On B(r)e(a)st Behavior

In a city like SF, where you can always count on the fog and never on the sun, on the rare occasions when the weather warms up for real, women and their faithful companions (…) sometimes are caught unprepared.

The below is my humble attempt at offering SF ladies some guidelines on how to react to such unusual circumstances. Disclaimer: the b(r)e(a)st practices were gleaned from observing actual San Franciscans in their own habitat, Discovery Channel-style.


So here’s what some owners might like to do with them on a warm weekend: 

The San Francisco War Memorial Opera

1.  Squeeze them into tight, deep-cut dresses and take them out to watch Faust on Friday night at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera. If they get bored, use your binoculars to find other cousins of theirs exposed to high culture in the rows below. Unless, of course, you’re in box seats, in which case you’ve paid so much money, you’d rather faint than admit you’re bored. Suck it up.
2.  Let them aerate in flimsy dresses, taking advantage of an extremely warm Saturday afternoon. Maybe take them to grab a bite at Elite Café and then walk down Fillmore Street, spying on the state of other globular objects.
3.  If it’s too warm (I know, fat chance) cool them off with a wine spritzer in the shade of the Kabuki Cinema. While you’re there,  take them to see SATC II, where they can gawk, together with you, at the girls’ outrageous and impossible ensembles, like high-heels in the middle of the desert, and shoulder pads adorned with life-sized poleaxes and other medieval weapons.

The Kabuki Sundance Cinema on Fillmore

1.  In the evening, fit them into a strappy top and try to keep them in it, as bartenders at Asia SF will diligently attempt to apply non-fat whipped cream in their general area. An impressive array of bras in all colors, shapes and sizes hangs above the Asia SF downstairs bar, reminding all visitors that this is a place of liberte, egalite, fraternite and, occasionally, toplessness-ite. Alternately, if owners are brides to be and engaged in bachelorette party activities (of which there were at least five on Saturday night two weeks ago), said items could end up spending a significant amount of quality time with rear ends of tranny divas, as part of obligatory pre-nup lap-dance rituals. Onstage.
2. If the warm weather persists (as a result of some cataclysmic climate changing-event), you have two options: go flower power or hop on yer bike. For the former, all you need is, yes, no bra and a tie-dye top that will accommodate fluid movement as you shake to the beats of the drum circle in Golden Gate Park. For the later, "support and cover" are the operative words -  if not for yourself, at least for the sake of drivers coming from the opposite direction. You don’t want to have them on your conscience

SF Drum Circle on a colder day 

Et voila! SF ladies - am I missing anything?

Hard Liquors of the Balkans

Rummaging through my bottom drawer at work, I found (among empty boxes of knee-high trouser socks, manhandled paper clips and empty Tupperware) a bottle of the famed "Ţuică"– the traditional Romanian liquor made out of plums.

I proceeded to trick one of my co-workers into trying it. “It smells sweet,” he said. “It’s made out of fruit,” I said, disingenuously. “My grandma makes it.” I filled the bottle’s cap and passed it to him. He took a swig and nearly died. A few minutes later, eyes watery and red-faced, he managed to croak, throat visibly throbbing “Wow. Grandma likes it strong.”

Before alienating any more of my American colleagues with shots of unexpectedly strong Romanian moonshine, here’s an outline of what Ţuică is, how it’s made and who are its other Balkan/East European cousins.

1. Ţuică [tsui-ka] (Romania) – Double or triple-distilled alcohol, traditionally out of plums or, the poor man’s version, out of fermented grape skins left over from the wine press. Variations include pear, apple (Ed’s favorite) and apricot (although that one is dangerously close to schnapps territory) and is sometimes also know as Palinka, a stronger version. Ţuică is drank before dinner/lunch, with an appetizer of fresh cheese or home-made cheese pastry and is usually enjoyed in the company of guests. Anywhere between 40% and 60% ABV (alcohol by volume). My grandma’s, clearly, leans towards the higher end of the spectrum …
2. Rakia [rakija] (Bulgarian: ракия) - Distilled alcohol made out of plums or mixed fruits throughout the Slavic countries (Bulgaria, Bosnia, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, etc.) I can only speak about Bulgarian Rakia (ракия) because that’s the only one I tried (repeatedly). Rakia is best before dinner, with a platter of smoked and dry meats and salty cheese, and the excellent Shopska Salata the make in Bulgaria: chunky tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and fresh cheese, occasionally topped with grilled peppers. Yum – Mnogo Dobre!!
3. Tsipouro (Greek: Τσίπουρο) – Tzuica and Rakia are both related to Greece’s Tsipouro, a drink made out of the residue of the wine press. Like many enlightened things, tsipouro is said to have been invented by monks, who, in a spirit of economy, thought up new ways to recycle leftover grape skins into something of value. And what value: 45 % ABV, to be drank cold or hot, depending on the season.
4. Grappa (Italy) – I would be remiss not to include the Italian liquor in this prestigious line-up, since it’s the analogy I use most often to explain Tzuica to my American friends. Given their facial expressions at the mention of Grappa, though, I may not be doing Tzuica any favors (…). This Italian liquid jewel is also made from grape-based pomace and is in the same ABV range as the above. However, Grappa differs from Tzuika, Rakia and Tsipouro in that it is served as a “digestif” rather than an “aperitif,” which brings it into the same family as limoncello, brandy, tequila and wiskey.

  

Weapons of Art and Artifacts of War

A few evenings ago, in conversation with a friend, I was reminded of a piece of art I’d seen on display at SF’s very own DeYoung museum. The piece in question looks like a bronze-cast miniature cathedral, very accurate and beautifully detailed. Upon closer inspection, it comes almost as a shock to the unprepared eye that the roof of the cathedral is made out of bullets, and, slowly, it dawns on you, the viewer, that the whole of it is built out of shells, bullets, parts of rifles and pistols and so on.

The cathedral in question is, in fact, a reliquary. You can check out the artist’s web site here to learn more about him and his work. In the middle of the nave rests a human spine (or human-looking, I haven’t actually investigated the origin of the bones; besides, I’m a fan of ambiguity), and the piece is titled “The Spine and Tooth of Santo Guerro.” Other of the artist’s pieces are reliquaries holding Santo Guerro’s (Spanish for “Saint War” or “Holy War”) “trigger finger,” teeth, ribs, etc. 

So, in the context of his other works, I’m taking the cathedral to be a metaphor for all the nonsensical things people sacrifice and/or build in the name of war: lives, dreams, mausoleums, monuments.

 

Santo Guerro’s cathedral is a monument to death and destruction, created from the very instruments through which death and destruction are brought upon innocents. I wonder if, by choosing to build a cathedral rather than a laic monument, if Al Farrow wasn’t trying to say: Religion breeds war. But that’s just idle speculation…

In a strange twist of thought, talking about Santo Guerro’s cathedral brought about memories of a similar artifact that I had read about on Wikipedia – thanks to the daily featured pages. “La Escopetarra” – a guitar made out of a modified gun, invented by Colombian peace activist César López in 2003. Read Wiki’s whole article here.

Allegedly, the artist attempted to gift one of only five escopetarras to the Dalai Lama, but a member of the Dalai Lama's staff rejected his offer, citing the inappropriateness of giving a weapon as a gift.

Side by side, these two artifacts strike me as opposites stemming from the same source. La Escopetarra is a symbol of hope and transformation: a weapon married with a musical instrument ultimately sheds its bellicose purpose and becomes a vehicle for art or, at least, a symbol of art.

Santo Guerro’s cathedral, born out of empty bullet shells, bears a bleaker message: foolish people erect monuments to their destructive gods, perhaps in an attempt to make amends, but they build on a foundation of violence and destruction.

As an art lover, I take delight in both pieces, different as their message may be. They kindle in me a feeling of wonder at man’s ability for reinvention. You know, swords into ploughshares et al.  And, in the end, what is life if not dichotomy? Santo Guerro and La Escopetarra are two sides of the same coin. We wage wars, we make peace, we build cathedrals, we make love, and then we wage some more war. History is cyclical.

A Camelia Shaped Hole in the World?

There is something to be said about the virtues of life off-line.

For a week in lovely La Saladita, Mexico, I experimented with the concept of being completely disconnected from the internet and phone and I immersed myself in the immediate reality. I have to say:  for someone who works and practically lives online, there were almost no withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, it helped that I was in the great company of my better half, on a clean, quiet beach away from the hustle and bustle of a city (or even village), with a great long wave to continue my  pursuit of standing on a surfboard and three books.

The result: books were read, conversations were had, naps were taken (ah, the sweet naps), food was eaten (lots of it) and Spanish was spoken. Perhaps the most surprising result of this trip was the discovery, upon return and due plug-in, that NOTHING HAD CHANGED. Not the bad things (Deepwater Horizon still spilling, Iran still enriching away), not the good things (our plants still alive, the apartment not burnt down, friends still recognize us), not the other things (memos still need to be sent, mail still needs to be sorted).  Just Facebook is looking a little more dull.

“Of course!” you’ll say. “What did you think would happen in a week?”

But this feeling that the online and offline world goes on without you, whether you’ve voluntarily or involuntarily absconded from it, this feeling is eerie. In a way, it’s almost like a preview of how the world would unfold in my absence if the great eraser in the sky worked my stick figure out of the great scheme. There would be nothing left behind me.  Dried apple cores and postcards.  

I'm humbled. And tanned. :-)