Lunamania

I'm pleased to report that as of last week, I am not so gainfully under-employed.

As many of you know, a number of months ago, I started a transition from the small non-profit I worked for to embark on a path to Who Knows Where. All I knew at the time is:
1. I was consumed by my job and I needed to re-assess my relationship to work.
2. Due to the above, I needed to leave to have head space to figure out what I wanted to do next.
3. I had become a professional identity pimp and could not see a feasible way out.
4. Non-profit management was not my desired career path for the next 5 years (maybe later).
5. The mere thought of writing a grant report or tending to a personnel issue --no matter how small--made me physically ill.
6. I developed alarming repetitive stress injuries that made me very cranky.
7. Because of my poor time management and other bad habits, I grew resentful of the very "cause" or whatever it was that brought me to this kind of work.
8. I was neglecting Lunamania-esque activities such as lounging w/friends, tending to my animals, exploring the area with Monkey, cooking and you know, basic things.
9. My head was so constipated that I was unable to finish a novel in over 9 months. Somehow that was one of the more Wake Up Call type indicators in this process.

I'd think of a 10 just to round it off nicely, but since I could go on and because navel gazing via a blog is boring--as opposed to the other insightful things I share here--I'm going to stop.

Suffice to say, I'm eager and excited to be starting a Phase I or II or whatnot of transition and adventures. Thanks to everyone for your patience and humor. I'll keep folks posted on how I'm spending my time--activities like going to the library and drinking beer in the middle of the day.

Posted by at 8:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Some of you have asked, "what do you do at work?" A question I ask myself on a daily basis...

In a nutshell, one of the "things I do" is advance policies that protect the rights of immigrants (particularly newcomers) to access critical public services. That generally means 1) making sure agencies aren't doing wack things to people based on immigration status, and 2) expanding language assistance so people can access important public services and participate fully in civic life--you know, little things like call 911 and vote. For the most part, my recent work has focused on 2. So now you know. On occassion, I get to rant and rave in public about these things.

Today's San Francisco Chronicle features an op-ed written by my colleague Phil Hwang at the Lawyers' Committee and yours truly.

It's a piece urging the San Francisco Police to get their act together and move on a language access policy. I have refrained from bombarding my friends with random requests to join CAA or sign this that or the other thing. Every once in a while, I intrude on Lunamania to make a plug--but very rarely. However, this thing has consumed much of my work life the last year and I am compelled to make a plug. It requires no money and will take 15 seconds. What and why?

As some may note, "the police suck, why should we care whether people can call the police?" True, the police can be brutal. In 2003 and again in 2004, after being called to the scene by immigrant San Franciscans, the police shot 2 people. Both were immigrants and were seeking mental health services. In both cases, the police allowed the situation to escalate to shootings due to the lack of language assistance. Police have interrogated children without interpreters or parents present; interviewed batterers rather than victims of domestic violence, relied on children as interpreters, the list goes on. It's also important to remember that police render life-saving services on a regular basis. Immigrants are disproportionately high victims of crimes and it's the responsibility of the police and other public agencies to engage in effective community based policing. That, of course, requires being able to communicate with people. So, we've been trying to hold the police accountable and I hope you'll lend a hand too.

Please consider signing this petition and sending a quick letter to the editor thanking them for running the op-ed.

The email to the editor does not have to be detailed, just a simple, "Thanks for the language access op-ed. My breakfast cereal was much tastier when accompanied by this insightful piece, " or "It's so important that issues impacting immigrant communities are highlighted in the Chron. I now have a reason other than Bad Reporter to read this paper."

Posted by at 1:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I swear I've shared this before, but a search returns nothing. Hmm...It's not Wednesday Tune Day, but no mind. I feel there are a number of blog worthy Lunamania happenings, but I my head is still all over the place.

Since I'm feeling a.d.d. I'll share one of my deep thoughts and hope it will go away: I think my heart rate monitor is broken.
It continues to clock me in the mid-high 200 bpm range. Tony points out that's a more appropriate reading for a hummingbird. Given that my maximum heart rate is somewhere in the 188 range (check out Tony's blog for delightful fitness geekery), mid-high 200 would mean cardiac arrest or something equally scary. In a brilliant experiment, I strapped the thing on my very accomodating Monkey and then had her run around the lake with me as I constantly checked her heart rate. Yes, I can be obsessive and absolutely, the Monkey is a good sport. Along the way, I violated some invisible goose boundary and had a Mother Goose hiss at me. Who knew geese could hiss? If I had my heart rate monitor on, it would have registered at like 300. Those geese are BIG.

I do not expect anyone to actually still be reading this entry, but these are the ridiculous things floating around in my head. I do know there are some runners reading this (I hope). If you have any advice--especially around seeing whether it's the chest strap or watch that is broken, I'd appreciate it.

Ok, on to the tune. Dana Owens, aka Queen Latifah and Hard Times.

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Gym log since last posting:
Run: Lake Merritt 3.4 mi.
Swim 1000, run 3 mi
Swim 1000, run 4 mi.
Swim 1150.

Posted by at 5:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Thanks to my nature loving, hot pot eating, wild animal fearing friends, I spent Friday night at Steep Ravine campgrounds near Stinson Beach. This site was breathtaking, or as Nobuko would say, "gorgeous." It felt like another world, but being able to see Twin Peaks from the site reminded me how close and far we are from this kind of nature respite. It's only 45 minutes away, but felt like light years from the all consuming city head space and daily life.

Actually, spying the city lights made it feel not quite like light years, but a touch closer which is a good thing. Being a city person at heart, I don't like feeling separated from a metropolis for too long. I mean there are crazy people in the woods. I know. I see them when they leave huts and descend on Berkeley Bowl to stock up on granola, oat cakes and Niman ranch pork chops.

Photo album and commentary is here. Check it out, but be prepared It's so pretty it'll hurt your eyes.

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Running around since the last post: Lake Merritt: 3.4 mi. Ducklings everywhere.
Swim 1000 then run 3mi. Gleefully watch the innings 3 and 4 of the Subway Series.

Posted by at 9:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you get a chance, check out Pablo Cristi's artwork at Guerilla Cafe. Hopefully, this will be the first of many shows to come. I hear they have great waffles too!

Pablo had an excellent old skool mix tape playing. When I asked, he said he painted much of the work he was showing while listening to this CD. To keep in that spirit, here's a classic for Mother's Day.

Dear Mama, 2Pac.
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Chugging along to...nowhere: Friday, did that elliptical thing 3.1 mi. I'm w/Tony here, what IS this machine? What's the running, swimming, biking equivalent of 3 miles of elliptical-ing? I've decided I dislike this machine.
Around the Lake: run 3.4 miles. Light Sunday morning shuffle, dodged the goose poos and enjoyed the sunshine.

Posted by at 5:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I've found a new form of entertainment here.

Who knew Stevie Nicks was such a Janet Jackson fan and top/pop 40 fan?

RZA of Wu-Tang gives a nod to Barbara Streisand.

The Indigo Girls listen to The Coup, Talib Kweli and Justin Timberlake.

The Diva Diana Ross list has nothing but Diana Ross on it.

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Run, run, fun...3.2 miles.

Posted by at 8:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

KQED is in the midst of another pledge drive. I do value public radio. I'm one of those people who listen to it every morning and since I don't really have TV, I'm more familiar with Nina Totenberg, and Lakshmi Singh than with whoever the news anchors are nowadays. I kind of like Car Talk--even though it's kind of annoying and have come to enjoy Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. I like that they air that short story reading program. Which reminds me I want to find the podcast of BD Wong reading one of Rattawut Lapcharoensap's stories. No really, sometimes I do things other than listen to NPR. But I'm one of those bad people they are shaming this very minute who use and abuse and don't pay a dime...aside from WBGO (NY and Roz's favorite jazz station), I have never donated to public radio. I've justified my lack of generosity in a million ways--ok, maybe just a couple of reasons, but methinks I should go support the with a donation. Right? I'm curious if others have donated. Whaddya think?

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Since the last entry, I swam 1400 yrds/meters? I can't figure out the pool--52 lengths, ran 2 mi. Weird that running after a swim is much easier than just chugging through a run.

Posted by at 5:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

On Friday afternoon, I liberated myself from one of those tan, windowless rooms, with bad conference coffee where I finished what I hope was my last conference for a while and into a big, blue, sunny Oakland afternoon. I roamed down to Jack London square to meet my parents, picked up a cat napping Monkey and all sauntered off to a superb dinner birthday dinner for my dad at Rivoli's.

Saturday was filled with good friends, great food and films--some good, none great, but hey, they were shorts.

Need I say more? I'm feeling chill. Every day of the summer--and winter, spring and fall--should be like this.
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Gym log: Friday, bike 5 and run 2. I hate the Gilmore Girls.
Yesterday, swim 1000 and do that elliptical thing (what's the verb?) 2 miles. Boxing is so disturbing.

Posted by at 11:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Blackbird. I don't see as much theater as I'd like to. When I say theater, I don't mean the kind of tiresome drama of performing on a panel, being bored by the predictable tantrums drive by fragile (or obnoxious) egos, or the daily frustration of deciphering the psyches of the 3 furry critters in my home who keep peeing indoors. I have too much of that.

In this instance, I mean the kind of theater where one sits in a stuffy seat and watches live people without mics tell stories from little worlds they make on stage. Thanks to an arts-informed friend who works at the ACT in San Francisco, The Monkey and I had the opportunity to see David Harrower's, Blackbird. I won't give it away, but it was an experience that evoked a blurry range of emotions and thoughts that if cohesively presented would make no sense since I'm not smart and cohesive like that, it starts with the harsh, sterile flourescent lights and endswith the little bit at the very end that elicits the collected gasp from the audience In between, I felt:
whoa, harsh lights. Why are flourescents always like that?
why's she dressed like that?
wait
why the terrible unplaceable british accents?
how old?
she's got issues. mad issues. hella issues if she's in the bay area.
dude, he's a pedophile.
not right.
own your shit
are those wrappers of british snacks all over the stage?
what great acting
wait, what's the age gap?
damn...why can't i do even simple arithmetic?
wow, they we're in love.
wait, what am i thinking.
what's it mean when something "feels authentic?"
it's still wrong to act on it.
life is not so cut and dry
what am i thinking, it's still wrong.
she's so traumatized.
he so can't deal.
she stuck in that moment forever.
and he does it again.
or does he.
It's be interesting to see different productions of this with racially mixed Ray and Unas
and queer Rays and Unas.
wait.
WHAT?
uh, uh.
didn't go there.
whoa.
I think my head is going to explode.

Blackbird, go see it.
American Contemporary Theater, San Francisco

In New York

Posted by at 8:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I got mired in my own incompetence and regret that I couldn't make it to the march today, but did send off my co-workers with well-wishes. They were in a sign-making flurry...

Today, I made an executive decision (wait...what decision about myself is not executive?) that searching for an appropriate alcohol to make plum wine would be a better use of my time than a tedious imitation of a rat on a treadmill. The gym can wait, but my discovery of fresh plums at Tokyo Fish Market--accompanied by the helpful, "Good for plum wine!" sign--cannot wait. The Japanese recipe calls for rock sugar and "white liquor." I confirmed this with a call to my Grandma, but she said any old soju/shochu would work too. Now, just have to find a big ol' jar to hold it all.

Posted by at 9:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)