No, Bill...YOU.

I interrupt this inexcusable blogging hiatus to bring you my submission to the Bill Murray poetry contest, which I believe was my destiny to enter. The contest had a 34-line limit, so a couple stanzas here didn’t make it into my submission. But you lucky readers get the whole thing, uncensored and uncut. Here goes!

To the Duke of Deadpan

Hey there, Bill Murray — or William, or friend
Goofy-pantsed man at the golfers’ pro-am.
Master of all expressions deadpan,
Unlikely lump of a leading man.

Eight brothers and sisters! (I’ve got only 2.)
From wee beginnings, you grew and you grew.
At 6 feet 1 inch, you are no Dr. J
But your presence is felt from the Bronx to the Bay.

Live from New York! You had your premiere
(To a mixture of knee-slaps and occasional jeers.)
You apologized live for your un-funny ways
But I’m begging you, please let this Star War stay.

Yet a star was born, and to the silver screen you went
Horrifying golfers with your anti-gopher bent
The old ladies enthralled you in their putting wares
Carl Spackler, you are sick beyond repair.

You tore through the 80s, a box-office king
(And you’re not only funny — turns out you can sing!)
Stripes and Tootsie and Ghostbusters and Scrooged
And you won fame with honor! Never appeared in the nude.

My relaxing times are spent with Venkman and Ray.
(Forgive me — I prefer #2 to this day.)
Valentine’s Day! World ending! What a bummer, you said.
That Paramas chick wasn’t right in the head.

You saved us from ghosts and goblins and ghouls
Riding Lady Liberty through New York’s avenues
To your fair lady Dana you came to the rescue–
And a satisfied smirk was our sign-off from you.

Hey Bill, you can sail! And you did on try 1.
See what happens when you let loose and have fun?
Dr. Marvin was mean, a real jealous prick.
Like you said to the mayor, “This man has no —-.”

What will tomorrow bring? A repeat of today?
Piano mastery? Un peu de français?
Will you win the heart of Andie M.?
Or will the hum-drum of today continue ad infinitum?

Not sure what to say about Op. Dumbo Drop.
Hey, everybody’s entitled to the occasional flop.
In Space Jam, you played some hoops with His Airness
Winning it all…though you didn’t play defense.

We saw a new Bill in that weird Rushmore flick:
A gloomy rich dude whose intentions were sick.
You’d been lonely, you said, heartbroken and the like
But did you have to run over poor Max’s bike?

Tokyo found you unable to rest
(But consistently head and shoulders above the rest.)
You had to cook your own food and toast all alone
But in the wee hours, you and she would talk on the phone.

So what did you say to Scarlett Jo?!
Maybe I don’t really want to know.
Like her, I felt lost when I saw you go.
To the Oscars you went, with my heart in tow.

Bill! Sometimes I actually wish you were here!
We could sing karaoke; I’d buy you a beer.
It just drives me nuts when people are dumb
But together, we could face them all with aplomb.

Call it karma, call it luck, or you can call it fate,
Everything happens for a reason, mate.
It just doesn’t matter, like you said at camp.
(But that kid won anyway — fast little champ.)

So I’ll leave broken flowers in these few lines to you
A tip of the hat, because it is due.
Maybe not total consciousness, but a life in review–
So Bill, you’ve got that going for you.

However, many modern-day Bruce puritans say that “Dancing In The Dark” is anti-Bruce, his one screw-up in a career otherwise loaded with integrity and artistic vision. To these people I say, get over yourselves! A great pop song is nothing to sneer at. It takes genius to craft something so catchy, even if nobody knows what you’re singing about. (This is a song about soul-crushing isolation, of course; in this regard, it’s like “I’m On Fire’s” little brother who’s everybody’s favorite when they’re little kids, but while big bro goes on to be covered by every artist from Tori Amos to Johnny Cash, little bro isn’t really taken seriously as an adult.)

As the story goes, in an effort to appeal to a younger and more diversified set than his standard 35-45 year-old, whitebread audience, Bruce released a “Dancing In The Dark” remix–otherwise known as the 12″ Extended Dance Remix–fully equipped with glockenspiel, backup singers (not Patti Scialfa, which maybe hurt her feelings?), a doubled-up Bruce reverb effect and what sounds like a drum machine. The end result is way more “Always Something There To Remind Me” than Nebraska.

There are several things I love about this remix and its accompanying video. (None of them are Courtney Cox.)

1) The kick-off to the remix. “Phil Collins Drum Fills” is what Rawle calls them (he loves drum fills). I keep thinking it’s going to be “Some Like It Hot” by Power Station.

2) Bruce does some dancing. Now, Bruce can play a mean guitar, he can slide across an entire stage, and he’s jumped off every piano in America. But can he dance? The better question is, should he dance? Oh, but it’s cute to see him try.

3) Backup singers kick in at 1:32 with some nice “Oh-oh-ohs” then proceed to co-pilot the chorus to its completion.

4) Clarence’s big moment at 1:54. It doesn’t get much more 80s than this (except maybe Clarence’s film debut in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure). Adam Sandler later paid tribute to the Big Man’s exuberant dance move on SNL, which is sadly and inexplicably not on the internet, but here’s a screenshot to give you the gist.

5) At 2:23, the song reminds us (or tries to trick us into thinking) that it’s a Bruce Springsteen song by playing a Born To Run-esque straight-up guitar strumming bit. Very sly!

6) The period from 3:40-5:21. The person making this video (which was produced to go along with the original song, not the remix) had to take some big space-time liberties. One second, Bruce is doing his ill-advised heel-toe walk down the stage, next he’s throwing his hips into a frenzy, then he’s throwing his hands in the air and waving like he just don’t care, and then he’s dancing with Courtney Cox, and then he’s eyeing her in the audience. What a mind-eff! But that’s really what a remix is all about. You don’t know what’s happening, and the only safe thing to do is dance it out! The DJ will take care of you, don’t you sweat it.

Brucemania takes over the vO house in 1986

7) 4:12-4:22. All efforts to remind us that this is a Springsteen song are totally nullified with the “Just dancing…in the dark…WHOA-OH-OH” part. Temporarily, you’re transported to “We Built This City.” Am I right or am I right!

8 ) At 4:55, the girls kick back in. This is the most triumphant part of the song! They all know they successfully crafted a great 80s remix and everybody loves it, and they’re ready to drive it home.

9) The one sucky thing about the remix is that it trims down the Big Man’s sax solo considerably. It’s one of his finest! I don’t care if it is 1984, a synthesizer is no replacement for a Clarence Clemons sax solo. The man blew a door off its hinges, for Pete’s sake.

10) Around 5:55, Bruce takes an explicit and lengthy look right at Courtney Cox’s chestal area. My friend Kristin and I have long disputed what he’s actually looking at. Is it her boobs? She has no boobs, I say. Is he examining his own picture on her shirt? That’s my best guess, but can you imagine Mr. Of The People being so conceited as to check himself out? Is it even possible?

So those are my thoughts on Bruce Springsteen’s foray into the Q102 side of the music scene. It’s a pop music gem, a big hit at any party and a touching glimpse into Bruce’s desire to be popular. In any event, I’m proud to say that “Dancing In The Dark” is one of my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs. Just don’t tell Bruce that.

I know my handiwork isn’t much to look at. But reminders of friends, family and all these world-wide experiences make doing the dishes a real treat and give a globe-trotting feel to the kitchen and everything we cook in it.

I first got the postcard chain idea from Real Simple. But my local grocer didn’t have old-school clothespins, as the magazine suggested using, so I improvised with paper clips and hanging-down twine to give the staggered effect.

The only drawback of the postcard assembly line is that the sun’s shining directly on the actual notes on the backs of the postcards. So in an effort to not lose them forever, I’ll reproduce them here, starting from the young-buck days and working up to the here-and-now.

***

From Erin D. in San Diego (June 3, 2003 – the day before my birthday and no shout-out?!):

Mary,
I wanted to say that I like how we’ve become book-sharing friends, in a way. Maybe someday we will found a book club. I hope so anyway. In any event, traveling rocks. Isn’t it strange that Jersey Deuce’s Pish [the trio of Erin, our friend Kristin and me] will be all over the place this summer? Okay, here’s the expected part – I’m in S. Cali near my hometown of San Diego, where we’ll camp tonight. It’s wonderful. I feel at home.
LOVE, Erin

[I remember Erin telling me about Everything is Illuminated that summer. It remains one of my favorites; who knows what-all I suggested in return. In any event, we did found a book club...only took us 6 years to do it.]

***

From Abby M. in Valencia (March 26, 2004):

Dearest Mary,
Helloo, my dear! I hope things are smooth yet inspiring in your neck of the woods. I’m finding Spain quite an intriguing place. Madrid is a hoppin’ place that’s always available accessible, as long as your energy lasts, which is sometimes not very long! Fortunately that’s a renewable resource which I like to recharge during times like these (late afternoon) with a nice long SIESTA. But during the week my class schedule is very busy – I’m taking 3 lit courses (mostly short stories), 2 film (I’m auditing), 1 language and 1 Art History. I like them all, but my fave is one of the film, b/c I’m in love with the teach, he’s short and chubby stocky and sort of feminine and uses lots of funny colloquial words. A movie you should try to find and watch: El Espiritu de la Colmena (the spirit of the beehive) by Victor Erice, it’s very beautiful.
Love you lots,
Abigail <3 <3 Peace sign.
P.S. The Shins are coming to Madrid April 2!

[Abby and I are kindred spirits in that we both use a lot of adjectives and have very small handwriting. She fit all this into a standard postcard. She's incredible and a lovely friend, as I'm sure radiates through her writing.]

***

Again from my dear friend Erin D., writing from India (can’t read the postmark – May 2004?):

Dear Mary,
Here’s a good one for your wall. I bought a pack of naturey postcards of Tibet in Lhasa and somehow this one of naked meditators was included. I saw some amazing stuff in Tibet, but no naked meditators. Now I’m in India and am about to go to Nepal to finish up my semester abroad. And then I’ll be off to travel around India by myself (+ maybe with my other friend Mary!) for a month. Hope to see you soon.
Love, Erin

***

From lacrosse teammates and friends Katrina M. and Laurie M. in Florence (August 2004):

Dear Mary,
When we saw this we immediately thought of you. He’s just your type.
Actually we really saw the sculpture and it was amazing. Just like you.
Italy is awesome. We’re driving the Italian men crazy.
Love, Kat + Laurie

[The postcard is a picture of David, obvs. I miss passing notes in class with these chicks.]

***

From my parents, writing from the San Diego Zoo (March 2007):

(Dad’s portion) We just spoke on the phone. I hope it warms up by the time you get this. Congrats on staying off carbs. See you soon. Love, Dad
(Mom’s portion) Hi Mary- Giraffes are cool. Nice talking to you just now. I miss you. Love, Mom

***

From Rawle’s sister Crista in Interlaken (July 9, 2008):

Hi Rawle!
Went to Heidiland today. Also visited Liechtenstein (4th smallest country in Europe) and saw Germany and Austria from afar. Went to medieval town in France. My favorite was Geneva and paragliding. Also went to highest peak in Switz, it was snowing and James Bond filmed there!
Miss you! Crista

***
From Lesley S. in San Francisco (September 2009 – foreshadowing, part I):

Rawle and Mary Time,
Omg, I love SF! I went to Alcatraz and sat on a prison cell toilet, biked the GG bridge, went to the symphony, visited almost every city park. SF > Philadelphia. Miss ya much, Plasma.
<3 Lesley

[Upon receiving this postcard, Rawle and I were slightly offended by the SF-Philadelphia comparison. Now that we've moved here, I won't say that she was right, but I won't say she was wrong, either. "Plasma" and "Mary Time" are both supposed to be me.]

***

From Rawle’s dad, writing from San Francisco while visiting Rawle’s brother, Seth (October 2009 – foreshadowing, part II):
Dear Rawle,
Spent two days with Seth in Berkeley. Up in Tahoe tonight with 32° with 55° highs. Back to SAC tomorrow and to Berkeley next Tuesday for our last dinner with Seth.
See you soon, Dad

***

More from Lesley S., writing from Chile (February 2010):

Rawle and M. Time,
¿What’s happenin? Check out Pablo Neruda’s Art Therapy Post(card). I think I bought my first book of poetry today. I am nearing the end of my travels, and I may beat this postcard home. We were in Buenos Aires and visited La Casa Rosada, I think where Juan Peron and Evita Peron lived. I know you don’t speak Spanish but otherwise you would love it here.
<3 Lan-Ann Ann Lan Time!

***

One last entry from Lesley S., in Ireland (June 2010):

Well hello M-time,
It just so happened Pat and I visited Cohn (Queenstown), Ireland which was the last port of call for the Titanic. There was a great ocean liner museum in this town. I am sitting in a hotel lobby with a slight flu whil Pat is watching the World Cup Finals. Go Holland! I hope all is well in San Fran. Also, my brother is engaged. Hi Rawle!
<3, Lan
P.S. Also did you know, a few months after the Titanic accident another cruise liner was bombed by Germans?

[I've been obsessed with the Titanic since I was 8. The onset of my obsession far preceded the movie, though I refuse to change it if it's ever on. Maybe I'll write about my Titanic fascination someday. It will be my magnum opus.]

***

So there they are, my postal peeks into the past.

The more I experience California, the less staunchly East Coast I feel. But full acclimation is no longer the goal; this new life is instead breeding a thirst for travel — to islands (Aruba 2011 – it’s on!), to Santa Cruz (Labor Day 2010 – it happened!), even to the next neighborhood over. If we can be California boys and girls, what else can we be? Where else can we go?

And so, the postcards. With these daily doses of Spain, Italy, India, Ireland, Chile, Switzerland and even Southern California, we’re reminded to always think bigger.

And to be able to, by reading their words, hear my friends’ 20-year-old voices again — well, that’s a trip.

Making a go of it.

Sorry for the absence. This will be a long post, so better use the bathroom now.

Note 1: On returning to the blog habit

The Michael Jackson revival (such that you can’t go to a radio station, wedding or random block without hearing “Billie Jean”) recently celebrated its one-year anniversary; meaning, he’s been gone a year; and so has been my presence from this blog. And while I can’t resuscitate MJ, I can write something once in a while, dammit.

As luck would have it, I’ve got nothing but time these days. So let’s rock.

Note 2: On moving to San Francisco

I’ll skip over the ins and outs of the how and why, because it’s about a job and that’s boring—but wait. Who doesn’t reach a point in a settled and happy life when the thought springs out: If I become unsettled, could I become even happier? When Rawle first introduced the prospect of moving, I thought “No no no.” Tears were shed. But, much like tepidly jumping into cold lake water leads to one saying to one’s still-on-the-dock friends, “It’s really nice once you get in,” the idea grew on me, to the point that thinking we might not be moving was too heartbreaking to bear. At the time, I was working in the travel industry, but I felt a little untraveled, a little static, etc.; so even though I was largely a stowaway (always playing the little sister role, I am) in this westward endeavor, I had my reasons. When you’re a small-town Delaware girl whose largest move ever is from Wilmington to Philadelphia, your figurative wings feel a little like flying, word?

Enough with the Dear Abby response. Here we are in San Francisco, and the reactions are numerous and varied. For instance.

Note 3: On the food

Back when my job was to report on such things, I read a piece on Philadelphia’s dining scene, written by a San Francisco food blogger. “Shoot,” he gushed. “I wish we had stuff like this in Frisco.” So I was nervous that the food in San Fran would pale in flavor, diversity and sheer volume as compared to the cheesesteak, Garces and pierogie palaces of my native city.

Well! One word: Burritos. Another word: Skewers. Two more words: Citrus Club. Four more words: Where have I been?

For the food here is bountiful, plate for plate; inexpensive, just about everywhere; and fresh, as any farmers’-market-crazed city should be. And so effing tasty. My first burrito in San Francisco—not including one I had six years ago, before I had any palate to speak of—was found at Puerto Allegre in the Mission back in April; the three-pound monster bulged (nice) with shrimp and rice, topped with the red enchilada sauce that’s the San Francisco burrito staple. One bite, and I knew the SF move was the right one. And. AND! We were serenaded by Mariachi singers. Such outfits!

The more refined diner in me was ecstatic to find the same freshness at The Slanted Door and Scala’s, two of the city’s most famous dining posts. It’s nice when you discover famous things got that way for a reason.

So, we’re eating well. And not just by way of being waited on; I have been cooking. Prior to this trip, there were three truths about me: I love Bruce Springsteen; certain curves exist on me; and I can’t cook (as the legend goes, the 12-year-old Mary had to call best friend Lesley’s mother to ask “How do you boil water?”). Well you can cross out the third, because I can apparently make stir fry, salads, omelets, more salads, pasta and—Rawle’s favorite—bowls of cereal. So I’m a cook now. Thank the big kitchen (and its dishwasher!), thank my open schedule, whatever. I cook.

Note 4: On the alcohol

You know what’s a fun thing? When you run down to the corner store and discover that they sell six packs and wine (of the store’s three aisles, one is devoted—with annotations—to vino). Then, upon taking your liquid loot to the cashier, you discover the behind-the-counter bounty of cold, hard booze. Mouth agape.

Well, it’s a fun and a dangerous thing. To the Pennsylvanian in me, the ability to procure alcohol so easily feels like that part in Lost when they could make anything they wanted appear (e.g. Locke’s dad). But while the idea is a little Utopian, it’s a little Lord of the Flies, too. I don’t think California should trust me to pick up Knob Creek whenever the mood strikes. Or even wine, for that matter; since arriving, we’ve gone through perhaps 15 bottles, because it’s there, and dinner’s a time for enjoyment, and evening’s a time for alcohol. Well everyday brings another evening, and every meal brings another trip to the store, and…you can see how the need to put on the brakes could arise.

That said, I’m looking forward to working on my wine knowledge and sampling the local brews. That watermelon beer everybody’s so found of is pretty wonderful. And I’m becoming a sake addict. Not addict! Enjoyer. Oh brother.

Note 5: On the weather

It’s cold. Will it always be this way?

My pitiful penguin.

Note 6: On the events

There is always something to do here. Always! My acquaintances in town (guys, I know we’re friends on Facebook, but I won’t be so presumptuous as to think we’re real-life friends. Oh, we are? Great.) are all very creative when it comes to free time. So many baseball games, barbecues, craft nights (I made the worst felt penguin of all the felt penguins at craft night), dinners out, sake bombs, cocktail hours, movies, fireworks shows, hula-hoop outbursts, pinball games, walks in the park, yoga classes, ice cream cones.

(And naps, after all that.)

I’ve been doing the Groupon thing, and the FunCheap thing, and the Google thing, looking for good stuff that jobless folks can enjoy. Well, it’s endless—somewhat offsetting the exorbitant rent fees. I’m currently enjoying three weeks of bottomless yoga at Yoga Garden for only $33, total. Next up: an $11 bootcamp session at AT&T Ballpark. Hurling, on the cheap. Can’t wait.

Pavement.

Note 7: On the rock

Since arriving, we’ve seen shows by Stars (at The Independent), Pavement (at Berkeley’s Greek Theater) and Damien Jurado (at The Bottom of the Hill).

Two reactions, other than that the shows were very good and fun:

1) All the acts vocally expressed how super excited they were to be in San Francisco. So even stars (no pun intended, I guess) can get starstruck about this city. Completely reaffirms our excitement about being here.

2) Not many young people! At all three shows, 27-year-old me was one of the youngest in attendance. Why? Because young people can’t afford to live here. That’s my $0.10 theory, anyway.

Note 8: On driving

We have to get California licenses and a California license plate for the old Jetta. Now, I’ve been holding onto my Delawarean status, driving-wise, since age 16, despite living in Pennsylvania since I was 18. So, when I pass that Schwarzenegger-mandated written driving test—and I will pass that test—a decade of stubbornness and refusal to evolve will be wiped away. (“Thirteen years, down the drain.” –Jerry Seinfeld.)

Another sub-note on the subject: So far, California drivers have been terrible. I’ve never seen so much tailgating and swerving and lack of blinker-using in my life. As a native of the First State—where I spent my underage years with nothing to do but drive around—I take some pride in my work behind the wheel, and I’m not really sure I want to be part of this Californian clan of road ragers.

Mary commits sacrilege.

Note 9: On sports

I recently experienced one of the most awkward moments of my life: I went to an Oakland A’s game (see also: Note 6), and I cheered for them. (Especially when they played the Yankees, and A-Rod fell on his ass trying to catch a perfectly catchable foul ball. I howled! And yelled “Cheater!” And the little kid in front of me, wearing a Jeter jersey, glared at me. I glared right back.)

As a devout follower of the Philadelphia Phillies, it pained me greatly to cheer for a team other than the Fightins. Did this mean I loved the Phillies less? Was I a bad fan? Well, moving to San Francisco is kind of like having the “we’re getting a divorce” talk with the kids. Phillies, I live far away, but it’s not your fault; and I don’t love you any less. (Not that this means Philadelphia and I are on a “we just don’t love each other anymore” basis; bad analogy.)

But the thing is, people here aren’t fanatical about the Bay Area teams like Philadelphians are about their guys in red, green, orange and red/white/blue. The sports fervor isn’t nearly as palpable here as it is at home (for more on “home,” see Note 12). I love sports. Love sports. But it’s just not the way it’s done here, and I’m a little freaked out by it. Poor Rawle is inconsolable about it.

Why the lack of SF sports fever? Well…

Not from here -- is it obvious?

Note 10: On being a transient

The majority of San Franciscans are not from here. A city of transients, it is. From my perspective, this has its good and bad points.

Why it’s good: I’m making an effort to let the mood of the city—mellow, all-embracing, cheerful, fun-seeking—overtake me, because 1) the laid-back approach is a good change of pace for me—e.g. I’m no longer dependent on ponytail holders, the hair-in-the-eyes look I’ve so detested now my way of saying, however forcibly and without much conviction yet, “I’m care-free!”; and 2) I’m trying to fit in. I don’t want to look like an outsider, or—god forbid—a tourist. But when everyone I meet appears to be from other parts of the country (the folks I’ve met are from Norristown, Cincinnati, Philly, Detroit, Connecticut, New York and the Jersey Shore), it’s easy to blend into the sauce.

Why it’s bad: I come from one of the most fiercely loyal cities in the world. If you’re not from Philly, we can tell. Want to become a true Philadelphian? You have to prove it. Here, eat this sack of beef and cheese in five minutes. Conversely, it seems a little too easy to become a San Franciscan. Isn’t there a test I need to pass first? Is that what the driving test is for? And if so, could that explain why the drivers here are so terrible?

Note 11: On looking for work

Since most people ask about this first, I’ve saved it for last. No pain, no gain, guys.

I always know when the dreaded question’s coming: “Do you have a job lined up?” Those seven words, over and over, in that exact order. It seems most people consider my moving here without the security of a job kind of like I’ve been going out with the city for an extended period of time without putting a ring on it. You want to know what my intentions are. Well, I intend to wine and dine the city, get it shamefully drunk and make a truly valiant attempt to go all the way. That is to say: I’m going to enjoy this unemployed, untethered period of my life as much as I can. That, to me, means going to museums during the day, taking buses with no destination in mind, drawing, watching cooking shows, actually cooking, going to concerts, going to yoga class, calling my friends, getting some sun, reading books, writing things down, making plans, keeping plans, making friends, keeping friends. I will love the city, but I won’t be employed by it—not until I’ve played the field a bit.

That said, if you’re my dream job, I won’t reject you. In fact, let’s elope!

[The truth is, I make a truly terrible unemployed person. The above paragraph is long and rambling because I’m not so convinced that I want to be unemployed. When asked “What do you miss most about Philadelphia?” the answer is (other than the obligatory “my family and friends” answer, which is true) that, with the security of a job, I wasn’t faced with the daily question, “What do you want to be?” Not being challenged is an easy thing; it’s much harder to deal with that old “potential” thing. And while I could just enjoy this free time, potential is nagging me when I read a book, when I go for a run, when I make new friends, when I do anything other than look for jobs. What I know but can’t quite accept is that "potential" doesn’t just mean “career”; it also means working towards making every day enjoyable and—to steal a little from Jonathan Safran Foer—illuminated. Relaxing and savoring the moment is a tough thing to do. But that’s my job now, pro bono though it may be.

Alright, enough with the Eat, Pray, Love mumbo jumbo.]

Note 12: On watershed moments

Giving up certain comforts—a job, living close to the fam, paying less than a king’s ransom for rent—can be hard. I’ve had days this month when I’ve felt lost, lonely and poor, and they sucked.

Don’t get me wrong; San Francisco is an amazing city. But I’m not here on vacation. This is my home now. It’s going to take a long time before I stop referring to Philadelphia as “home.” (e.g. “It’s 6:00 here, so it’s 9:00 back home.”) It’s going to be some time before I’ll really come to grips with the fact that I’m a Californian, license or no license.

This morning, I went for a long drive by myself after dropping Rawle off at his downtown office. I kept driving along the coast, making slight left after slight left. Creeping up a hill, the Golden Gate Bridge suddenly, and foggily, came into view. Parking the car, I walked up a wooded area, getting plenty out of breath, until reaching the high point of a cliff. The whole bay was in front of me, anchored by the bridge on the left and the curve of Fisherman’s Wharf on the right. A man was doing yoga about 200 feet beneath me, and a collection of men in heavy raincoats held fishing poles on a small dock jutting into the bay. Two miles north of where San Francisco ended and the bay began, the sun appeared to be shining over Sausalito.

It was then that all the amazement of living in San Francisco finally washed over me. It was my very own Double Rainbow, All the Way moment. And aside from the 2008 World Series celebration on Broad Street, I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

-Bruce Springsteen, 1984

In happier times: the 1980's.

Yesterday’s celebrity news inevitably led to today’s 80′s overload.

Which got me to thinking: What are my favorite 80′s songs ever, ever, ever? Being an 80′s kid, this is my bread and butter. And so,

GREATEST 80′s SONGS EVER AS DETERMINED BY PISH DE LUXE

- Star to Fall, Boy Meets Girl
- Break My Stride, Matthew Wilder
- Everyday I Write the Book, Elvis Costello
- How Will I Know, Whitney Houston (edging out “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”)
- Your Love, The Outfield
- Gypsy, Fleetwood Mac (so good it shouldn’t even count.)
- Hungry Eyes, Eric Carmen
- Eternal Flame, The Bangles
- Our Lips are Sealed, The Go-Gos
- Everlasting Love, Howard Jones
- No One is to Blame, Howard Jones (couldn’t choose!)
- I’m Alright, Kenny Loggins
- Human Nature, Michael Jackson
- Dancing in the Dark, Bruce (the only 80′s song by Bruce that I consider an actual 80′s song)
- Borderline, Madonna (doubles as my favorite Madonna song, edging out “Live To Tell”)
- Little Red Corvette, Prince (“You must be a limousine!!!”)
- We’ve Got Tonight, as sung by Kenny Rogers and Sheena Easton
- Against All Odds, Phil Collins
- Don’t Lose My Number, Phil Collins
- Easy Lover, Phil Collins and Phillip Bailey
- Phil Collins catalog
- If Ever You’re In My Arms Again, Peabo
- King of Wishful Thinking, Go West
- Africa, Toto
- Private Eyes, Hall and Oates
- The Stroke, Billy Squier (which I don’t love that much but damn if it don’t make me dance!)
- Goonies Theme Song, Cyndi Lauper
- Sister Christian, Night Ranger (emotional!)

Maybe I should stop. A friend just said, “Who creates a “favorite 80s song list”? Are you crazy?” Well to quote Dan Akroyd in my favorite movie, Ghostbusters II, “I guess so, Pete!”

Oh sheez, how could I forget:

- On Our Own, Bobby Brown (Ghostbusters II Theme Song)
- Every Little Step, Bobby Brown

But anyway. What am I missing?!?

“When we first started hanging out together, this morning, we were just friends; but things change, and I’ve fallen in love with you. I just know that if you gave me a chance, I could make you feel so good. So I am coming, not as your buddy, and not as a co-counselor, but for the first time as a man – a man who loves a woman, and who wants to hold her and provide for her and, yes, have sex with her; but no, seriously, Katie, I love the way you laugh and I love the way your hair smells and I love it that sometimes for no reason you’re late for shul, and I don’t care that you’re bowlegged and I don’t care that you’re bilingual – all I know is that I would have said no to every single person on your list because I’ve always wanted you.” –Coop to Katie, Wet Hot American Summer

Unabashed in her birthday zealotry

Today is my 26th birthday. I am the birthday girl.

I got to thinking about what that means today, with near tragic results. As I was walking to work (20 mins late cause f*ck it, I’m the birthday girl), I almost got run over by a rogue cyclist. I could see the crime scene play out in front of me: I’m laying there in my bright red dress and lipstick, x’s over my eyes. The trenchcoated Detective 1 takes a deep drag from his cigarette and, exhaling, murmurs to Detective 2, “Goddamnit. She was the birthday girl.” “Hate to see that, Roy,” says Detective 2.

So it’s a special thing. But not only do you get the presents and the fanfare, you get excused from pretty much all liability.

Things You Can Get Away With When You’re the Birthday Girl:

- Breaking plans (“Sorry, I have other plans now, being that I’m the birthday girl.”)

- Breaking your BF’s Phillies 1980 World Series commemorative mug ([sobbing] “I’m so sorry, what have I done, I broke your favorite thing on my birthday.”)

- Stealing fries off your friend’s plate ([mumbled] “Wha? I’m the birfday girl.”)

- Listening to “Almost Paradise” from the Footloose soundtrack. (“Almost paradise, we’re knocking on Heaven’s door, cause I’m the birthday girl.”)

- Wearing an outrageous outfit to work. (“Oh is that your birthday sweater?” “Yes, I’m the birthday girl.” [special thanks to J.E.M.])

- Throwing tantrums and generally making an ass of yourself to your family. Who’s going to yell at you? (Mom to sister: “Leave her be, it’s her special day, cause she’s the birthday girl.”)

It goes on and on! I’m looking forward to 14 more hours of this.

“Well,” I said, “I’d buy a house with a huge writing room. Lots of books and a dope sound system. Plus a wet bar.”

My suggestion was met with “ooh”s and “yes, you’d love that”s — until my friend Kyle (ever the devil’s advocate) argued, “Why don’t you just write in your apartment?”

“My apartment sucks. There’s a goddamn hole in the ceiling.”

“Mary! It’s a great apartment. Just sit down and write something and stop complaining.”

This got me to thinking about my Center City abode, generally lauded by me and, apparently, my landlord, who refuses to do anything about the hole in said ceiling. But for all its shortcomings — size, pitifully small refrigerator and terrifying basement — it’s a tiny spot in the world that often enough feels like home.

Let’s have a look.

Open the door and you’re immediately overpowered by chartreuse, thanks to the painterly efforts of Rawle and (to a lesser extent) me!

One of the apartment’s main selling points was its large window. The ledge is perfect for perching oneself with a cocktail and a good book.

Being an uncontrollable collector of stuff, I love my mantel (even more than the now-defunct fireplace beneath it). You’ll notice here that I’ve got quite the beer sign, which my dad stole from a liquor store in Aruba when he was a kid. As my friend Abby said in high school, “What idiot spelled beer wrong?” Classic.

Here’s a spelling bee trophy I won in 5th grade. First place, alright! Then in the district final, I lost when I forgot to say the ‘o’ in ‘comparison’ like a jerk.

I love to ski. When I went on a ski trip a few years ago, I was so excited that I said to my friend Kristin, “I wish I had a button that said, ‘I am going on a road trip!’” She said, “Gimme five minutes” and came back with this.

Here’s a passage I love from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. (I’m aware that I spelled the name Tereza two different ways.)

This is what you call a kwihi table. Kwihi trees, native to Aruba, are bent in the direction that Aruba’s famously strong tradewinds blow. This leads to some seriously gnarled branches and a good conversation starter.

Hey, everybody has a first love. I doodled this when talking to mine on the phone my senior year of high school.

My dad made this stool in 8th grade shop class. Don’t sit on it.

Across the studio is Bookshelf Central. The spot between the twin bookshelves has been the topic of much discussion. When my parents recently bought a grand piano, I inherited the old upright I’ve been playing for 20-odd years. This is where it would have gone, had I decided to pay hundreds of dollars to move a piano to a semi-permanent home. So a collapsible sofa it was, and a piano is once again on the wish list.

A quick close-up look at Bookshelf 1 (left):

I’m a Dutch girl.

And Bookshelf 2 (right):

Here I am playing piano with my brother Andrew (left) and my niece Charlotte about 15 years later (right):

Here’s my dad playing hoops at Georgetown (right), somehow not getting called for over the back:

A boy once gave me this Deputy Dog piggy bank on a first date. The boy didn’t last but the dog sure did.

And now, the closet. My closet is the ballz. It’s my Carrie Bradshaw closet.

It’s almost palatial!

I’ll take this opportunity to draw your attention to my whale bag. My irrepressibly talented friend Lan (Lesley to you) made this for my birthday. She’s also a renowned metalsmith, gardener, carpenter, ferret corner maker (you’ll have to ask her) and dog outfit designer. She’s a real find.

My bathroom isn’t miraculous or nothing. But it packs a punch.

And now, the various doo-dads. My Dutch grandfather was made an officer in the Kingdom of the Netherlands, and everyone in my family has a reproduction of the original commendation, which hangs in my parents’ house:

A rosary hangs next to my bed in true Catholic fashion. (But I still ate chicken on Good Friday.)

I was given this Dewar’s candle by Steve the Bartender, famous for his work at the fallen Kelliann’s (now Local 44). So dawn goes down to day, nothing gold can stay.

My masterpiece: my first-grade autobiography. It reads, “My haer is brown but it is tenning black. and I’m a rock star. and I have Three watches.” Check out my sweet side pony and L.A. Gears! N.B. The ‘Christina’ bit was completely made up. I went through a renaming-of-myself phase for a few years there.

Alas, those shortcomings. Here’s the famous hole in my ceiling. Apparently the problem is with the bum roof. What’s the point, says the landlord, of patching up your ceiling if the roof isn’t fixed? Because I’m breathing in raw ceiling, I say. It’s never ending.

But don’t let that deter you from stopping by! I have vermouth and toothpicks. Vodka’s in the freezer (the two-inch frozen space inside my mini fridge).

OH I sincerely hope you enjoyed this photo tour of my home. It’s no dream house, but it’s my life for the here and now. And who knows: If my friends are right and this is my dream writing room, this shack of a studio may inspire me to write the Great American Novel. Starring: a girl who discovers the 5th dimension in her ceiling.

So of course we taped it. (Audio seriously NSFW!)

Rawle’s saying “That’s not safe” at the end. Even less safe, I think, would have been for us to interfere. That girl is scary!

Oh I do hope they work it out.