Glorious Summer

So much to do, so little time to spend in front of a computer.  My apologies for neglecting you, but have you been outside?  It’s beautiful out there!

B of A, Buh-bye

I became a “valued customer” of Bank of America in 1994, when I got my first job.  Fifteen years, hundreds of calls to “customer service” call centers, and thousands of dollars in account fees, late fees, service fees and exorbitant credit interest later, I am no longer a valued customer of B of A (incidentally “B of A” stood for something completely different when I was in the Marines).  

The tipping point should have come long ago in my relationship with America’s largest financial institution.  Like, perhaps when my credit card interest rate jumped to 19% because I had a payment post one day late.  Or maybe when I was charged fees for making transactions inside the bank, as opposed to online (I thought it would be nice to have eye contact with a bank teller, maybe get a piece of candy).  While those offenses angered me, they didn’t motivate me to change banks.  The tipping point came when my debit card began to be used for online purchases that I did not authorize.  My checking account balance dropped into the dreaded “NSF” zone.  I visited my local branch, which is only three blocks away, to try to resolve the errors.  I figured talking to a person would be preferable to the telephone dial-a-maze that is the customer service line.  But the teller simply wrote down a 1-800 number for me on the back of my receipt showing “NSF” and sent me on my way.  

I’ve since joined a local bank — San Luis Trust Bank.  I am greeted by Eileen, who remembers my name, every time I go in (I have the same birthday as her daughter, how much more personal can you get at a bank?).  She gave me a phone number to her desk, so I can call whenever I have a problem.  A teller actually called me to alert me to a problem with my automatic deposit, and assured me that they would fix my mistake and help me avoid “NSF.”  And they have a beautiful building.   

So, if immoral banking practices like usury, theft and taking advantage of America’s poor aren’t motivation factors for you to chose a local bank, at least treat yourself to a financial institution that has some good architecture and a charming staff.  If you can get some free doughnuts on Fridays, all the better.

And that is why you always wear a hat.

Chris:  Something just fell on my head.  Hey Amy, is there bird poop on my hat?

Amy: (hand over mouth, laughing) Um, yeah, you just got pooped on.  

Chris:  (after returning from washing enormous bird turd from hat) Wouldn’t it be cool is getting crapped on by a bird was actually a sign of good luck?  You know, like finding a four leaf clover?”

Amy:  Oh yeah, totally, you will be receiving money in the mail very soon.

Chris:  That would certainly make the experience feel less degrading

Amy:  No, for reals, it is good luck.

Chris: Wha?  Where the heck did you hear that?

Amy:  I dunno, my mom I guess.

Chris:  That is awesome, I was only joking.  So, how about if you’re yawning really big and your head goes back and the bird craps in your mouth?  Still good luck?

Amy:  Oh my God, I think I’m gonna throw up.

Atonal music in church?

Today was Ash Wednesday, so I went down the hill to the church to have a nice lady smear ashes on my forehead.  ”Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” It’s supposed to remind you that you’re gonna die eventually, so wouldn’t you like to consider participating in a 40 day fast?  I haven’t decided on a good thing from which to fast, but I got the ashes on my forehead anyway.  Actually, they’re on my head, as my forehead is rather expansive, and the nice lady (who is also a pastor) went a bit high.  It’s kinda like an ash yarmulke.  

I love going to church.  I haven’t got the whole socialize and chit-chat with the other folks thing down yet (they call that “fellowship”).  I usually pick the most schizophrenic looking person to chat with to avoid having a normal conversation with the other nice folks.  And, fortunately, we’re near subsidized housing, so we have our share of schizos.  God bless ‘em.  For reals.  Anyway, I like the churchy part of going to church — the singing, praying, standing up, sitting down, reciting stuff.  It’s beautiful, and meaningful, and I love that I don’t feel like I have some desperately over-earnest pastor trying to manipulate me into “feeling the spirit” or feeling bad about myself.  I’m pretty good at that already.  

Tonight, I had half a dozen folks say “hi, Chris” to me.  People whose names I am not sure I ever learned.  So despite my best efforts to be evasive, I think I’m being loved by these people anyway.  Because learning the name of a stranger who comes to church alone is a small act of love, and I loved them for it.  Then I looked at the pew in front of me and started fumbling for my Order of Worship.

Speaking of the Order of Worship, they played an elegie by Francis Poulenc.  ”I don’t know what any of those words mean” you’re saying to yourself.  It’s okay.  Just know that Poulenc’s elegie, played here by horn and piano is atonal, which means it is very avant-garde and sounds kinda like the background music in some noir movie — which is not something you ever hear in church (no more italics, I promise), and Poulenc was gay, so, thanks First Pres for supporting the arts.

Love is a plastic covered living room

I am allergic to cats. For those who those who share this condition, the very thought of being in a cat owner’s home probably makes you start to loose your breath or start rubbing your eyes. I like cats, I think they’re fun. But put one near my face and I’ll probably start to asphyxiate.

Erick has a cat. Her name is Tasha (what is she, Russian?) I like to call her Miss Precious-Perfect or Brown Cat. Brown Cat has no front claws and is missing one of her incisors, so she’s definitely working the pathos angle. She’s also kinda snuggly, which means lots of hand washing for me.

Stays at Erick’s house usually lasted until I was fairly unable to breathe like a normal person — until Erick decided to steam clean his entire house from top to bottom, including Mrs. Precious-Perfect. Following the cleaning, Erick purchased several square yards of polyurethane to cover his living room furniture, lest any lingering cat dander should be disturbed from the depths of the cushions and work its way into my bronchial tubes. He’s an engineer, so the thought of having a plastic covered living room was an acceptable solution to the problem we both shared. I was horrified by the appearance, but deeply moved by the attempt.

After awhile of avoiding the living room altogether, we’ve removed the plastic. I’ve also gotten an inhaler (which I hate). And Mrs. Precious Brown Cat can be as snuggly as she likes.

Goodbye, friend

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adam Smith is moving away.  He will be living in Carson and attending Santa Monica City College for a semester, before beginning nursing school.  And I am very sad to see him go.  

Adam, as many of you know, was my first boyfriend.  I was 27 when we met – which is about 10 years after most people get to start dating.  At the time I was still earnestly trying to live up to other people’s moral expectations, so the thought of enjoying the company of another person (and a man, at that) was frightening.  I dumped the poor guy about half-a-dozen times in some last-ditch attempts to salvage my former church membership.  Fortunately, he was persistent.  And while we eventually learned that we were not well suited to be partners in life, we did become friends, and I have so much to be thankful for.  I had become so used to the pain of being alone.  Adam showed me what companionship is.  

I don’t know how best to thank someone who taught me that it’s okay to be myself — I am grateful beyond words.  Goodbye for now. I miss you already.

Bacon is so hot right now

Successful blog writers everywhere agree, bacon is very in right now (see bacon machine, bacon doughnut)
So it only seems appropriate than when someone you love brings you a bacon confectionary item, that it should be written about in a blog.  

Erick brought me an $8 bar of chocolate with bacon in it.  (I’m debating whether to call this “bacolate” or “choclon”).  He forced me to perform a mystery taste test at first, which worried me that I might be reenacting Mr. Belding’s consumption of Zack Morris’ “chocolate covered grasshoppers” (you know you saw that one, don’t lie).  Actually, I thought it was chocolate with hay.  

There are instructions on the back explaining how to properly eat choclon.  Or have an orgasm.  I’m not actually sure what they’re writing about.  Fortunately Amy gave us a dramatization of the instructions at work, for assistance: “Take a deep breath… Relax.  Live in the now… Gently rub your thumb across the smooth chocolate surface, releasing the aromas… Exist for the pleasure.”  I don’t know what this lady was on, but clearly she didn’t end up with chocolate stained construction drawings or she would have left that step out.

Speaking of bells…

I’ve been noticing the graffiti on this Chinese bell on my block for more than a week now.  I can’t imagine why it has stayed so long, apparently no one really owns the thing, or wants to claim responsibility for its careful maintenance.  Since it is on my block (that’s right, I am Chinatown-adjacent you guys!) I decided I would go ahead and clean it myself.  In case you have a bronze Chinese bell in your neighborhood that has been vandalized, here are some instructions:

1.  Buy a bottle of graffiti remover, probably about five bucks at the hardware store (Don’t go to Home Depot!  They barbeque kittens).

2.  Spray the thoughtless vandalism with the removal solution.

3.  Scrub it with a scrub brush, be careful you aren’t using one that will scratch metal.

4.  Rinse the area with water, and dry with a rag.  Repeat as necessary.

5.  Congratulate yourself for taking ownership of your neighborhood.  Envision a scenario where the mayor gives you a key to the city for your boundless community spirit.  Plan your campaign for city council.

6.  Hope the removal solution doesn’t begin a chemical reaction to dissolve bronze.

7.  Run back to the affected area to be sure you haven’t contributed to the steady demise of Chinese history in your city.  

        

Ringing in the New Year

I like bells.  I live a block away from the Mission, and I always get a thrill when I can hear bells ringing for Mass.  I have no idea what the Catholics do for worship, but they sure do it often.  There are several cadences the bell ringers ring out, and my favorite is the one they use for celebrations.  I can hear it on Saturdays after weddings, and at Christmas, New Years and Easter at midnight. 

The bells are hung in a fixed position, and rung by attaching a rope to the clapper.  This involves a crew of bellringers, and occasionally they can be spotted in the bellfry portico wearing hearing protection.  The fixed position of the bells is typical for the type of construction the unskilled mission builders employed.  More sophisticated constuction would have allowed the bells to pivot, or be struck by mechanical hammers.

First Presbyterian doesn’t have bells.  It does however have a mechanical bell system, which consists of air-raid type megaphones on top of the Hart Building that make bell-like sounds.  At least it sounds real.  The computer which runs the system is capable of mimicking all types of bell ringing, including the familiar Westminster Chimes and tolling of the hours (the little song played by just about every hall clock in the world) and carillon concerts featurings selected hymns played at noon and 5 p.m. everyday.  I like to play Name that Tune when I walk home at lunch. 

Erick and I got a key to the cabinet and “snuck” into the building to play the bells at midnight on New Year’s Eve.  I selected a bell “peal” which is common for celebrations in England and parts of the Anglo-world.  It sounds something like this.

I don’t know if anyone heard it, or enjoyed hearing it, but I certainly enjoyed making all that noise.  Maybe one day we’ll have some real bells.

BEARS!?

Perhaps you’ve noticed these new signs along the Cuesta Grade, north of San Luis Obispo.  Bears.  Going for a walk.  Across the highway.   

I have to admit, I was unaware that we still had bears in this area.  Sure, we used to have tons of them.  Mission San Luis Obispo was founded near the Valle de Los Osos, so that hunters could provide bear meat to the four other struggling missions along El Camino Real.  But I, like most in this city, was fairly sure that bears went out with Franciscans and the Overland Stage.  

So, we have bears again, and they live near the 101.  Drivers, be beary careful.