In the office--

The big news of the week really isn't, to be honest. Twenty years ago, I was gifted a Danish desk a la mid-century design by my cousin. Recently, he asked me if I were 'still using' the desk. I took that to mean that he wanted it back, so I gave it to him. As a result, the office is a pile of papers and other miscellany. 

Here's a small sampling of stuff now littering the office floor that I've been holding onto since even before acquiring the desk. I perhaps should just either toss this stuff out or put it in a manilla envelope (and leave it on the office floor). 

A zinger from Dad

I haven't looked at clippings of my father's letters to the editor since putting together a memory book dedicated to him back in 2003. Reading this snippet from him now, I think I'm seeing that my Dad, a life-long Democrat, may have been becoming a bit more conservative in mid-life. I have never thought of my father as either a hardcore patriot or a prude, but maybe he was becoming one or both?  

My friend's father, fondly known as Der Meister (to be read in a Schwäbisch accent), was an accomplished artist. He trained as a silver engraver, but was also an adept painter, a sculptor and he could carve a mean woodcut. The above image shows one of his many designs he and his wife had printed up for their annual holiday card. The inside of this particular card includes a poem by Hölderlin (noted Schwabe) & heartfelt season's greetings. I so loved receiving these cards.

Der Meister: Selbstportrait (culled from the internet)

Der Meister was in art school when he was conscripted into the German army in 1940. He was put to work as a stretcher bearer on the Western Front. He'd kept a diary during that time filled with sketches and poems. I was lucky enough to view it once two decades ago when der Meister was still living. One page particularly struck me as it contained both a rendering of and an ode to his worn combat boots. 

Ritter, Tod und Teufel

Showing a picture of this postcard depicting one of the most detailed engravings by Dürer I have ever seen is almost an affront to the piece. I can guess as to what the symbols of both skull and hourglass reference, but as someone who knows very little about Christianity, I can't say I understand the piece in any fundatmental way. Apparently, the subject/s of this piece have been hotly debated for centuries. Dürer postcards in American art museums usually consist of his rhino and hare images. I caught a Dürer retrospective in Frankfurt some years back, so there happened to be a fine selection Dürer postcards in the gift shop to choose from. I still marvel at this work.

Bernie

I was thinking of my old pal, Bernie, and wondering what he would be up to these days were he still alive. I then 'googled' his name and found this rather flattering and accurate obituary-- 

 

Bernard Stoffer -- union activist, jazz enthusiast

Bernard M. "Bernie" Stoffer of Oakland, a retired television cameraman, sound engineer, jazz drummer and union organizer, has died unexpectedly of a heart attack. He was 75.

He was struck down Nov. 30 in the midst of a benefit fund-raising party that he organized in El Cerrito for a close friend, pianist Tony Archimedes, who had been severely injured in a car accident.

Mr. Stoffer was born on June 15, 1928, in St. Paul, Minn., the youngest of five children. He was a drummer in a high school jazz band and became active in left-wing political causes, marching to support integration, civil rights and labor activists.

He moved to the Bay Area in 1952 and got involved in both politics and the local jazz scene -- passions that continued his entire life.

"His first passion was playing music," said his nephew Lincoln Bergman of Richmond. "But out here, he became more of a fan than a player. . . . In fact his last words were 'the band sounds great.' "

In addition to his avid and lifelong support for big-band jazz, Mr. Stoffer was one of the first employees when KQED-TV, Channel 9, began in San Francisco.

As an innovative sound technician and creative cameraman, he played an important role in many notable programs and interviews and later became a member of the special projects and experimental film team. He helped organize the first union at KQED.

After he retired from full-time work at KQED, Mr. Stoffer became a taxi driver for many years, saying he preferred the constant person-to-person communication and exciting adventures.

"He loved being sort of a tourist guide," his nephew said. "He loved to drive. But he loved the social aspect of driving. He loved to talk about nightspots and places, he loved to hear stories and tell them, too. He was extremely positive."

Mr. Stoffer is survived by a daughter, Robin Reisberg of Sonoma; a son, Woody Stoffer of St. Paul, Minn.; a sister, Dorothy Broms of Berkeley; and seven grandchildren.

His ashes are scheduled to be scattered today. A public memorial service and jazz concert will be held later.

I first met Bernie in 1994-5 through his granddaughter, my friend and then roommate, Rebekka. Wednesday nights he'd swing by our apartment in his large sedan in order to take us out for a night of big-band jazz music. Bob Enos's Soundwave was the name of the group we'd see and they had a standing gig at a joint in Alameda called Rooster's. The Soundwave played some of the best music I have ever had the pleasure of listening to. If you're inclined, then have a nose around YouTube and you'll find oodles of videos recording bits of their live shows.  

In addition to being a passionate music lover, Bernie was also a talented artist. He made sculpture out of recyclable goods, plywood and cardboard. During my study abroad year in Germany, Bernie and I exchanged letters. Enclosed in his missives were snaps of his current art pieces. I recall his writing to me that there was interest in his work from a gallery.  There had been an offer to exhibit his creations. He wrote to me wondering if what he making was good enough to be shown. I thought it was and gave him a hearty thumb's up.  In a subsequent letter, he thanked me for being supportive of his work. He made it seem as if I had somehow had a hand in getting him to have his work shown. That was the thing about Bernie--he always made you feel vital, included, and a part of things.  

3 inch piece; a study for a much larger construction

Photo of 3-D recycle art standing about two feet high

The Largent House

Any a-hole, even a monied one used to getting his way, should have figured that razing a house designed and built by an architect of some renown would not go well. For years now, property developers here in SF have acted with impunity with regard to building. Modest homes are routinely razed and replaced with McMansions & then sold for millions of dollars. Of course, one is supposed to have only permitted work be performed. Having toured open houses for the past three weekends, I have seen first-hand, that many home renovations have been done 'on the sly'. Unless a formal complaint is filed, no one at City Hall would have any inkling what's going on out here in the residential areas. 

The case of the Largent House is, on the face of it, a huge bummer, but there is a cherry on this shit cake. One of five San Francisco homes designed by architect, Richard Neutra, the Largent House stood atop Twin Peaks until the beginning of this year. Built in 1936, it was one of a handful of top-notch, modernist buildings in SF. I would imagine all the neighbors of the Largent House knew of its provenance. When one such neighbor returned from a week-long trip to find a pile of rubble where the house once stood, she filed a complaint with the local planning commission. As it turned out, the new owner, a property developer, had obtained permission to remodel a portion of the dowstairs of the home. What he did not have permission to do was demolish the 1,312 square foot home and replace it with one nearly 4,000 square feet in size. The developer had figured on an easy go-around: he had attempted to retroactively obtain approval for the demolition. Had the house he had razed not been designed by a man considered to be one of the most important modernist architects of the 20th century, the developer would have probably gotten away with his plan.

Instead, the case of the Largent House was heard before the planning commission. There was a 5-0 ruling against the knucklehead developer responsible for the demolition job. Not only must the developer have the house be rebuilt exactly as it was, but he must also have a plaque affixed to the house describing its fate. The SF planning commissioner has said that this case represents a 'line in the sand'. Property flippers/speculators need to know that they can't willy-nilly raze modest-sized homes and replace them with mega-homes that sell in the many millions. 

Viennese-American architect, Richard Neutra

The Largent House, Twin Peaks, SF

Purpose-built interior pool

Arial shot of the demolished home.

EINE

Ben Eine, from what I've read, created a series of murals in Octavia St. as a sort of 'calling card' for his then upcoming show at a local gallery here in 2011. The only mural of his that I remember noticing and had the pleasure of photographing is the one above from 2013, when I was visiting home from abroad. Upon moving back in 2015, I found that the mural had been painted over. -shame, really. Also: Can you identify what this piece is called? 

When I was living in London, Eine's work seemed to be everywhere. -that or I was spending a lot of time in Shoreditch. The first piece I recognised as Eine's work was CHANGE. I took a photo of that one as well, but don't know where I've stashed it on the computer. Given that Eine has been fairly prolific, there are shed loads of images of his work on the net. 

Here is CHANGE--

I have just read that Eine's work is displayed in galleries & on buildings all over the world. I hadn't realised how successful he was. I suppose the person who had his mural painted over in San Francisco didn't know either. 

The elements of good cooking

Calavera/sugar skull

The foot is slowly coming around, but I'm still spending a good deal of my days lounging on the sofa. Fortunately for me, Netflix is presently adding lots of new content to watch. I spent most of yesterday evening checking out a new series called Salt Fat Acid Heat hosted by a chef called Samin Nosrat. The show is based on Nosrat's well received cookbook of the same name. Each episode corresponds with one of the four elements of good cooking. The Salt episode is shot primarily in Japan. Fat is shot in Italy. Acid takes us down to Mexico. And, finally, Heat sees Samin back on her hometurf of Berkeley.

(Side note: Both she and I worked at the same restaurant in Berkeley for a time back in the mid-2000s. I don't remember much from that experience save for a chance meeting with Bill Niman--then still of Niman Ranch--when he dropped by to chat sausage with the restaurant owner.)

In her show, Samin takes the viewer on a 'salt, fat, acid, heat' journey to experience the elements of good cooking and proper food preparation. Aside from feeling like I should really try more when making a meal, what really struck me when watching the show was Samin's absolute enthusiasm for simple food prepared well. She smiles easily and laughs a lot. During the episode shot in Italy, we see Samin buying a proscuitto sandwich at an open air market. She bites into the sandwich and immediately gushes. She loves it. In that moment, I wanted to be right there with her, eating a proscuitto sandwich squealing, no pun intended, with delight.

PS: The sugar skull sketch above was done while watching the episode shot in Mexico.

Feininger

When I lived in London, I spent a good deal of time in Hampstead Heath. After my Heath walks, I'd usually go for a potter around the High Street, grab a crepe at that crepe stall that always has a super long wait, and nose around the Oxfam shop. The Oxfam shop in Hampstead, as one might imagine, was usually filled with stuff from posh people's homes. I went there a lot.

I remember that on my penultimate visit to the shop, I tried to convince a worker that she could probably sell a really lovely tea pot from the GDR (it had a maker's mark) for more than £3.99. She actually couldn't understand what I was saying (Excuse me? What do you mean?) because English wasn't her first language, and I'll bet my mumbly Californian accent threw her off. Continuing on as only a pushy American could, I busted out some ancient-old high school Spanish that equally tanked: Um, como se dice...?  El Pais...no mas existe.  (My attempt was "que lame".)

Then I found a photograph bearing the name of Eleonore "Lore" Feininger, daughter of Lyonel Feininger, on its matting. The black and white picture was either signed by Lore, who had been a photographer, or it was a photo of Lore by someone whose name remains unknown. The image shows a happy, smiling, young woman with large, light-colored eyes. She's wearing a slim wedding ring and has her hair in a bob. I'd date the picture from the 20s. The matting and frame were not top quality, but they seemed period; the picture was compelling, but, without knowing if Lore is the subject or the photographer (or both) it's hard to know what the 5"x7" portrait is worth. I am a huge fan of Lyonel Feininger's art, so, to me, the picture is invaluable.
-probably sounds silly, but that's how I feel.

Apparently, no one at Oxfam had 'googled' Lore Feininger, so only priced the portrait at £8.99. At the time, I neither bought the photo nor tried to talk the English-challenged shop worker into putting the portrait aside and contacting an auction house. (Also, that would have been BIG ask.)

I can imagine that someone in the Feininger family must have, at some point, lived in or around Hampstead. I'm guessing there must have been a spring cleaning and the photograph was given away to the charity shop.

Anyway, a couple of days later, I went back up to Hampstead and bought the photo. The internet searches that the hubs and I engaged in continued to turn up nothing. Online, there are only a handful of pictures with Lore Feininger's name attached, and, of them, only two readily viewable. Apparently, Lore had photographed other photographers of renown--T. Lux Feininger, her brother, and Erich Salomon and those pictures have sold quite well at auction.

So, is what I have an image taken by Lore? And, if so, who is the subject? My plan was to write to the Bauhaus Archive in Berlin, send them a copy of the photo, and see what they can tell me about its provenance. Given that both Lore's dad and brother were instructors at Bauhaus, I'd imagine the archive could shed a little light on the subject. Now, some years later, I still haven't gotten around to figuring out the photo's origin story. Alas...

Below is a work by Lyonel Feininger, Lore's papa.

Gelmeroda by L. Feininger

St. Mateo and the Mountain

One time, while living in Zurich, I got to chatting with a supermarket employee called Mateo. I write 'one time' because in the three years that I lived in ZH, I think this truly was the only time I got into a casual discussion with a supermarket employee. Small talk, in this scenario, is fairly unusual. I initally approached him to ask where I could find the dairy section. Upon hearing my standard German, he asked me where I was from. I told him that I was from a place called Pacifica in California. As it turned out, we were sort of from the same place as his parents had been living in San Mateo County when he and his brother were born in the 1960s. Indeed, his name is derived from the city of San Mateo. He also told me that his brother, Bruno, is named for the neighboring city of San Bruno. I found this story especially amusing and rather sweet as I have never met anyone here named for either place.

San Bruno is also the name of a small mountain that stretches from Brisbane to Daly City, situated just south of San Francisco. Up until last weekend, I had never visited the mountain, now an official part of the parks system, although I had grown up only some 10 miles away. The mountain boasts a stunning bit of scenery and I can't believe it took me thing long to get up there. 

Here are some photos from the excursion--

From the Daly City streetside entrance--

The mountain is home to some rare and endangered plant and butterfly species. Additionally, massive eucalyptus trees are also plentiful. The eucalyptus were first planted in this area back in the 1850s, and although now known to be an invasive species, the sight and scent of them always remind me of home. 

 -walking along the trail that eventually leads to the vista of the southern portion of San Francisco, bay and beyond.

Coastal scrub in the foreground.

View of SF and Daly City: The famed Cow Palace flanked by a massive parking lot, center of shot. The bay and East Bay in the background.

 --making our way back along the path toward the entrance.

Fern on fallen tree trunk. 

Wind speeds on the mountain can reach up to 30 miles an hour. On my visit, I'd say that the winds were a-whipping something fierce once one reached the far side of the mountain facing the bay. I looked somewhat in vain for some of the rare butterfly species that inhabit the area, but darn it if the wind didn't keep them from venturing forth. Fortunately, I live very nearby, so there will be a subsequent visit! 

San Franciscana

My Mother grew up in a place called Little Hollywood in San Francisco. For years, I thought that Little Hollywood was its own district. It wasn't until I was digging around the internet that I realised LH was a small section of the district of Visitacion Valley in SE San Francisco. 

Shaped like a slice of pie!

The origin of the name Little Hollywood is somewhat disputed. My mom always told me that LH was so named because Mae West had stayed in a house in this part of town when she would come to San Fran to perform. Yet my mom also told me that LH may also have gotten its name due to there having been planted palm trees a la Los Angeles during its creation as a neighborhood. It certainly could also be that the style of the homes mimicked those that had been built in the Hollywood Hills. Well, whatever reason, I think the name is kind of fun. 

Initial stages of Little Hollywood, 1915 (Looking south)

Below: Little Hollywood, 2018 (Looking east)

I went looking for the house that Mae West had supposedly bunked in and found it to be probably the grandest home in Little Hollywood by a long shot.

Casa Bahia Loma, Little Hollywood. (Alright, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up.)

Incidentally, I also went by my maternal grandparents' old house and found it to be rather a dump. This area, sadly, hit an economic slump in the 60s and 70s and many of the homes fell into varying states of disrepair during that time. Their home was one of them.  

Also of note: When looking for SF district maps online, I noticed that, depending upon who had created the map, the districts shown would vary. 

Here's a map, ostensibly, for out-of-town visitors--

The entire southern portion of the city is not shown. 

Here's a map showing voting precincts--

I live in District 11.

Estate Agents' maps show more subdivisions--



Down in the SE portion of the map is Bayview/Hunters Point. (Visitacion Valley/Little Hollywood isn't even on this map.) This area of town is probably the most economically disadvantaged in SF. -don't want to buy a home in Bayview because of the crime stats and (mostly) bad press? Well, then, Bayview Heights might just be for you! 

Interestingly, the above map shows that I live in Mission Terrace, a slightly more tony area than that of the Excelsior. Go, figure. 

I will leave you with an image of the irrepressible Mae West--

Entitled

Pointing to a spot on the wall she says: Is that chipped paint?  Referring to a former cleaner she says: I had to let her go. I couldn't afford to keep her. It was costing me too much. I mean I couldn't hire a painter after everytime she cleaned. You know?

Yes, lady with an 8,000 square foot house, we know.  We, a small gaggle of various cleaners, are in the master bedroom suite as she goes on--

Referring to yet another cleaner no longer with her: If she had just read the directions then she would have known that that was too much cleaner to use. I mean, four tablespoons is a quarter cup after all.

This was said aloud to any and all who were cleaning within earshot. This was also after she'd opened a set of blinds on my person via remote control. The paper-like fabric moving up and over my body felt like it took ages to complete, but, really, the whole thing probably only lasted about ten seconds. With the blinds now off, I turned on my ladder to see the client staring up at me, remote in hand. She then said something about the blinds tearing easily. I'm thinking, so opening them on body was a good idea?! 

Blinds these days open in all kinds of ways. Some open by draw-string, some open by gently tapping them upwards, some take a remote to open, and some (like a few of hers) are broken & can't be opened at all. That was the case with the first set of blinds I encountered in the client's bedroom. Standing under them, one can clean what needs to be cleaned.

The second set of blinds, I incorrectly assumed, were also not functioning. Additionally, I could not find a remote nearby to clue me into the fact that these were operated thusly. Time is also money and I'm not one to spend inordinate amounts of it looking for something not already in plain sight. I'm there to work, not futz around.

When we showed up to clean that morning, the client was out. She'd had an earlier appointement & couldn't we, too, show up early to meet her before she left? This question was asked the morning of. My boss told her he'd be unable to, but said he'd ask his business partner if he could be at her house some 60 minutes early as she'd requested. -turned out that he couldn't either as he had work calls to make before starting the day. 'Well, couldn't he make them during lunch?!' was her reply.

No, lady with gold-plated fixtures in all six bathrooms, he can't.

Later in the afternoon, the client found me in one of the many guest bedrooms holding back heavy window treatments with my forearm while I cleaned with my free hand. She made a show of moving the curtains away from a window I wasn't working on (they fell forward again, so no help). She then moved over to my window set to tell me that there was a cord (she looked in vain, took her a while to find it) that moved the curtains back. She pulled on it and the curtains moved in to press against my arm. I told her that I had already moved the curtains from the window as far as they would go. Using my arm was just for good measure as I didn't want any cleaning solution to come in contact with the fabric. She seemed somewhat satisfied with my answer and left the room without another word.

The below image is from the internet, but kind of gives one a picture of what I'm taking about re: the client's curtains.

Many of the monied clients we work for treat us just fine. And by 'fine' I mean leave us to work in peace. Would that she were one of them.

Rob Rogers

Rob Rogers is an editorial cartoonist who, up until about a week ago, had been employed at the same Pittsburg paper since 1993. He'd won awards, he'd done stellar work.

Apparently, Rogers had become 'too angry' in recent years, and was ultimately fired for his anti-Trump bias. Interestingly, his firing seemed to coincide with the paper having moved politically to the right. Indeed, the publication endorsed Trump for president within its pages. Was Rogers actually 'too angry' or was he just stepping on the toes of his Trump-loving boss?

I'd say that he was just doing his darn job.

Here are a few choice cartoons from Rogers, now working as a freelancer--

The cartoon below is the one that supposedly got Rogers fired. It packs a punch.

Memorial

Mimi and David, ca. 1971

Over the weekend, I attended the memorial for my mother's friend, Mimi. It was a lovely afternoon tinged with sadness. I met (well, I was reminded that she'd met me when I was a baby) Mimi's sister, Linda. What really struck me was how much Linda both looked and sounded like Mimi. It was a comfort to be able to speak with her. Linda said more than once that 'it' wasn't supposed to happen this way. Linda was an only child until the age of eight. Before the baby was due, her parents had told her that if the baby were a boy, then she'd receive a train set. If it were a girl, then she'd get a dolly pram. She'd really wanted the train set. 

Her baby sister came home from the hospital wrapped in a pink blanket, cute and tiny as could be. Linda loved her right away. 'She was my baby.' Their mother contracted TB and had to 'go away' for a year. 'Then she really was my baby!' She also said that over that first year relatives would come to meet/visit with the baby and she'd be in charge of everything. It almost sounded as if she had to show she was capable lest another family member try and take baby Mimi away during their mother's prolonged absence. Linda said that she had expected to look after Mimi for the rest of her life. I couldn't help but become emotional listening to her. 

Mimi had met her husband, David, through my mother's high school friend, Nan, and Nan's then hubby, my paternal Uncle Gerry. Gerry and David had been friends since high school. Yet that hadn't clued me into to the fact that there were going to be a handful of other 'city kids' (most of whom were 1st and 2nd generation Italian-American) at the memorial who'd grown up knowing my Dad's family. I spoke with one man who'd told me that Uncle Gerry went on camping trips with his family up to Clear Lake every summer for most of their adolescence. Additionally, there were four, retired San Francisco firemen in attendance who had all worked with my Dad's other brother, Ray. It's not so uncommon that these men would have worked together at some point as one tends to move fire houses a lot when first starting out on the job. It is uncommon, however, that an SF firefighter could afford to live in today's San Francisco. Rents, never mind mortgages, are just too darn high. 

Flowers from the memorial.

One of the firefighters made a comment about how my Uncle Ray had gone from liberal to conservative in the intervening years while making a flip-flop gesture with his hand. I said, 'so, you've been in email contact with him recently, I take it?' Uncle Ray hooked up with a very wealthy widow some years back and now considers himself part of the 1%. Funny, but I don't think his firefighter pension makes him minted. 

Another old firefighter mentioned how my Uncle was 'cool' and that he looked up to him. Well, he was tall and attractive in a sort of Robert Redford Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid kinda way, so I could see that. Yet another fireman mentioned how Ray had put him at ease when he was a newbie. A 'crusty old-timer' had chewed this guy out in front of his colleagues and it had made him feel bad. 'He hadn't introduced himself. He hadn't said anything to me at all' before yelling at this man in front of the whole house. Later, my Uncle pulled him aside to simply say, 'consider the source'. He told me that he had been grateful for those words. 

In other news, it would appear that Batman is my neighbor.

A short piece by a dear friend. Illustration by yours truly.

The Worrier's Fable

by Cori Crooks

                                                                                           Illustration by Bea Batz

Our lovely Unicorn stood pensively by the glimmering gold berry bush. “Will these berries ever ripen? What if I never have anything to eat again? Is the tree getting enough sun? Oh, I know it! I’m going starve and my horn will become dull and grey!”

She gnawed on the worry wart that grew like a blister pearl above the curve of her left knee. “How long has this been here? What if it’s mortalizing? I hope it doesn’t become infected!”

Worry, worry, worry. Our Unicorn worried all along that day. She worried about purity. She worried about grace. And when she was done worrying her virtues- she began to be concerned that she may have miscounted the number of virgins left in the world.

As night began, she took to the stars and just as her constellation appeared, (she had worried it wouldn't), a faint sound from far away grew louder and closer.

Trip, trap, trip, trap… along wobbled a troll wearing stilts made of goats bones and a smug cape of moss and black bryony vines. He opened his pitch mouth appearing to yawn, “What's the worry furry?”

Our Unicorn was startled. She had lived by her river of kindness for 100 years and had never seen a troll pass. Sure she had seen pixies and fairies, and even hid from the occasional maiden or two, but never a troll. She found him repulsively interesting.

“I see a little sparkle….” He cooed.

Our Unicorn looked at the troll with her left eye then her right, “Why troll, what brings you here to my enchanted forest?” She hoped he didn't hear her lisp.

“Why but I am a troll and trolls troll don’t we?” he said casually plucking a dangling hair that grew from the mole on his nose.

Our Unicorn gave a great snort. The troll took it as suspicion, and she worried if he thought her sneeze rude.

“Poor, poor Unicorn, with the sad silver horn! Why so forlorn?” he murmured.

“Oh don’t be concerned about me green troll. You just keep right on with your trolling and trip trapping.” She neighed.

“Why I suspect you are hungry- otherwise a marvelous creature such as yourself wouldn’t be so inhospitable to a lowly traveler such as I.” Then the toll took a bow so deep that his hatless head touched the laces of his polished Buster Browns.

“Oh, my… was I being rude?” she hemmed.

“Why yes, why yes your were!” He jumped.

“Oh, I’m so very sorry! Please have a seat by my river dear troll. I’d hate you to think me unkind!”

“No problem.”

And with that gracious invitation the troll settled in for the time being, sharing his wart healing potions and lending his green thumb to those problematic bushes that concerned our Unicorn so. And it turned out that the trolling troll had in the past taken to settling and while settled he had become quite the adventurous chef, as our Unicorn found out, making her delicious pies made from her now ripe gold berry bush. Soon her belly was full and her constitution was happy, and her horn never once faded to a dull grey.

One morning our Unicorn awoke with a skip in her gallop! She began gathering all her colors from the enchanted forest- blue from the eucalyptus leaves, red from the finches crest, yellow from the mushroom caps, orange from the coral bark maple, and green… green from the sleeping troll! Just as she leaned down to nibble a hair from his olive pit head he awoke and spoke as if he’d never been sleeping. “Why fair Unicorn friend, where are you off too?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to wake, I ah mean, bother you. I’m off to the waterfall at the end of the river. I need to replenish the rainbow.”

“Ha ha! Why my lovely beauty, don’t bother yourself with such frivolity, for I have done it for you!”

“But? I?”

"I have solved all your worries my hooved dear! All you need to do is relax by your magical river, look for your stars, and eat! Eat! Eat!"  He raised a pine needle eyebrow and asked,  "Care for another slice of the golden berry pie I have made for you?"

And so she did. And it was not long before our Unicorn became plump and content- for all of her worries were gone and her only care in the world was to eat piece after piece of the troll's buttery, flaky, golden berry pies.

No one in our village sees the Unicorn by the river anymore. Many a maiden have looked for her only to be disappointed. But yet still, many a girl has shared a tale that while laying on the forest floor and peeking up through the bush, they have spied a fat bellied fancy shoed troll- who walks on stilts made of goats bones, wearing a cape of vines and moss, and a shimmering silver unicorn hat.

In Manhattan and seeing 'stars'

When I lived in Manhattan, I saw a lot of movie and TV actors on the street. I have a decent head for faces, so it's not like they were wearing signs, or walking around with an entourage. I just easily recognized them. Fortunately, I'm not one who goes ga-ga over seeing Hollywood movie stars, or, for that matter, washed-up comedians from Seinfeld who took a wrong turn at an LA comedy club some years back and then found himself jobless, wandering around the Upper West Side.
-same as me when I lived in NYC and was out-of-work. :D

I do, however, have a soft spot for those actors who were on, as my grandma called them, My Stories. For a large part of my adolescence I watched soap operas. I watched, at 11am, one soap on NBC, and then, for the rest of the afternoon, watched the entire ABC soap line-up. There are the powerful and power hungry women: Dorian Lord and Erika Kane; there are the wealthy families with unscrupulous patriarchs: the Quartermaine clan and the Buchanan family; and then there are the lovers: Luke had Laura and Tad had Dixie. Now, we all know that Tad the Cad had his fair share of Pine Valley's finest, but I'd like to focus on that sweet, southern, red-headed belle, Dixie. She was my favorite. I believed in her character so truly. Well, I didn't really think that Dixie was from 'way down south', but the actor did a really good job of portraying her as someone so good-hearted and sweet. 

Amazingly, if I ever needed my Dix-fix, then I could just look up at one of the many TVs on at the gym and see Miss Dixie on All My Children, or I could just look to my left or to my right and REALLY see her. Spoiler alert: the red-hued hair is a dye job, and she probably is of Yankee rather than Confederate blood. Still, it was pretty cool to be sweatin' along side one of my favorite soap stars.

The few, the proud....

the North Americans working at Selfridge's in Oxford Street were a unique bunch. There were only a select few of us in the induction room, but we were, by far, the most talkative, sort of, 'go-getters' of the lot. When I say, 'go-getter', I really mean 'chatty Kathy-types'. The Selfridge founder was an American businessman by the name of Harry Gordon Selfridge, so I guess it only seemed right that I apply to work there. That and I had no other job prospects at the time.  

I recall the induction (what we here would probably call a 'training') as being more of an indoctrination and for almost 7 hours we were treated to information on how Selfridge's Co. became the money-making monolith it is today and how to keep it that way.  It sure fostered my commitment to the 'team' to learn that I, at six quid an hour, would be helping to ensure Selfridge's earns somewhere in the range of one billion pounds that financial year.  Ugh.

Interestingly, the induction leader failed to mention that HG Selfridge, after having lost his fortunes from both the crash of '29 and due to his free-spending ways, died in dire straits in 1947. 

Harry Gordon 'There's no fun like work'. Selfridge

During induction, I had been fortunate enough to sit next to a lovely man from Manchester who had just spent three years in Salt Lake City, Utah before moving to London for work. He and his American partner intended to move back to SLC as soon as they were able. Knowing a little bit about Utah, I would think that being out and proud in Salt Lake would not work too well. The Mancunian found Mormons to be 'very accepting' people. I sure hope he's right. And, he told me, that there are lots of gay Mormons dotting the landscape of Utah. Safety in numbers. 

Walking down to the employee locker rooms (where the wait-list for an employee locker was four months) after induction in a herd of other employees, I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a few nattily dressed young men (presumably from the men's finery dept., or whatever it's called). One was telling the others of a particularly thick-headed customer that he had been dealing with during his shift. The employee telling the story slipped into an accent that could have passed for American. Then, by way of making an excuse for the customer's denseness, he went on to say that the guy was from the states. Yes, that explains it all doesn't it?

I like to think that I did ole Harry Gordon proud when I reached out, tapped this employee on the shoulder and said in my Californian best, 'Nice American accent!'  His friends fell out laughing while he mumbled something to the effect of: Oh, the shame!