and-small-almost-champagne-type-bubble style as the Radeburger on hand at Chez Wrench & Franks, my cousin's place.

not the most dramatic beginning to a re-shaped figure eight, but a fella has to begin somewhere. especially when all he really wants to do is dive into the mcrosky airflex and dream of destinations unknown ...

In Dem Wasser Zu Schwimmen

2008-06-01T01:39:00.000-07:00

we figured Saturday morning might be the perfect time to get out of dodge and spend some time in a forest. this is Germany, after all.

this after spending a Friday evening at a cabaret featuring a woman named Meow Meow, who is known for her Kamikaze Kabaret, among other things. funnily enough she recently appeared in SF as part of the Weimar New York evening at SF MOMA, which i'd been kicking myself for having missed.

the first half started off a little too broad, comic and forced for my tastes. but the second half was something else altogether; she very cleverly took the audience credits she'd accrued during the first half and then spent them by performing more esoteric fare without sacrificing the comic and ironic undertow you need if you're going to pull an audience with you and leave them stranded and wanting more.

she ended with a hypnotic reading of a Laurie Anderson song called "The Dream Before."

laurie's been off my radar until recently. the performance reminded me of her genius.

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well
And they're living in Berlin
She is a cocktail waitress
He had a part in a Fassbinder film
And they sit around at night now drinking schnapps and gin
And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down
And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch
He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love was the wicked witch. She said: What is history?
And he said: History is an angel being blown backwards into the future
He said: History is a pile of debris
And the angel wants to go back and fix things
To repair the things that have been broken
But there is a storm blowing from Paradise
And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future
And this storm, this storm is called Progress

not too bright and not too early the next morning we made our way to a brand spanking new steel and glass train station, and bought ridiculously cheap tickets for both ourselves and our bikes and rode about an hour out of the city, deep into the countryside of the former DDR, about halfway to the Baltic Sea. later on when we returned, we pulled in just as a sleeper car to Moscow was pulling out. suddenly i was seized by a pang of remorse. remorse that i might never take a sleeping train that would take me via Warsaw to the soviet capital, or perhaps even better, maybe up to Sweden and into hallowed Bergman Smiles of a Summer Night territory.

after a ten mile bike ride from the station, we set up on the shores of the Stechlinsee, which is apparently a favorite of the so-call "body culture" or nudist movement that was and is still popular in the East (more than the west, i think).

of course i kept my clothes on, since as we know, i'm not here to participate, i'm here to judge!

later, the woman next door pulled out of a nap and was soon hard at work on her crossword (or suduko).

we lazed around the shore until Klaus, our special host and guide for the day convinced us all to go in. the water was a c.h.i.l.l.y 60 degrees or so.

i took the plunge and swam across to the other side and back. like swimming in Lake Tahoe, you run into some very icy currents along the way. and then once back, took a blissful nap with nothing but the sound of birds and the occasional sounds of nudist lesbians frolicking and laughing in the water nearby.

at around 6pm, we saddled up the bikes and road around the lake to a small restaurant that specializes in smoked fish. in this case, some kind of German mackeral or sardine that was served whole--heads and all-- with potato salad and some lettuce and cucumbers. and of course, the requisite beer with light traveling through it at 186,000 miles per second ...

we then circled back around the lake and made it to the train with only five minutes to spare. it struck me once again that exertion does a body good. especially when accompanied by sun, swimming, good company, and of course a book, napping opportunities + fresh fish and beer.

just sign me,
Guantanamera

Oranienburger Strasse

2008-05-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

Berlin is expecting a heat wave with temps to hit the low 90s.

i was told last night that these were going to be "sahara winds," which puts me in mind of the crazy fucked-up Santa Anas that sweep through Southern California each September or so, which i remember from living there back in the day.

they are a cunning force, these types of winds, and have the diabolical ability to shift the charge in the air.

Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen

- Raymond Chandler

i have no idea how this plays out in a city like Berlin, but i do wonder the affect of it on the impossibly fit and capable looking hookers hanging out in the Oranianbsburg Strasse, since the design of their look seems to be orbit around the ideas of some sort of glistening teutonic ski fantasy.

parts of oranienburger strasse seem to have turned into Buckhead, a neighborhood in Atlanta filled with visiting sales reps and locals looking for guaranteed good times in chain restaurants and bars geared to please all and satisfy no one. so the ladies, who are usually stationed every twenty yards for block after block, definitely have a target market and demographic in mind. granted, their deep tans and impossibly long and thick hair should translate over to the change in weather, but the patent leather boots--often thigh high--and corsets cinching short nylon down-filled jackets are going to be challenge.

while i don't think they'll resort to string bikinis, i'm guessing a dirndl or two could make an appearance.

who knows about the knives and the necks.

Flotilla the Hun

2008-05-26T23:59:00.001-07:00

while at Grands Boulevards last night we ran into a six person flotilla of braying semi-drunk American girls in flip flops looking for the Moulin Rouge, which is located nearby. they marched gracelessly up to the corner crepe stand and with the charm that can only be cultivated by spending years in shopping malls and from hours dedicated to dreaming of frat party romances, accosted the french dude behind the counter about directions.

he responded by asking if they spoke french? the leader of the pack, a slim-but- soon-to-be-built-like-a-beer-keg charmer in shorts and tee with long blonde hair mirrored back to her friend's delight with, "Do I speak your language? I sure (pronounced "sher" and elongated for emphasis) don't!"

a young french guy around their age attempted to give them directions and the lead girl promptly drafted him to accompany them to their destination. perhaps he found their attitudes somehow charming and direct? or maybe he couldn't believe how he'd scored some time with a group of tipsy american girls? hard to say, but as they disappeared from sight, his efforts at keeping up clearly faltered as the leader of the pack upped the pace as she led her flip-flopped acolytes to their collective date and fate with the Moulin Rouge.

****

it's the last day in Paris and pluie is a comin'.

and that rain means the French Open is very iffy, so unsure whether i'll make the metro ride out there in hopes of picking up a ticket. tricky to spend le monnie and then get rained out, since then you're bang out of luck.

Berlin and Paris are dotted with kabeb and north african food joints, where you can get Shawerma and such. the ones in Berlin have yet to make an impression with their super-thin and vague slices taken from an amalgamated hunk of pressed beef and lamb that sits on a vertical spike, slowly turing until ready to be shaved for inclusion into what they call a "donner."

which as far as i can tell means dropped into bread spread with a mayo and yogurt mixture that goes so out of its way not to offend that it narcotizes the tastebuds.

but in Paris they do things a bit differently - yesterday i ran into a place in the Bastille section called Babylone that hoists chickens onto a roasting spit and makes Schawerma by cutting off thick slices of the freshly roasted bird and then filling the pita with a crazy gorgeous array of hummus, cabbage, hot sauce, and assorted greens, including marinated cucumbers sliced thin but not too, and finished with sesame sauce and a few bits of cubed eggplant on top.

According to the owner, Nicole, she doesn't use onions, because folks do that in order "to disguise the bad quality of the meat." so, next time you happen to be in the Bastille, check them out on Rue Daval close to Rue de la Roquette

i took one bite and yielded to the idea that yo, a Shawerma can be a revelation.

Paris on a Sunday

2008-05-26T02:36:00.001-07:00

yesterday was Sunday, and i spent it milling around on my own until meeting up later in the evening with Kevin for dinner in a cafe in Montmartre. folks were crammed into the place, and i had a Salade Gourmande, which was huge and topped with sliced potatoes lightly sauteed in garlic til just maybe 10% crispy. d.e.l.i.c.i.o.u.s

i noticed several families, with children ranging from infants to older, all enjoying themselves. this put me in mind of the Hennen clan out in Minneapolis. charles and brenda have been taking their kids, Jack, Claire and Hazel to restaurants since they were in diapers and who now (all between the ages of 6-8) like nothing more than going out for a good meal. well, except for Jack, who might prefer a good old fashioned sword fight, as in, "Say your last words peasant!!" but even then, he'd be glad to arrange for the duel for either before or after dinner.

i spent most of Sunday milling around taking snaps here and there. in Belleville i walked up to the parc and joined those just resting on a hill.

and while heading back down to the Metro stop passed by the birthplace of Edith Piaf, who, as the plaque outside declares, was born in the utmost poverty and went on to move the world with her singing. true dat.

the neighborhood is almost completely Asian these days, and i ran into a very large, handsome and potentially unwieldy wedding party just getting started.

it was then that i decided to try and make it over to Grands Boulevards for a crepe and ended up getting slightly lost. while trying to find my bearings i came across a playground with a bandstand filled with elderly folks playing the song, Tequila, to a crowd of children and their parents. and yes, that Tequila.

i never ended up at Grands Boulevards, but i did pick up a baguette and head over to the Tuilleries, which was filled with folks walking, jogging, reading ... and of course smoking and drinking. i sat and ordered a Bruge Blanche, and then took a walk around before heading up to Montmartre for dinner.

the air was soft and the sky unruly against the statuary.

Perfect weather for reading by the fountain which teems with underwater plant life and algae.

and then off to Montmartre for dinner, when another spring rain began. we headed up the hill after to get a view of Paris as night began to fall ...

***
the thing i've noticed while writing this blog, is how often i go after the same sensation from any particular milieu, and how often this sensation is directly linked to a piece of music or lyrics. and there is often this wistful quality, which, you know, i think a fella has to be careful with. it's like salt - just the right amount brings out flavor. too much, and not only is the meal ruined, but you may face a lifetime of blood pressure meds.

that said, while making my way around the city, i couldn't help but reference the lyrics from Scott Walker singing a certain old Tony Bennett number ...

Every town was Paris
Every day was Sunday
Every month was May

Six Flights Up

2008-05-24T09:43:00.000-07:00

it was hell getting here. this means language snafus, ticket lines, and a train from the airport filled with elderly Spaniards transfixed by the fear that they were going to miss their stop. anxiety that is this mundane creeps up on folks as they age, like weeds in a garden. great, something else to be vigilant about.

when we finally arrived and stepped out into the station, Dolly Parton came on my iPod and we found ourselves surrounded by Parisians heading for their Friday routine of cafes, bars and restaurants. it felt electric, and when we emerged, there it was, la ville-lumiere in full swing.

the place we're staying in my cousin calls a "real Paris garret." it's teeny, the kitchen is located next to the bathroom and ... it's six floors up - with no elevator. the stairs are in the form of a tight helix, or nautilus-like shape which makes the climb pretty arduous. when i reached the summit i felt a little dizzy but wasn't sure if this was due to the effort of climbing the stairs, or if the air was perhaps thinner way up here. tho very small, the place is sweet with views that make you pull up the chair, open the window, put your feet on the balcony rail and just enjoy what luck, circumstance and planning can bring.

in this case, that means a priceless lil place in Paris at no charge with the French Open scheduled to begin tomorrow, Sunday, May 25.

***
after making up the beds with clean sheets we headed out into the Marais for some salmon and a bottle of white at Le Gamin de Paris ... and then a walk around Notre Dame, before heading to a relaxed outdoor gay cafe, Les Marrioniers.

today started out sunny and warm. after picking up the grey hoodie that i didn't realize i'd been waiting forever for and simply had never been able to find, at Muji--along with some sparkling white tee shirts--i gave myself over to the vast and efficient public transportation offerings of The Metro and rode out to Roland Garros, to catch all the pre-open tennis action.

the ticket to get in was only 18 Euros and it allows you to wander about and watch all the warm up sets and practice matches, along with the last round of qualifying. a tennis fan's dream, really. as soon as i got there, i almost literally bumped into Jose Higueras, the legendary Spanish tennis player from back in the day who now among other things has been brought on by Roger Federer to help coach him to victory on the notorious and punishing red clay of Roland Garros.

and then it began to pour. play was suspended and since i was sporting shorts and a tennis warm-up jacket type deal, i was getting soaked. and then I saw they were selling souvenir rain ponchos. so, i bought one, complete with the French Open logo on the back and pockets.

20 minutes later i settled in on Court Suzanne Lenglen and watched a set of doubles featuring Mats Wilander, Jonas Bjorkman and Henri Leconte played with such relaxed flair and savoir faire that i suddenly felt i understood how to play the game about 25% better than i had before i sat down. later i caught Scots wunderkind Andy Murray practicing them baffling and fluid strokes of his before segueing over to observe Aussie Alicia Molik hitting the shit out of the ball, her coach instructing her to get on the outside of it when she hit it cross court.

for those who've never hit one, there are few things in life more satisfying than hitting one deep into the opposite corner. after watching all this, i was just itching to pick up a racket and take a few swings. but luckily for everyone involved, myself included, i managed to "stay my hand," to paraphrase a funny line given to me by someone i knew about 1.2 million years ago.

and then the rain really started coming down. folks were fleeing for dry land, commandeering niches under roof overhangs huddling under umbrellas set up outside the snack bars and cafes.

but not me.

a little wet maybe, but i walked unfettered and alive through the grounds wearing a souvenir tennis poncho during a spring rainstorm in Paris surrounded by red clay tennis courts as i made my way back to a little garret i know, six flights up.

Ephemera

2008-05-23T01:03:00.000-07:00

the other night we finished dinner and headed out on our bikes to a bar called Roses. it is lined in pink plush fur and festooned with all kinds of garish ephemera, including chandeliers, 50s wall lighting and religious imagery that makes its way on to things like the coffee table in front of us.

the pix were taken with no flash, which allows the red in the room to wash into the camera giving the images a sinister, Francis Bacon type quality.

after we went down the street to Bier Himmel (Beer Heaven), where my cousins got some late night cake and i had an Averna, which is easy to find here, and almost impossible to get in los estados unidos.

today we are heading to Paris, la ville lumiere, for the long weekend. the French 0pen begins on Sunday, and my plan is to attend these early rounds on the outer courts. the last day of qualifying is tomorrow, and i may try and hit that first - since you can also see the big names out on the practice courts. normally on a saturday i'd be out with the folks at Dolores Park playing doubles as opposed to running into say, Marat Safin, Janko Tipsarevic, Tommy Robredo or even the master himself, Maestro Federer.

still no luck picking up a game on the red clay here, but hopefully next week when i get back.

Biergarten in the Tiergarten

2008-05-21T06:57:00.001-07:00

Berlin is a city of bikes. and for the last couple of days, my cousin and i have been trying to find a good used one to buy. what could be more perfect than cycling around a major european city in the springtime? after many disappointing look-sees arranged through Kijiji (a sort of craigslist-y thing very popular here), Kevin (my cousin) ended up buying a new "guest bike," which we then tested out by cycling over to the Schleusenkrug, a biergarten located next to the canal over in the tiergarten.

as good as beer looks with light traveling through it at 186,000 miles per second, it must be said that it tastes even better.

U-Bahn

2008-05-20T01:26:00.000-07:00

heading out today on the u-bahn and the s-bahn on my own for the first time without my cousin to guide me. being in a foreign country where you don't speak the language makes even the simple things like getting on a public transportation kind of intimidating.

but, i'm armed with two simple words: "entshuldigung" and "bitte" which mean, "excuse me" and "please." the combination here--to my mind anyway--is designed to provoke a response in english.

dollars to euros on the other hand are easy to negotiate, as long as you remember to add on about 40% to the price of what you're buying in order to bring what you're spending into dollar perspective.

this afternoon am heading to the Jewish Museum, designed by Daniel Libeskind, the same architect responsible for the new Contemporary Jewish Museum opening in San Francisco this June. this after cycling out sunday night to the Jewish Memorial near the Tiergarten - it is a field made up of a series of concrete monoliths of varying heights. they remind me of coffins that have somehow risen from under the ground (as is said to happen in New Orleans when it floods due to the city being under sea level) to reveal the ghosts below. it's both somber and stunning.

Koburger Strasse

2008-05-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

my cousin Kevin and his partner andrew bought a place on Koburger Strasse that before it was a physio therapist's office was a retail space. in keeping with its history, they've used the street window as a display for one of their patented composited pieces (this one featuring wigs and looks tailored for today's gentlemen) --- it is behind this window, i lay me down to sleep (after brokering a promise with our lord that a) my soul he will keep and b) that my soul he will take).

the two "heads" in the lower right hand corner are my cousin Kevin Wrench, and his partner Andrew Franks.

Vintage berlin

2008-05-19T01:02:00.000-07:00

be it fahrenheit or centigrade

It's Saturday and just where the F**k are my clothes?

2008-05-16T21:21:00.000-07:00

after fifteen hours of travel time, i arrived in Berlin on Friday to find my luggage had apparently been persuaded to spend an evening Paris without me. It is now saturday and all i have are the khakis, shirt and socks i left San Francisco wearing.

ironic, ain't it?

but, i do have the laptop, my digital camera and my shaving kit - the contents of which were faithfully documented for an online interview by an enterprising blogger friend of mine, Voyeurella

anyhow, Friday found berlin all green and spring-y and around 6:30pm a soft rain started. i sat in my cousin's fantastic, airy and sweet ground floor Schoeneberg apartment and dreamt of what a fresh white tee and jeans might feel like after a hot shower. but instead of dwelling on the negative, found the kind of peace and calm that can only come from walking around bare-footed on wide plank pine floors and drinking a glass of beer with the windows open.

Berlin Bound

2008-05-14T08:49:00.000-07:00

i've been meaning to start this blog for at least a year. so, i thought i'd take the opportunity to really do it, since i'm heading to Paris and Berlin for three weeks so i can record pix and impressions of the trip along the way.

the title of the blog comes from a gordon lightfoot tune. and yeah, i do mean the same guy who wrote Sundown and The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald among others. i think it's about the passing of time and the joy of looking forward to more of it. but truth is, it's an evasive little gem from an underrated songwriter that often plays in my head when i least expect it.

if interested, you can check out this close-to-being-too-wistful tune here

i leave May 15 at 3:30 and arrive in Berlin, Friday May 16, then to Paris for some French Open action and then back to Berlin before heading home June 3.