wishbone clover

Is Third Time the Charm? Our New Home is...

2007-08-19T19:18:00.000-07:00

http://wishboneclover.typepad.com/wishbone_clover/

Okay, we think we mean it this time. After send you all to our new address at Wordpress and then discovering that they don't allow advertising (I know, some people research before they act, but what kind of hippie freak nature dude doesn't allow advertising?! It just never occurred to us that it would be a problem!) we have a new home.

This time we were smart. We simply copied CityMama and joined the typepad majority.

Please come visit, comment and laugh at us as we screw up learning a whole new content management system.

See you there!

PS: Yes, Blogger is by far the easiest blogging software to use. They just don't give us enough choices.

Cheap Simpsons's Movie Tie-in

2007-08-17T19:42:00.001-07:00

This is the latest marketing gimmick, and I love it! Go upload a picture of yourself and see what you'd look like as a Simpson's character.

With thanks to Nunna Yerbeezwax for sharing the link. Go do it now!

And I love it!

My Cheese, My People

2007-08-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

Cheap Girl, our favorite neighborhood artist, reminded us about Cowgirl Creamery's cheese library. As a cheese eater with a library degree, I have a somewhat prurient interest in this library of cheese.

We live in the San Francisco Bay Area. Actually, I take that back: we live in San Francisco. I'll specify so you don't think we live in Tiburon or Pittsburg (shiver).

Finally out here, I feel as if I've found my food people. Every other place I've lived, I have been the most obnoxiously picky food person in town. Here we have cheese counters where you can samples dozens before making a purchase. There's even one (in Berkeley) where you have to queue up and get a ticket.

My favorite cheese is Vermont Shepherd, and I never would have found it had the cheese educator at Cowgirl not given me seven free samples before I found this, the most perfect cheese ever, which is only made from May through October when sheep graze on minty clover.

Heroes: The Super-Gay White Tigers Really Are Gay!

2007-08-17T12:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm believing Perez on this one because I can't read German, but it sounds like Siegfried and Roy officially came out of the closet to a German newspaper. Did you even realize they were in? Yes, like certain other public figures (who maybe have the initials JF) who everyone "knows" about, they simply ignored the question. But now they answered it!

Good for them. All of America loves the white tigers. I bet there were a ton of folks in the conservative Midwest who saw the show in Vegas and prayed for Roy's recovery after the tiger attack, even though he and Siegfried are so...colorful.

Maybe now some closed-minded people will have to say, hey, I liked those gay dudes before I knew they were gay, so maybe it's okay to be gay. Or maybe not. It didn't exactly work like that for the beloved Liberace. But it's a start.

I hope the boys are chosen to be the grand marshals for SF Gay Pride this year. We could use a little Vegas on Market Street.

We Watch: In TV Shocker, Bachelor Couple Will Not Marry After All

2007-08-17T12:02:00.000-07:00

I, for one, did not see this coming. From People, the sad news that Lame Head Andy and Too Good For This Tessa are taking some time to evaluate their relationship, aka Step 1 in the Squeezing Out Two More Minutes of Fame Through a Gradual Public Break Up dance.

Best line in the People story: they've broken their engagement, but not their bond

That is so gag-me. How gag-me? Every proana site in the world now has this at the top of their thinspirations puking tips.

Also, nice angle on that photo of Tessa's ass, ABC. I'm sure she offers thanks to you daily for making that the show's final publicity shot while she surfs House of Thin and Starving for Perfection.

Tied Up With String

2007-08-17T11:58:00.000-07:00

What is it about sending and receiving mail that so intensely satisfying?

I have an excitement about mail more commonly witnessed in seven-year-olds. I can not wait to get home so that I can check my mailbox, despite approaching a ten year history of receiving mostly bills (and Victoria's Secret catalogs, despite the fact that I have never ordered cheap, itchy lingerie from that company). Really, the last spate of interesting mail was my college acceptance letters. And considering where I ended up going, those were none too exciting.

I've never received a letter from anyone I've dated, but I'm holding out for it. Cat sent me a card with a lolcat joke, and that made my week.

I made a few choice purchases last week and mailed them out to friends yesterday, so if I know your address, expect something soon (cue malevolent laugh). Look out for a postcard from my fabulous trip next week, if I can figure out how to navigate the Chinese post office system.

Your Killin' Style

2007-08-17T10:12:00.001-07:00

I was chatting with our friend Cheap Girl, and the topic of Colleen came up.

Cheap Girl: I'd take a bullet for her
Me: And she would shoot someone for you

Which got me to thinking. Would I take a bullet for anyone? Maybe. More likely I'd kill, but probably not with a gun.

My preferred fantasy revenge method is drowning. As in, kittens, burlap sack, rope, rocks and a murky, swift moving river. Or, asshole dude, burlap sack, cement, cabin cruiser and the deep dark ocean. The beauty of my method is the potential for variety.

And you?

Big in Japan

2007-08-17T07:58:00.001-07:00

(Background: "Him" is a man for whom I have two datapoints, both of which involve his love of Japan. At his suggestion, we went to a dumpling store together.)

Me: So, what is it about Japan that appeals to you?

Him: (dramatic sigh) You know...I don't really want to be That Guy. That Japan Guy. Who is all into Japan, you know? That's really not interesting. I don't want to talk about it.

Crickets: Chirp!

Bee's Knees

2007-08-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

Me: I'm not sure about this dress. It seems a little...

Salesgirl: It's your knees, isn't it?

Me: What?

Salesgirl: The dress, it's short enough to show your knees. All of the other skirts you like are knee-length.

Me: You're RIGHT.

We Watch: Val Kilmer, (Real) Genius

2007-08-15T20:17:00.001-07:00

No, I'm serious! Have you seen Kiss Kiss Bang Bang? While the writing helps, his performance is priceless. It's hard to hold screen time with the riveting Robert Downey Jr., but Val does it. His timing is masterful.

Go back and rewatch The Doors. It's a brilliant parody! Comedy on the Spinal Tap level. Remember his classic back-to-back Top roles: Ice in Top Gun and Nick Rivers in Top Secret! Then there is his Philip in Alexander. Maybe you disagree with some of the film maker's decisions (yes, yes, Stone is a nutjob!) but you have to watch. Okay, maybe you just can't look away, it's practically the same thing.

Go to Netflix and queue up a personal Val Kilmer filmfest. Then come back and tell me I'm crazy.

On a personal note (speaking of crazy) about 15 years ago I took a writing class with an "older" lady. She was single, living in a loft, doing a TON of coke. Not that she ever offered it to me, no one does. She slept with Val while he was at Juilliard. She would tell anyone who would listen (mainly bartenders) that she was plenty willing to repeat the experience any time he was interested.

And yes, that's a picture of him with Winona Ryder. I think it's safe to say he still likes coke whores.

Emotional Gag Reaction

2007-08-15T19:55:00.000-07:00

What do you call the opposite of a crush? When you absolutely hate someone so much that you get lost in reveries of his or her slow, violent, agonizing death? But you can't stop thinking or talking about the person. You bore friends rehashing every real or imagined slight. You bore yourself thinking of new ways to indicate your (supposed) monumental disdain.

It's not a grudge, because that indicates some kind of reciprocal activity, like a fight. What I'm talking about is solo, gut-level, obsessive antipathy. An emotional gag reaction.

No reason. Just wondering.

Weird Jobs: Porn Copywriter

2007-08-15T19:51:00.000-07:00

Picture it: Buffalo, New York, 2001.

Actually, don't. The snow-muffled sidewalks, the abandoned train station. Let's all forget, together. On three: one, two--gone.

I followed a boyfriend to Buffalo, and after a three-month stint as a clerk at an artisan bakery where the owners' two-year-old regularly was changed on the dough-forming table or barely escaped being amputated by the loaf slicer, I looked again to corporate America to provide a paycheck and a 55 minute break to visit one of Buffalo's many hot dog carts.

In the newspaper I found an ad for a copywriter. I applied and accepted the position, with a radio conglomerate that owned five stations in the metro Buffalo area.

Of the five stations, only one really sold ads: the station aimed at men aged 18 to 24. Tune in and you'd hear Howard Stern in the morning, some rock, and Opie and Anthony (who were eventually ousted, in part because of a debacle during a live performance in Buffalo).

Ads for national chains were created by agencies; I wrote ads for local establishments. And many of those ads were for strippers.

Stripping, like any long-established profession, has a career arc. Successful strippers won regional titles ("Miss Redhead Miami 1998"), were picked up by agents, and then toured the country's clubs.

Presumably, the most successful strippers could stick to the big leagues, getting a set gig in Vegas or making the rounds at our nation's metropolises. Women who never hit that level of success, or successful strippers who had fallen out of favor (age? weight? a difficult reputation?) were stuck touring the suburbs outside of Buffalo, where their arrival was heralded with radio scripts written by the likes of me.

Their resumes would come in over the fax machine, or sometimes in the mail. Generally there were a couple of pictures, a set of measurements (EEE? Really?), and a list of titles. Some were more professional, obviously massaged by an agent. Others less so.

For a year and a half I wrote ads, up to 11 a day, for clubs like "24 Karat Gold." I'd get the woman's name in at least four times in a 60-second spot, in case she had local fans. I ran through the measurements, the titles. If she had mentioned any specific tricks or aptitudes, I would throw those in, too.

In addition to the ads for visiting strippers, I also wrote quite a few ads for sex shops, like "2424 Hamburg Turnpike" (sex, in Buffalo, is always 24, it seems). Sometimes the proprietor would suggest a storyline for the ads, mostly I'd improvise. Two women are headed out for a Canadian beach on an August day. You know what would be fun? Let's stop at 2424 Hamburg Turnpike, and check out the selection of 'marital aids.'

Eventually all of the ads became templates; I knew what the business owners liked and would plug in a few pieces of specific information. A couple of times I used my friends' names in the ads and then sent them taped copies of the spots. I wanted them to think my job was hilarious, when in reality it was boring.

The account executive who made a killing selling the spots was eventually fired. He was a drunk, but a kind one. He gave me a bottle of wine and a gift certificate to 2424 Hamburg Turnpike when I wrote a spot under a particularly tight deadline. He had been caught drinking and carousing with his customers too many times, and had come to work reeking of gin.

Soon after, I quit my job to go to grad school. I didn't keep in touch with the account executives, or the hilarious production guy who shared exotic chocolates with me.

Somewhere, in some box, I still have some of the tapes.

Migraine

2007-08-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

Me: (leans out of cab and throws up) Rwarrrrhhh!
Cab driver: Cute. Real cute.

The Imaginary Gun Show

2007-08-14T23:32:00.000-07:00

I was so excited to write about the gun show. Even more excited to take pictures, until I found out that Cow Palace doesn't let you bring in cameras. No matter, I would take copious notes, inconspicuously, and share the mystery with you, the curious world.

Except I didn't get to go. For a variety of reasons that are best left unexplored (Chief's fender bender = no car for WEEKS while it's in the body shop, cough cough) we stayed home on Sunday.

But I can't let go of the gun show dream. So here is my imagined gun show experience in the form of the semi-rhetorical questions I would have whispered to Chief during the day:

Did you see her-no, wait, him?
Oh my god, are those real?
Whoa, are they a couple?
I thought Nazi stuff wasn't allowed?
Where do you think that tattoo ends?
Should you really eat that?
What crazyhead issued him a permit?
Is it wrong to buy this if I only have it ironically? No, are you sure? Please?
Did he really tell you he killed a goat?

Next time I'll rent a car if necessary. Shoot, I'll rent a bike. But I won't take Muni. Buses are for chumps.

Remember That "Don't Need" List?

2007-08-14T22:53:00.001-07:00

And how "any bags" was at the top? But this one doesn't count! It is the most amazing, genius bag ever. Ever. Behold the Ogio Chassy Girl Messenger bag. It's the 2006 model, but it's still around because it's perfect.

It's big enough for my 13" mac, but it still has a slim profile so I don't feel like I'm dragging checked luggage on the bus. Few bag makers understand this delicate balance, which is especially important if you're 5'4"ish or under. The wrong bag can dwarf you and pack on ten visual pounds. Yes, a bag can make you look short and fat. Don't be naive.

The Chassy has these totally cool inside pockets that are magically made with elasticized material so they automatically slim up. Kind of like built in Spanx for your bag, it keeps things from getting droopy. Which is important for a bag with a log of pockets. But it doesn't have so many pockets that you get lost trying to find your keys or phone.

The coolest thing is this elastic/magnetic bottle holder pocket that folds out...it's hard to explain, so you should just buy one to see. It's on sale for $39.99, marked down from $69.99 so it's even a bargain.

Click over to ebags to see the inside views for yourself, plus you can see how cute it is in green, too. You'll thank me. I'm thanking myself!

Peds

2007-08-14T21:06:00.000-07:00

Her: "That guy just checked you out."
Me: "Doubt it. Besides, don't you think he's gay?"
Her: (assesses him, wrinkles nose) "He's wearing peds."
Me: "Peds?"
Her: "Short socks."
Me: "Done."

Sunflower

2007-08-14T20:04:00.002-07:00

Not like.

Don't Do It, Girl: Dating Writers

2007-08-14T08:54:00.001-07:00

Last night I was talking to my best friend (we can't decide if BFF dog tags or Twin Peaks merchandise better honor our friendship) about an astrologer/astrophysicist she's dating.

We also discussed whether we'd date writers, and both of us came out against.

This aversion started way-back-when with male English majors. Remember them? Their tousled hair, flannel shirts, and dreams of working at Rolling Stone? The played the 'sensitive' card when necessary, with their soulful essays on Leaves of Grass. Maybe once in "Johnson's Age of Exuberance" class he caught you watching him jam out, offered you his headphones, and said "Want to listen?" It was Luna, "Chinatown." You thought it meant something. On the weekends, though, he was schtupping the management majors with huge tits.

In his 20's, the male writer is a social creature, enjoying happy hour specials at many fine watering holes. You meet him, maybe at the bar. Gradually, you understand that he's collecting details about you to develop a character he can describe to his friends or use in a story. How your great-uncle abused you and now you can't stand the barista's accidental touch when he hands over your change? Genius! He has just the place for it.

Fast forward.

The male English major--let's call him Ed--he's 40 now, and married. He has a wife and two kids named Adèle and Harry.

Ed publishes his second novel, about a forty-year-old white guy, a program manager at a nonprofit (named Ted), who resents his job, and resents his wife for making him give up the Rolling Stone internship he was almost-nearly offered, before they had their kids Helene and Freddy. On the weekends Ted and his friend drive out to the shore and pop Vicodin. In the novel's climax, someone beats Ted's wife to death with a hammer. Did Ted do it? Will her family side with him? Conflict!

In short: I don't date male writers because they think too much. And I've already cornered that market.

Forget Rehab, What About Jail?

2007-08-13T21:53:00.001-07:00

I'm no legal expert, but if I know the contents of Amy Winehouse's drug OD regurgitation, then it stands to reason that the authorities know, too. So why isn't she under arrest?

I mean, it's still illegal to do ecstasy, coke or heroin, never mind all three, right? She admitted to this, and more, all over the interwebs. Not to get all technical, but that sounds like a confession to me.

What, doesn't Commissioner Gordon have DSL down at the Hall of Justice? Should we print out a copy of the Perez post and mail it to him?

And we should totally add a note telling them to rush that squad car over for her. If this before and after shot is any indication, Amy's five minutes from Keith Richards Heroin-Induced Living Death. Iggy Pop pulls it off, but on her it seems less "tribute" and more "lack of imagination."

We Watch: Mad Men

2007-08-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

You're not watching Mad Men yet? Are you kidding me? We're already on episode 5.

Despite the fact that I don't have cable, or a tv (or wireless: Luddite), I'm a devoted follower of AMC's first dramatic series. On Sunday afternoon, I watch with my friend Matt and a medium sausage pizza in apartment 40F (the views!).

A pinch of David Lynch meets period drama, it's the tale of an ad agency in 1960's New York. The star of the show is executive Don Draper, he of tailored suits, shady past and groupies vying to steal his job. Smoke- and sex-filled, each scene is imbued with a lovely weirdness that is both compelling and terribly unsettling.

And the outfits are brilliant. In Vietnam I'm getting a tailor to make me the green dress, to the right. Minus the uncomfortable bullet bra.

Not

2007-08-13T07:25:00.000-07:00

"Larry," a derivatives trader

Him: So, you do coke?
Me: Um...no?

...

Him: Let's say I make one million dollars a year.
Me: Let's say.

Him: Six weeks vacation. One million dollars.

Me: This is your value proposition?

...

Him: OK. Let's play "Hot or Not." Michael Jordan?

Me: Not.

Him: I would have said hot. Bill Clinton?

Me: Not.

Him: I would have said hot. Madonna?

Me: Not.

Him: Angelina Jolie?

Me: Not.

Him: Brad Pitt?

Me: Not.

Him: Are you kidding me? Have you even seen Thelma and Louise?

...

Him: So, what do you do, outside of work?

Me: I have a lot of projects.

Him: Projects. That sounds mysterious. I won't ask.

Me: Wise.

Him: Creepy! How you said that! It's like Silence of the Lambs. It's like, "I f--k myself!" Do you remember that scene?

Me: I have to get going.

Pretty High On My "Don't Need" List

2007-08-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

It was close to the top, hovering just below: Any bag of any kind and More pointy black shoes.

The Coat beckoned to me from the hanger, so creamy and politically incorrect. I knew, even before trying it on, that the swingy lines would forgive all figure sins, and at the same time convey a certain slyphlike élan far beyond the purlieus of my daily wardrobe.

Joseph Magnin. Knee length wool. White mink collar. Aged a genteel cream. It was mine by divine right, and by force if necessary. I was able to avoid that violence with a heavy dose of plastic.

"But!" you're saying, "it's August. What kind of crazy person buys a wool coat in August?"

Two kinds. First, anyone who enjoys the hiemal summers of San Francisco. The other, a child raised by my mother and indoctrinated from birth with the mantra buy it when you see it, not when you need it!

In this case, guilty as charged on both counts.

We Watch: Batman Begins

2007-08-13T06:00:00.000-07:00

For all of the obvious reasons:

Christian Bale
Creepy bat stuff
Christian Bale
He's called the Dark Knight
The League of Shadows
The scene with the Batmobile when Bruce asks, "Does it come in black?"

Well, Bruce, I do. In fact, I just did.

Phone People, or, Are We Mildly Autistic?

2007-08-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

Some people are phone people. I’ve never been. I can talk to cab drivers about Kazakh history, tamale purveyors about regional South American cuisine, and crazy ladies about disemboweling chickens, but I can not talk to my closest friends on the phone.

Mostly it’s that I can’t pick up on conversational rhythms without seeing faces. Actually, they barely blip my radar when I don’t have an interview script. Throw a party and you’ll find me in the kitchen tossing back two drinks until I determine it’s okay to leave, abruptly.

Fortunately, Cat is the same way. We use text messages to arrange plans.

Cat: In cab. In 5 mins pls order cucumber mtini x2.
Colleen: Already did. Also made rez for table in 10 mins. Virgo.

Simple, efficient, direct. And that farmerbrown cucumber martini looked amazing.

Last week I called her at work. Probably she picked up because she didn’t recognize my cell phone number.

“Hi, this is Cat?”
“It’s Colleen. (beat) I’m looking for mascara. What type do you use?”
(very long pause)
“Pink and green tube.”
“Oh. (beat) Okay. (beat). Well, bye.”
(click)

BYE.

Blueprint vs Domino

2007-08-12T10:08:00.000-07:00

Names of children featured in the August issues:

Blueprint
Stella Lou
Sasha
Edie
Sammy
Daisy

Domino
Oliver
Trinity

Much like the magazine itself, Blueprint's names are safely bridge-and-tunnel: from the pull-out handbook on surefire grilling to the tennis racket purchasing guide, this is a magazine for blonde-highlighted, Hoboken-dwelling 23-year-olds who spend their summer shares in the Hamptons squinting at bond traders named Judson. I came, I saw, I decamped for New Jersey, had two kids, and named them “Daisy” and “Sammy.”

The names arise from some pastoral fantasy, evoking that much-heard-of and n’er experienced simpler time. Imagine a picnic: mom in a sundress, the kids pressed and polite, dad doling out potato salad and sliced meats. But dad’s fantazing about finger-banging that new analyst, the kids know they only got into the second-best school in Cherry Hill, and mom is thinking “I told you no MAYONNAISE in these sandwiches!”

Domino, however, seems purposefully to scrub the existence of children from its pages. An article on redecorating maternity-wear guru Liz Lange’s Manhattan rental features none of her children; you can sense their presence off the edge of the page, the photo director chanting "To the left...to the left...to the left" until they're safely out of the frame.

Oliver and Trinity are the two teenage sons of some designer. They seem like nice enough kids; they have a purpose-built room to play their guitars. Probably they'll experiment a bit with drugs, make some student films at Wesleyan. They'll buy houses near the beach in Southern California, with expensive light fixtures and bespoke stationery. One of them will be gay, the other will at least wonder.

All in all, Cat, it seems like we're Domino girls. What are your thoughts?

Here's to You

2007-08-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

On Friday, wc celebrated a milestone: 50 unique visitors. Thanks to the power of Google Analytics, data about users, traffic sources, and geography is at our “Lincoln Park after Dark”-painted fingertips.

You’ve come to us from California, California, California, and—strangely—Minnesota. You’ve come to us directly, because you are our friends and feel obligated to click on the link we sent to you. Repeatedly.

And so we had a drink for you, dear reader. We had several.

Our next milestone? Like incentive goals at our jobs, it must be specific, achievable, and something we can fudge if need be. At 250 unique readers, we’re taking a cheese tour of Sonoma County, via limousine.

The rains are a comin’, and October in Wine Country would be delightful. So hurry up, bitches.

photo: dj wallstrom/farmerbrown

Period Shopping at Walgreens

2007-08-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

Walgreens is a magical place. There is always something you need at Walgreens. When you crave a quick pick-me-up, whether it's lipstick, double sided tape, Dr. Scholl's inner soles or a refill of Ativan, a trip to Walgreens always delivers.

This is true every day of the week. And then there are certain weeks of the month when it's especially true. I speak of Period Shopping.

You know. When you go in ostensibly to pick up a simple box of tampons and whatever ancillary equipment you prefer (panty liners, Monistat, or god-forbid-but-someone-buys-it "feminine" spray.) But before you put such openly vaginal items in your basket, you need cover purchases. Like a magazine. And shampoo. Shell pink nailpolish to have at your desk for emergencies. Gum.

Once you establish a basket base, you add in the box of pussy pops and go on your merry way. En route to the register you walk down the candy aisle. That's where the psychosis sets in. Your mind squeals, "CANDY!" Full size candy admits defeat in the fight against bigger jeans, so you pick up a bag of mini Twix bars. For the office candy jar. Plus a tub of Red Vines, for variety.

You notice tension flooding out of your body. Shopping feels good! So you turn right, up the random electronics aisle, instead of left to the cashier. You stock up on photo frames, blank DVDs and Excedrin PM, which it pays to buy before you need it. You select light bulbs, leisurely.

Anywhere between $50 to $100 later, you stagger out under the weight of three bulging white plastic bags, a discreet brown paper wrapped box of tampons forgotten at the bottom of one of them.

Walgreens knows this. Why do you think they organize the aisles the way they do? And we love them for it. I feel better just knowing they are around every corner, that flushed feeling only a credit card swipe away.

Note that this same phenomena occurs at Costco, with a tally closer to $500. You'll also walk out with a box of tampons big enough to supply Beaver Academy for a year, which is a good thing for certain ladies who have particularly heavy days.

Shop happy.

Purple Stuff: Not Just for Militant Lesbians Anymore!

2007-08-11T15:33:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes you see the perfect shirt or dress, but think, "Shit, that would rock my world if only it was purple."

Those frustrating days are over. I discovered a new place, a place for people who love purple and the people who shop for them (italics theirs): The Purple Store.

Okay, sure. I started out writing this to make fun of them, which is mean and also what I love to do. But then the purple camo t-shirt came to my attention. The epiphany was swift and hard, and now I am a people who love purple.

Yes, sometimes the Goddess works in mysterious, purple, ways. Blessed Be!

Maternity Bridal Wear Widely Available and Disturbingly Inexpensive

2007-08-10T21:37:00.000-07:00

All of it's cheap, and some of it's affordable. This lovely number comes in innocent pink, pristine ivory, and whore black.

Introducing our new column...

2007-08-09T15:45:00.000-07:00

Ask a Malevolent Stuffed Black Bird!

Each week, our malevolent stuffed black bird will answer one of your questions. The bird is an expert in many subjects, including, but not limited to:

Pneumatism

Sorcery

Relationships and dating

Business strategy

So bring 'em on. Send your questions to wishboneclover@gmail.com.

The malevolent stuffed black bird dreads even considering your idiotic questions, but we can't wait to publish the answers. Put away your tender little girl feelings, because sometimes the truth hurts. This ain't the blue bird of happiness and his pecker is sharp!

CAW!

Meat as Strategy

2007-08-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

So the Times is reporting on a culture shift in women's first-date eating habits.

Former vegetarian/Smiths-album-owning Martha Wilkie (nee Flach) wanted to appear "unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic" on her match.com profile, so she mentioned meat twice and later chowed on steak frites on a first date with her future husband.

Uh, I don't know. On my first date with a crazy scientist, way back in 1998 (ahead of the curve!), I had steak and he had a salad. He also had a roll of $50's, no job, visible track marks, and the same address as his parents, so probably I should have spent a bit of time discerning if he would be a good mate instead of neurotically planning how to appear like an beer-drinking, steak-eating, fun-luvin' Kate Hudson.

But the fun times we had!

Halloween Spooooooooooks

2007-08-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Helena Bonham-Carter and (husband? life partner? dark lord?) Tim Burton are expecting a second child, who will undoubtedly grow up to be brilliant, slightly evil, and possessed of both crazy hair and excellent cheek bones.

I can not WAIT for the theatrical release of Sweeney Todd, by the way.

Kika's Treats

2007-08-08T14:18:00.000-07:00

Bi-Rite, my neighborhood old timey grocery shop, recently installed a wall of chocolate, which features the usual suspects like Guittard and Recchiuti, as well as interesting selections from smaller local chocolatiers Michael Mischer Chocolates and Charles Chocolates.

I immediately noticed the chocolate-covered graham crackers from Kika's Treats, which seemed to rival my confectionary holy grail: Bridgewater Chocolate's grahams covered with lime cream and dark chocolate. When I was touring regional potato chip plants and chocolate factories (good old days!), I stopped in at Bridgewater and was crushed to discover that visitors were only allowed into the outlet shop. For shame!

No lime cream here: Kika's crackers taste like they are coated in butter and a pinch of salt, then dipped in the most delicious dark chocolate ever. Simple, elegant, bone-shatteringly delicious.

In a fancy home magazine like Domino, they'd probably recommend that you leave these on a vintage modern nightstand as a thoughtful treat for houseguests. But since I live in a studio in San Francisco, I'll just eat 'em all myself.

We Watch: Harlan County USA

2007-08-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

Last spring, I was on the Netflix four-at-a-time plan and I burned through my stash in about a week (note: SANE). Other than 1940's screwball comedies and "woman's pictures," I clocked a lot of time with documentaries, and my favorite of the bunch was Harlan County, USA.

Barbara Kopple, who also directed American Dreams (about the Hormel Foods strike) and Shut Up and Sing (Dixie Chicks), spent her late 20's in Harlan County, Kentucky, following miners who were on strike to protest unsafe working conditions, unfair labor practices and low wages.

Throughout the film, the crew is harassed by representatives from Duke Power (called "gun thugs"), who seem too evil to be real, leering out of their pick-up trucks to harass workers they house in shacks without electricity or water. The corrupt union, with a leader who was later convicted of murdering his rival and that man's family, doesn't have to workers best interest at heart, either.

The hero of this tale is spitfire Lois Scott, a miner's wife (and miner's daughter), who keeps a gun in her bra and convinces a group of women to protest with switches when the company wins an injunction to keep more than 6 (male) miners from picketing at one time.

It's tragic, scary, funny, thoughtful, and you should see it. Like, today.

Rapists of the Deep

2007-08-07T20:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday an acquaintance rhapsodized about her recent family vacation to Hawaii. The highlight was her daughter's swim with the dolphins. For $200 you get to hang on to their fins and zip around the pool. Then they circle back and somehow you get to stand on them and ride on their backs. Which we apparently think is a good and respectful thing to do to our hyper-intelligent friends in the ocean.

It was a "professional" environment so I couldn't ask the only relevant follow-up question: is there an extra charge for forced bestiality, or do they offer you a partial refund?

Oh please. Don't act all shocked. Yeah, everyone loves dolphins and their "smiles." Their assistance with the War on Sharks. The cute acrobatics at Sea World. Prince Albert of Monaco even declared 2007 The Year of the Dolphin.

And yet.

Everyone also knows that these genius fish (fine, mammals, whatever) are totally aggro and attack other fish -- and mammals -- all the time. They practice infanticide (of their own, not ours.) They rape each other, and they rape humans.

Don't believe me? Google "the dark side of dolphins" and watch some of those videos. Trust me, you want to have a brain cleanser ready to watch right after, something G-rated and mindless like Teletubbies that can push out the mental images and allow you to sleep that night.

So don't tell me you're dying to go have a magical, spiritual experience in Cabo with the dolphins. Do some yoga, burn some incense, have a couple of shots and go get f***ed by your own kind.

Inscrutable Correspondence from Mom

2007-08-07T09:23:00.000-07:00

"Colleen,

Remember the lady we watched two years ago on TV? She's on the Today show right now. Check it out.

Mom"

We're so glad we have this blog

2007-08-07T09:06:00.000-07:00

Because now we have a place to put shit like this.

I went to Hawaii a few months ago on a trip for Knickerbocker. I was there with my best friend; we bought tiny bottles of sake and ant-covered rambutan from the farmer's market in Hilo. At night we played Scrabble, drank dirty martinis and avoided the official musical event featuring Hootie and the Blowfish.

On the final day, I had a red-eye out of Kona. My friend had already left, so I walked along the shoreline, eating cookies smuggled out of the departures lounge.

I ended up at a rocky outcropping across from a luxury housing community/golf course. On the volcanic rock other visitors left love notes and memorials, like the ones that dot the devastated Martian landscape outside of the airport. When my bus passed by the white rock Knickerbocker logo, people clapped.

On the beach, I had one of those weird moments when I reflected on the fact that I should be more self-reflective. "You should take a moment to yourself," said I. "It's a beach. No one is here but the turtles. Figure something out."

There were enough rocks for me to leave a message, but cancer didn't come for Papi, and I had recently become un-hearted from someone. What to say...what to say?

Enroute to Home

2007-08-06T23:44:00.000-07:00

Destination: Ballpark to Home

Fare: ~~$18~~ $19 (Because Chief was with me and he always makes me add to the tip)

Conversation gold:
Driver: Mercifully quiet, earning his extra tip
Chief: There aren't any starters on this team.
Cat: We used to have a scary team.
Chief: Yeah, five years ago.
Cat: You mean six years ago.
Chief: No, five.
Cat: We got married six years ago. That was a good team.
Chief: No, in 2001 we saw Barry break a record and that team lose the wildcard. We watched Estes and Ortiz walk everyone.
Cat: Oh, right, all those fat pitchers. The next year was better.
Chief: I know.

I Married a Mick

2007-08-06T22:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight was Irish Heritage night at the Giants. I went with Chief. We wore native costumes. It was fun.

My beanie was the gift with purchase. True to my Irish heritage, I got too drunk to remember the game. No, not really. That was a cheap racist joke at the expense of a silenced and oppressed people. Sorry. Thank God they're all too drunk to read this. Especially because a drunk Irishman has a wicked temper!

Woohoo! I must still be a little high from all the whiskey fumes around me in the bleachers. Those half naked dudes with the Irish flags painted on their chests and heads were just sweating out the hard stuff!

Comestibles we ingested:

garlic fries
cheese steak
turkey burger
bud lites
margaritas
irish coffees

Resisted:

Churros
Ice cream on a stick
Hot dogs
More margaritas
The inexplicable draw of orange tank tops with "SF Giants" emblazoned across the tits

Also, the pussy pitcher from Washington walked Barry all night. We were there to see history, not to watch you chicken out. Thanks for trying to ruin everyone's night. Pussy. You're just lucky we still have the best park.

Anti-Clock Decor

2007-08-05T22:58:00.000-07:00

Funny that Colleen should mention my "dark office" at the Knickerbocker Bank. The newest addition to my collection is a black sand hourglass, which I notice is available at Paxton Gate. I don't use clocks or watches (they just don't work around my magnetic field, it's no big deal) so timing a meeting can be tricky. The hourglass is a little over the top, but you have to do something to keep the gray conformities at bay. My story is that I like the design, but mainly I like that it's black.

I bought it during a recent lunch time walk when I popped into Area, a very cool store in Jackson Square. There's a lot of, shall we say, "hand" and "blown" going on in there. They also have the next thing I'm going to buy when I need to spend $600 to feel better: a carved elk head. (It's on their so-not-intuitive site under
"accessories." Good luck finding it. The site wouldn't let me snag the photo, but I found a different one anyway, na-na.)

Since I didn't have that kind of big money on me that day, I stuck with the hourglass for $30ish and a bunch of lottery tickets from the liquor store up the street. Remember the Massachusetts state lotto motto: You can't win if you don't play.

Me gusta

2007-08-05T19:43:00.001-07:00

I like shoes, sure. But I like food even better than I like shoes. So allow me to turn your attention to the culinary delight that is the Popeye's biscuit.

It was my friend Sonya, of People Reading, who first described to me the charms of the Popeye's biscuit. At a low point, she lingered at the door early one morning, waiting for the restaurant to open so she could get her fix.

On my way to interview Matthew yesterday, I thought, "Hm...haven't eaten anything today. What would be satisfying, yet portable? Delicious and cheap? Available on the walk from Mission to Potrero Hill?"

BISCUIT.

"Hola," I say to the Chinese guy behind the register.
"Biscuit. A llevar?" he says, knowing my story.

One second later, the Popeye's biscuit: buttery, warm, and crumbly, served with a packet of honey.

I do have a stupendous buttermilk biscuit recipe, but that takes time, effort, and buttermilk. When you're on the go and only a warm disc of caloric goodness will do, try the Popeye's biscuit. We won't tell.

"I've never wanted anything I couldn't have."

2007-08-05T19:21:00.001-07:00

For the first official wishbone clover interview, we speak with Matthew, who used to be a buyer for our favorite San Francisco emporium of weird, Paxton Gate. When I first interviewed for a job with Knickerbocker, I was unconvinced that corporate life was for me. When I walked into Cat's dimly-lit office, spied her green nailpolish, and chatted about stationery and monkey skulls, I thought I'd fit right in.

Matthew: Is this the interview now?

Me: Yes.

Matthew: Would you like water or cheap beer that isn't refrigerated?

Me: Beer. How did you get a job with Paxton Gate?

Matthew: I was living down in Humboldt, a friend came back from visiting San Francisco and said, "I found this place in San Francisco that looks just like your bedroom. It's called Something Gate." I was working for a place in Humboldt called Something Gate, so I didn't think much of it. Then I was traveling through Uruguay and decided to move to San Francisco. On Tribe, I found a job at Paxton Gate listed under the "bizarre" category. I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get it, but they were intelligent hoops.

Me: How long did you work there?

Matthew: 10 months. Hey! I found my fortune! (He pulls out a Mason jar filled with slips of paper from fortune cookies.) In the end, I wanted a life outside of work.

Me: What's the weirdest thing you were ever offered?

Matthew: A film reel of a monkey being tortured. I purchased a still, but I had to get rid of it. I couldn't stand to look at it.

Me: Do you shop there now?

Matthew: No, I've always had an affinity for finding odd things on my own. Which is probably why I worked there. We really got into taxidermy when a retired captain of industry offered us his collection. He had a warehouse of trophies from his safaris.

Me: What's the one thing you wouldn't sell, no matter how much someone offered you?

Matthew: My art. Any of it. That's a heart in a vial. Vertebrae. A preserved duck heart. Some wings.

Le Big-Mac

2007-08-03T08:32:00.001-07:00

Cracked ran an article on the 9 most typecast actors of all time, including the imitable Willie Shatner and the "gravel-voice intimidating asshole" Alec Baldwin.

Who would you add to that list? Joan Fontaine, Doris Day...

The Best Part-time Job Ever: DWTS

2007-08-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

Some idiot "stars" (yeah, they're all sorta idiots, but this is even more dumb than usual so bear with me) complained about the pay scale for Dancing With The Stars. That's crazy! This gig has corporate life - not to mention McDonald's - beat in pretty much every dimension. Starting with the salary: For the first two weeks of season 3, the (otherwise unemployed) B/C/D-listers received $125k.

Yes, $125-zero-zero-zero. Just for hanging out with cute, very fit, long limbed people who teach them to dance. Not to edit excel spreadsheets or smelt iron or flip burgers. To dance. In cute costumes designed specifically to flatter their bodies. Plus these exhibitionist attention freaks get to do it all on TV for millions of viewers.

Each subsequent week they get "about another $20k" with the potential for a $50k bonus if there is a recap show, which is always. I'm no math genius, so it's fortunate that reality blurred added it up for us: $245k for eight weeks of work.

As an employee of the Knickerbocker Bank, I can tell you with complete confidence that there are MUCH worse ways to earn a buck. Someone needs to shut up and be grateful.

DWTS is still totally my favorite show. Mel B./Scary Spice is going to kick everyone's ass this season, especially if she dances with Dream Date Maks. Who I love. Plus, she might have her lawyer, the magnificently coiffed Gloria Allred in the audience. Now that's entertainment.

Hey State Dept: No Charge For This One

2007-08-02T20:02:00.001-07:00

Bin Laden wants Whitney Houston
We don't want Whitney
Bin Laden is willing to kill Bobby Brown to get Whitney
We don't want Bobby Brown
We want Bin Laden

Why are we waiting to use Whitney and Bobby as bait? Whichever way it goes, I see a clear win-win scenario.

Enroute to Pacific Heights

2007-08-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

Destination: Dinner party

Fare: $14

Conversation gold:

Him: Which short story writers do you like?

Me: George Saunders!

Him: Dennis Lehane!

Me: Peter Ho Davies!

Him: Dennis Johnson!

Me: Alice Munro!

Him: Guy de Maupassant!

Me: You win.

Wha??

2007-08-02T10:00:00.001-07:00

Holy Crap! Did you know Ed Koch was possibly maybe gay? And that some gay activists attribute the lack of aggressive response to the AIDS crisis in 1980's New York to his fear of being outed? Because I didn't.

Sure, I remember he played himself on an episode of My Two Dads, but still.

Image courtesy of Gotham Gazette

Mater Dolorosa

2007-08-02T07:49:00.000-07:00

As you may have picked up by now, here at wishbone clover we love the odd, the dark, the misunderstood. That's right: we're Catholic.

Rituals are a-ok by us, and we always check out cemeteries when we visit foreign cities. Cat even went to the Capuchin Crypt on a recent visit to Italy. Jealous.

Finalizing your designs for the sweet hereafter? Check out this neat collection of vintage memorial cards at Genealogy Today. Myself, I'm partial to the "Mrs. Herbert S. Case" look.

If You're Still Looking For Colleen's Birthday Gift

2007-08-01T19:29:00.000-07:00

Only 40 days to go, and not all of us can give her that cool Flame Stitch journal. If you've read Colleen's jam endeavor, Delights and Prejudices, you know she makes a mean hot fruit. What better way to encourage such yummy-for-us behavior than with engraved recipe cards from Mrs. John L. Strong? For a mere $135, she (or another talented chef in your life) can immortalize the secret ingredients of 20 signature dishes.

You can even kill two birds with one stone and pick up something for my birthday while you're there (only a couple hundred shopping days to go.) I'm partial to the Da Vinci Box, the Buddhah cards, or even classic gift certificates. This stuff is so good, I'll even enjoy printouts of the website.

Shoe Lust: J. Crew Lucia Printed Ballet Flats

2007-08-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

Look! Aren't they so pretty? In my (so not) secret shoe fetish fantasy world they are soft and comfortable because they're flat and made of fabric, and so sharp and kicky because of the exciting printed pattern. I must have them. This time it's love.

As Colleen mentioned, we're big on meat around here. You'll soon see that we're also BIG on shoes. Sometimes even the same shoes, which can create unpleasant competition and Rochambeau tournaments in the aisle of Loehmann's Shoes.

Fortunately in this case we're spared the pain of shoe envy. They come in nine patterns, each one prettier than the next. I'm sure I can relinquish one of them to Colleen. I'll even let her pick first. But next time we go out, I get the last bite of proscuitto.

Bar Bambino

2007-08-01T11:25:00.000-07:00

The Times article about Skinny Bitch, a pro-vegan, anti-alcohol/caffeine/sugar/LIFE diet book, got me thinking about our food philosophy here at wishbone clover.

We can sum it up with one word: meat.

For our kick-off celebration, we had dinner at Bar Bambino, a surprisingly swank little restaurant on 16th Street in the Mission, just past the gathering point for your friendly neighborhood meth addicts.

At Bar Bambino, they're serious enough about their house-made salumi to have a separate, glass-walled prep station. And what meat! I think I can speak for both of us in saying that the cured beef with olive oil and lemon was life changing. To ensure that she didn't take more than her share, I pinned Cat's hand to the table with a fork while I took the above camera phone photo.

Word to the wise: if your server inquires about dessert wines and you respond "We-uhl have one of EVERYthing!!!" it's probably a safe indicator you should have none of anything.

Am I Still a Whore if the Money Goes to Charity?

2007-07-31T18:38:00.001-07:00

Today someone sent me an email with a link to an online petition. It supports legislation to get better services for women with breast cancer. Obviously good, right? Unless you dig really deep, like feeding orphans with birth defects, it's hard to find a better cause.

I completed the online form, including the mandatory email address (yes, using my spam address, duh) clicked "submit" and waited for my confirmation.

Imagine my surprise when I was thanked by Lifetimetv.com, and encouraged to watch their show with a character who has breast cancer. The petition is part of a marketing campaign!

(Okay, I blithely overlooked the Lifetime header on the first page. Meh, life is short. Who has time to read the edges of websites?)

So now I'm torn. Do I forward the link to help a good cause (the legislation, not the dumb ass show) get more exposure? Or do I protect my friends from marketing shills collecting emails for nefarious purposes?

Is it better when you give it away for free? Here. You may decide for yourself.

Hold this superglue. Now cough.

2007-07-31T15:57:00.000-07:00

Last Friday we attended the kick-off of the "Fabulous Fashion in Film Festival" at the Castro Theatre, with special guest hosts Santino (aka Satan-o) and Jeffrey from Project Runway.

Santino did his Tim Gunn/Andrae/Red Lobster impression. Tattoo-necked, baby mama-dumping Jeffrey was ungracious, sneering, and not particularly smart.

He claimed his bad-boy schtick was a part he played for the camera, but his horns and pitchfork were still in evidence, despite the lack of key grips and best boys. Jeffrey mocked the talentless Daniel Vosovic and Chloe Dao, saying he only auditioned for PR because his friend Santino had been featured in a previous season. Uh uh. Uh uh! Do not even start in on my little Daniel, he of the floppy hair and crushed Muppet nose.

The film was fabulous, naturally. But when the host announced that a local actor would portray PR icon Tim Gunn, Cat's scribbled note was exactly what I was thinking: "Provincial." San Francisco: please. An actor playing a reality show host is Dubuque-worthy.

I can not wait for season 4.

Who Cast Germaine Greer on Celebrity Big Brother?

2007-07-30T22:10:00.001-07:00

Add it to the list of things I must have missed while living in a cave. Back in 2005 Germaine Greer, seminal feminist, Ph.D. and author of The Female Eunuch was on that nadir of reality shows, Celebrity Big Brother UK.

I'm speechless.

Granted, she walked out after six days. And indicted the show for being bullying and psychologically damaging. But then she appeared on a couple of spinoffs. Even guest starring as herself on Extras isn't enough to make up for that kind of behavior.

Where are the feminist role models? This is how we wind up with Britney and Linsday and Bratz dolls. Thank God for Danica McKellar (yes, Winnie) and Math Doesn't Suck. Even though, actually, it does suck.

Flame Stitch Journal

2007-07-30T15:48:00.000-07:00

If you've ever self-identified as a writer and you have lazy parents/friends/co-workers/pets, you have received a journal as a gift. In fact, you have stacks of them--gilt, cloth, leather-bound, anime--there are piles of blank journals spilling out of your umbrella closet and hardware drawer. You probably even burn some in the winter when you've run out of firewood.

And yet: this letterpress notebook from Dauphine Press is so lovely I 'd want to carry it around with me at bars and in taxi cabs. Especially now that my custom shark notebook is kaput, I need something pretty enough to inspire me to write more and better.

Countdown to my birthday: 43 days. You know where to go.

Enroute to "The Women," part deux

2007-07-30T15:31:00.000-07:00

Destination: The Mission to the Castro Theatre
Fare: $9
Conversation gold: "May I tell you something? I really like your style of dress. You're very covered. It shows you respect your body as a woman. In my country, we like women with respect."

Enroute to "The Women"

2007-07-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

Destination: Downtown to Castro Theatre
Fare: $17
Conversation gold: "I don't need to wear no seatbelts, driver was decapitated by one!" accompanied by (mock) demonstration.

Rosalind Russell

2007-07-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Because she was tough, funny, smart and stylish.

Because she titled her autobiography Life is a Banquet.

Because she is Auntie Mame.

Because her eponymous cocktail (two parts Aquavit, one part Noilly Prat) was also created by her. She contributed the recipe to the Stork Club Bar Book in 1946; it's now numbered among the "101 Cocktails that Shook the World."

Because she was one of seven children (check: Catholic) from a Waterbury, CT family, and if you've been to Waterbury--or even driven near it--you realize what a feat it is to escape at all, much less escape in fabulous heels and shiny brooches.

Because she was a dame.

(Image of Rosalind Russell's grave courtesy of www.seeing-stars.com)