S n a r k A t t a c k

Better than a Ski Jump

Anyone who's driven or walked up the City's steepest hills inevitably thinks of Worst Case Scenarios involving various hill-related mishaps, such as an ill-fated rollerblading outing or the tragedy of a nanny whose grip on a stroller fails at an inopportune moment. Occasionally I'll imagine that I'm wheelchair-bound and have rounded the corner, triumphant at my physical prowess at having rolled myself up such a terrifically steep hill, only to lose focus and sail down California, gaining speed until I'm faced with the terrible dilemma of throwing myself out of the chair immediately to stop my descent or to assume the position and just go for the front page death - "'She was a blur,' reported Greta Schfinkelhurst, of Bonn, Germany, on vacation with her husband and two children. 'We thought she would make it until her wheel caught in the cable car tracks,' said John Hauser, a lifelong City resident who specializes in caricatures of movie stars and who happened to catch her descent on video. 'It really was something.' He is considering memorializing Moira's flight down California with a series of caricatures featuring celebrities in wheelchairs, their hair flying in the wind."

Of course, recently the City allowed Jonny Mosely to install a ski jump on Fillmore Street which I wasn't a fan of - in part because it was impossible to get a good view (churlish, I know) but more because of the day and half of helicopters overhead. Helicopters, it turns out, are LOUD. And suddenly I have an urge to yell at kids to get off my lawn.

The ski jump aside, I missed another SF-hill-related event: the dumping of thousands and thousands of SuperBalls on Filbert, Leavenworth and Kearny. So what if it's for a commercial - the end result is sublime.

(Click on pic to see the full photoset on Flickr.)

And then check out the resulting commercial here and read all about the ball drop and the making of the ad here. (Via SFGate Culture Blog.)

Tomorrow: Why "Since U Been Gone" is the new "I Will Survive." (Does it go without saying that this is particularly for the gay and lesbian community? Do straights know all the words to "I Will Survive"? I think not. Get your talking points ready. Perhaps some of you might even care to de-lurk and if Gloria Gaynor in a bitch-fight with Kelly Clarkson doesn't get your little digits ready to tap out a Strongly Worded Comment, I don't know what will. I really don't. Seriously, you would have to be made of stone. This reminds me - let's all give Ted Leo another listen, shall we?)

Bad Hair Day

I know what you're thinking.

"You? Have a bad hair day? Impossible!"

The hair is fine, so you can put down the phone. But see, here's the thing: it's merely fine. It's pedestrian. Normal.

Bland.

Of course, in the hair's defense, it may be spectacular but I just can't see it because the circumstances under which it was cut and styled were so incredibly stressful as to have tainted mon coiffure with a carapace of anxiety. Carapace! Anxiety!

This all happened because I made the mistake of mentioning my imminent move to my stylist. My stylist's hold on the English language approximates that of Bumble & Bumble Defrizz on hair, which is to say it's not so much a 'hold' as it is an effective solution for piece-ing and separating really thick hair and/or syntax. As such, I had to repeat every answer to every question she asked about my move, not to mention repeating answers to questions which I misheard, so half the time I was just guessing at what she'd asked and inevitably every true answer to every imagined question led to another line of questioning which created more imaginary questions and - well, you get the picture. Imagine an M.C. Escher painting inspired by Torquemada and we're there, people.

Her questions covered every single thing that has been keeping me up at night and which I'd frankly rather not talk about, and certainly not talk about slowly and loudly, over the hum of the hairdryers and within earshot of several women wearing tin foil shingles on their heads.

As a result, I emerged with shorter hair and enough stress to power a small village.

I'm better now, though. I've shared my plans with my bosses, who seemed kind of okay with it (2+ months of notice will do that), and that alone alleviates a good chunk of my anxiety. I've also reserved a moving truck. Baby steps, people.

Did I mention the glass of syrah? See, the syrah is to my anxiety what Bumble & Bumble Gloss is to my move-induced stress...

And speaking of vain...

I cannot even begin to describe to you how aweome the hair is. I hate to go to bed for fear that I might ruin it, but here's a secret, dear reader: It will still be awesome in the morning.

The Stalker in My Pants.

Honestly, I don't know where to begin except to say this: I am starting to get wrinkles. This is beyond alarming. You see, we are a small and brown people. Our MO? We don't wrinkle; we spread. I have accepted the spreading, the inevitability of always suspecting that I was being followed, only to turn around and realize my stalker was indeed behind me all the time, in my pants. Oh, flat ass, why you gotta be such a hater? But really, this is not about the ass or the spreading because as I said, I'm owning it. I am all over it. It's the price for no wrinkles. But now - what's this? TINY TINY TINY BUT THEY ARE THERE - the crack in the windshield about to spread from a tiny crystal starfish into giant crevasses spanning the horizon until without warning you are driving along, minding your own bidness and you hit a giant deer and you are dead. Actually, that has nothing to do with the flat ass, the windshield or anything else but suddenly I found myself talking about asses, wrinkles and realized that I could not care less about this. I'm just not that kind of girl. Besides, my hair? STILL AWESOME.

So let's talk about Hooters.

Now, I like to say that I go to Hooters in an ironic, trucker cap kind of way but really, I just go for the wings. People never believe that but if you come with me to Hooters you'll see that deep down I'm a little uncomfortable with the entire pantyhose-under-orange-shorts avec thickly applied makeup look. I just want the wings please. And when the wings are gone, let's play the tourist and go to Ghirardelli Square and have fudge sundaes the size of my nephew and then commandeer the massage chairs at Sharper Image, because nothing says "Make me throw up" like hot wings, beer, sundaes the size of my nephews and a giant La-Z-Boy with a function labelled 'percussive' that is designed to make everything not nailed down shake violently like a can of Sherwin-Williams. Seriously, I don't know how you spend MLK Day, but I loved the hell out of mine.

So Unfair, and YET:

Somedays I think someone is just going to have to stop me from unleashing my awesome hair on the world.

And today, people, is one of those days.

In other news, I've been reading - contrary to list at the left - Al Franken's book, Lying Liars etc. It's delightful and a quick read, containing many charts and wide margins as it does, and so befitting my adult onset ADD. I recommend it. You might also check out Ben Bagdikian's Media Monopoly while you're at it. It's not as funny though. N.B. Bagdikian is not a hobbit.

Everyone's gearing up for Thanksgiving and I was thinking about those poor souls on the restricted calorie diets. You know the ones - they think they can live to 140 if they severely restrict their calorie intake because such longevity has been shown in calorie-restricted, uh, labs.

Advocates of the strategy, known as calorie restriction, or C.R., insist they're not dieting to get skinny but rather to have the last laugh. Eat smart enough, they say, and you can live to see great-great-grandchildren, not to mention postpone the onset of cancer, diabetes, heart disease and kidney failure.

"Aging is a horror and it's got to stop right now," said Michael Rae, a vitamin researcher from Calgary, Alberta, [Damn Canucks up to no good again.] and a board member of the Calorie Restriction Society, which has about 900 ultralean members worldwide [Not counting the ones in Bangladesh or in Calista Flockhart's living room]. "People are popping antioxidants, getting face lifts and injecting Botox, but none of that's working," he said. "At this moment, C.R. is the only tool we have to stay younger longer." It's worth mentioning that Mr. Rae is 6 feet tall, weighs just 115 pounds and is often very hungry. [He would, however, like to thank the members of the 101st Airborne for rescuing him from his captors.]

In a society obsessed with dieting, in which fads increasingly have the power to reshape the eating habits of millions � the Atkins diet, the South Beach diet � the C.R. lifestyle, with its abstinence ethos, will probably never win mass appeal. But the extremism of the diet does seem to fit the present mood, so much so that last month, the President's Council on Bioethics released a report specifically mentioning calorie restriction, and warning, "The pursuit of an ageless body may prove finally to be a distraction and a deformation."

Researchers have known about the Methuselahan powers of eating less since the 1930's, when a Cornell University nutrition professor unexpectedly discovered that dieting rats tend to live 30 percent longer. Similar reactions have since been found with fruit flies, monkeys and Labrador retrievers, but the impact of calorie reduction on humans has been mostly speculative.

Right now, if the pup could read, she be very upset with - hey! What am I saying! I'd have a reading dog! Ooh, if she could talk too... the mind reels. I wonder what she'd have to say for herself when I start asking the hard questions like, 'What is it about poop that says to you, 'Eat me'?' or 'Why do you love the woman at the dry cleaners so much even though you make her run away behind the hanger pile to get away?' Or my favorite, 'remember that time I rolled up the car window on your nose?' (Good times, my friends. Good times.)

Happy Thanksgiving.

Anime Hair!

Well, not really. My hairstylist is Japanese. A few cuts ago we gave me an anime hairstyle. She was thrilled that my hair was up to the challenge. 'Sometimes,' she said, in very heavily accented English, 'white people' - she covered her mouth and looked around the salon guiltily - 'want that kind of cut but their hair can't handle it. But you!' she exclaimed brightly. 'You can do it!' (All was plummy until it grew out into the 'do of the Lost Member of Menudo.)

This time, we went more 'feminine.' Yes, she covered her mouth when she said that too. I have no idea why. Great cut. I come home feeling smug and hair-forward, but a little sad because my hairstylist is Japanese and during the lull in the conversation I felt I had to pull out the linty-Lifesafer-at-the-bottom-of-the-purse of a topic:

'So, you see Lost in Translation?'

Good thinking, sunshine. It takes place in Japan. Let's talk about that. (Of course, she hasn't seen it.) Ask me about Tipping the Velvet. Or Ellen. Argh. Why do I assume that because she's Japanese she'd want to talk about this? Why why why?

Why? Because I'm Worth It.

Many years ago I saw a photo in a magazine of a woman and thought, That is the hair that I deserve.

It was hair that says I make more than you do, have more friends than you and have a lower body fat percentage than you. In short, it was Power Hair. Hair that Kate Jackson had (in Charlie's Angels, not in Scarecrow and Mrs. King when it was all permed and scraggly). Hair that said I'm taller than you, which is not to say it was high hair, not "the higher the hair, the closer to God" so popular in country music circles (and New Jersey). No, it was hair that strongly implied height, and was so thick you could lose your keys in it. That's the hair that I want.

And thus, I was rendered powerless and fitty bucks lighter when confronted by a liter sale at the Aveda salon. Come on, people. Am I made of stone? Do I not bleed when pricked?

(Okay, I have to admit just typing 'pricked' made me giggle.)

BTW, I am purposely not commenting on current events because I was awakened by an anger-inducing story on NPR about the erstwhile gay bishop whose confirmation was suddenly thrown into doubt because of an allegation that he'd touched someone inappropriately. Now someone says something, but never during his rise to this position, never at any other part of the confirmation process, but now, when the world is watching.

I would be more upset if I wasn't such a cynic. I heard this story this a.m. and thought, Figures.