Challenges

I am mentally preparing myself for a difficult phone call that I will make on my lunch break. I'll be phoning a local Mormon church to inquire about borrowing some Sacrament trays for my upcoming theater piece.

I am so scared to make this phone call that my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking.

When my dad suggested this as the easiest way to procure some sacrament trays, I didn't balk or hesitate at the notion. Now that the time has come to take the action, I feel like backing down, like that time I chickened out on the Waimea Wave roller coaster at Raging Waters and walked back down all those stairs, flinching at the bickering eyes of children more brave (or less honest) than I.

Right now, I desperately want to turn back. But I need those trays.

I Should Have Known

Last night's rehearsal was scheduled at 7:00 pm at a downtown theater, on Geary near Union Square. That area seems to be the closest thing SF has to a theater district. The American Conservatory's home is a beautiful Victorian theater that dominates the block between Taylor and Mason. Down the road is the The Shelton Theatre, Jean Shelton Acting Lab and The SF Playhouse, that all share the same building. On the outskirts of Union Square is The Exit, home to SF Fringe. And around the corner from A.C.T. is The Phoenix. This is where I was to be rehearsing.

The theater is on the 6th floor of an office building, while the Annex, a nicely sized studio, is on the 4th. I was to meet the theater director, a colleague of mine from a playwriting group, outside the Annex. She was to let us in and show us around.

She never showed up. We waiting in the 4th floor lobby for half an hour before we decided to make good use of the time by rehearsing right there. We set up our basic props, and began a run-through, much to the chagrin of the fashion-conscious women behind an orange door that led to some sort of impressively hip-looking design studio. They had to pass through the lobby to get to the restroom, dodging our dance moves on the way.

At 8:15 we decided to give up. After a "you'll never believe this" explanation to the husband when he asked why I was home so early, I emailed the theater director to let her know I'd been there and waited. She replied. Turns out she forgot. About my rehearsal. We'd confirmed earlier in the day. But somehow she forgot.

I was warned by a co-worker in New York before I moved here: "you know, San Francisco is a flaky place to live. The people are all flakes." At the time, I thought he was just being judgmental. Turns out he was right.

Places

I love California. I just took a lunch-time stroll under the Golden Gate, and my, if I wasn't blown away by the beauty of this place.

I often speak of wanting to move back to New York one day, but I honestly don't know if I can remove myself from this foliage, these blue waters, rolling hills, majestic sites. To be able to drive to Yosemite in just a moment's notice, or Big Sur, Sequoia, and, of course, Wine Country.

In moving to So Cal, I'll be giving up Wine Country, but I'll be gaining recreational beaches, Death Valley, Malibu, flea markets, and a plethora of swimming pools. All stuff I yearn for, truly.

I've been addicted to this blog: http://vanishingnewyork.blogspot.com/

It at once makes me extremely nostalgic for and hardened against my old stomping ground.

The Big Reason

This is the reason for the circles under my eyes, piles of dirty laundry in my bedroom, and absence from any kind of social situation. It'll be up and then over in less than a week now. I'll reward myself with three days of sleep interrupted only to binge on turkey stuffing and pumpkin pie.

Heavy Fog, Generous Sun.

On Friday morning, the city was shrouded in a thick layer of fog and everything - the buildings, the cars, the vistas, the people - looked as if caught in a weathered daguerrotype.

By Friday afternoon, however, we'd emerged into a bright new day with a gracious sun that saw us through the weekend.

Unfortunately, I spent most of my weekend inside. Black-box theater, car, home office, a friend's gorgeous apartment with panoramic views of San Francisco.

I did grab twenty minutes on my back patio on Saturday, doing paperwork under the shade of the palm tree.

Two indulgences: Truffle Tremor and Drunken Goat cheese.

Strangely Quiet

As predicted, I did no spooky celebrating last night.

Apparently, neither did the rest of our city. Driving back from rehearsal, I noticed that the streets looked no different than on a typical Wednesday night, save for a few more people in crazy costumes than usual, and a heavy presence of police officers and barricades. City Hall said we couldn't have Halloween this year, and we sure as heck didn't.

Compare: SF to NY.

The husband and I did, however, watch Something Wicked This Way Comes for the first time in over twenty years, and it was just as strange and creepy as I remembered.

Halloween

No time this year, too busy.

The most halloweeny thing I've done was to visit the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival and a nearby pumpkin patch.





Oh, and we watched Donnie Darko, like we do every year.

Tonight, I have rehearsal, so no trick-or-treating for me. I had such a great costume in mind, too. Oh, well. Next year. (Isn't that what I say every year?)

Autumn in Wine Country

To mark his crossing into his thirties, the husband and I spent the weekend in Russian River Valley.

Over the course of two days, we visited 10 wineries and had two exquisite dinners (fennel pollen dusted scallops, coffee encrusted filet mignon!).

We stayed in a cabin with a fireplace and a hot tub. It was a quiet weekend, simple, yet lavish.

I didn't expect to see such a vivid autumn, only 70 miles north of the city. The colors were brilliant, and the air quite cold. Just like New England, but with more wine.

We're in the News

The husband has a google alert set up for the band. Whenever someone posts anything about us on the internets, he gets a notice about it. This morning, he received a notice for this article. Apparently, we're causing a surge of "scantily clad men" in London.

This interested me: "Studies have found that sleepwalking can be brought on by . . . eating cheese." Who knew?

The Better Ahab

A week of rehearsal and immersion in maritime themes.

Watched: Two versions of Moby Dick (one and two).

I'm partial to the latter version despite it's poor production quality, because I have a special affinity for Patrick Stewart. There is no better Ahab. I like Gregory Peck alright, but his Ahab lacks real human emotion. He signifies the character's monomania with one solid, unchanging scowl and calculated, horizontally-directed glares. Stewart injected his Ahab with the full-spectrum of human emotion from glee to dejection, love to hatred. The movie may be silly, but his performance more than makes up for it.

I once saw Patrick Stewart as Prospero in The Tempest at Shakespeare in the Park. I can't imagine anyone could play him better, either.

Lunchtime Environs

Since living in San Francisco, the husband and I have considered the Presidio as special place for us, even though we had no reason why. There was no glistening memory or significant event that took place between us there. I think it must simply be the beauty of it - the striking views of the Golden Gate Bridge, of Land's End, of Marin and the Bay, the eucalyptus and palm trees, the rolling fog, that drew us to it. For whatever reason, the husband and I decided to get married in the Presidio, and make it a significant place for us. Five months later, I am working in the Presidio, and spending every day there. Today I spent my lunch break wandering along Chrissy Field.

With the bridge stretching out before me, Sausalito off to my right, and Alcatraz behind me, I thought about all the places I have spent my lunch breaks. When I worked downtown, I liked to walk the narrow alleys near the Transbay Terminal, and down to the Embarcadero. Before that, I would spend my breaks at the Dahlia Dell behind the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. Before that, I used to eat lunch on top of a stone wall on Lexington Avenue at 53rd street, watching the criss-crossings of pedestrians at the intersection below. Other daily lunchtime environments include Bryant Park, Battery Park, Washington Square Park, Central Park, and Red Square, Moscow.

The Work I Do.

I spend the first half of my day online, ‘researching’ youth brands and products that look like they could use a little advertising help. I watch commercials, I judge their creativity, I research their effectiveness, I find out when the campaign began, and I get contact information for the person in charge. That contact goes into a tickler file to pass on to my company’s Business Development Manager.

I’ve never been so aware of ads. I notice them everywhere now. I think about target audiences, demographics, gender roles, and where I and the people around me fit in to these categories.

I’ve determined that I do not like working in advertising.

I’m sitting at my office desk right now, typing this entry into a word document on my iMac G5. On the wall in front of me is a banner displaying the work we did for Camel. The directive was to ‘reposition Camel as a relevant brand for twenty-something consumers.’ The result of my firm’s work was ‘a brand mark that conveyed quality, masculinity and authenticity.’ Not, of course, cancer and death.

As a member of the target-audience for this campaign, I think the creative work is really cool. It’s artsy, colorful, and urban. None of the people in the ads are holding cigarettes. Instead, wispy, graffiti-esque entrails - resembling the patterns of cigarette smoke - swirl around them, creating a sense of aura and internal rhythm. The accompanying slogan is, "Camel. Life Experience."

What a life it is.

Midday Muse

I took a walk through part of SOMA today. The image above shows my route. With the sun out, my spirits were higher than they have been lately, even as I sweated under my wool turtleneck sweater. I enjoyed seeing new views of the city, and finding narrow alleys lined with humble, squat, brick buildings hidden in the shadows of the modern, glass-encrusted high-rises. Looking up into the second floor windows of these tiny, antiquated commercial blocks, I saw architecture studios, art studios, and secret galleries. I was transported to the alleys of SoHo and the far West Village, to Old San Juan, and Industrial Los Angeles.

I would love to have an art studio in a squat, ivy-lined, brick building someday. A private work space outside of my house, in a city – a quaint little cubby in which to create my art. But for now, I end my lunch break where I started: in the marketing department of an advertising agency.