I saw Philip Glass' new opera Appomattox yesterday, thanks to some randomly great bartering for amazing orchestra seats.  It is a powerful and shocking piece, and Glass puts the insistent unrelenting repetition that characterizes much of his music to good use here, subduing the audience into reflection on the horrors and sorrows of war.  The libretto, by Christopher Hampton, is not as strong as it could be (I'm not sure if hiring a Brit who admittedly knew "nothing about the Civil War before starting this piece" was the best option) and I was struck most by a scene that was nearly entirely wordless, a scene where the residents of Richmond stand watching as their city is bombed, keening and moaning.  (Oddly, this is the scene that the San Francisco Chronicle reviewer found weakest.)

The second act moves from the surprisingly tender and moving meeting between Generals Grant and Lee in a small house in Appomattox to scenes set one hundred years later, in the heart of the civil rights movement.  While these scenes were also incredibly strong and devastating, they felt heavy-handed in the context of the story, as if Glass/Hampton didn't trust the audience to make the connections between the Civil War and ongoing race relations in the United States.  And in that, it limited other interpretations and connections, the parallels between the president and generals of that war and the president and generals of the war raging today and the ways in which the sorrow and bloodshed of both wars stain the political landscape beyond the racial divides. 
 
Still, it was an amazing piece.  The set design was spectacular, the singers strong and talented, and the overall effect haunting.  Go see it if you have a chance.

Did the NY Times really think they required SEVEN reporters to do a Styles piece on how bottled water is environmentally unfriendly, or was that just a place to park the female journalists while assigning hard news stories to men?

I spent a not-quite-iPhone-sized heap of money this morning on a portable consumer information device. 

My mother's mother's mother, Hedwig Greenstein Zubrow, was born in 1899 and married my great-grandfather Simon in 1919.  At some point after her initials became HZ instead of HG, but probably before the Great Depression, she bought or was given a white gold wristwatch.  It was not a fancy watch - it has carving rather than set gemstones - and it probably cost about $20 at the time.  Of course, that was probably the family's income for an entire month.

I'm named after my great-grandmother, who died before I was born, and until last month, I'd never had anything that had belonged to her.  When my grandmother gave me her watch last month, it was not in working condition and needed significant cleaning.  I found a Swiss jeweler who has been in business here in San Francisco since the year I was born and brought the watch to him. He opened it, suggested he might be able to do something with it, and said he'd call me in a few weeks.  It felt a bit strange to leave the watch with him, no contract, no waiver of liability, no nothing.  He put the watch in an envelope, ripped off a ticket stub and handed it over. Last week he called and said it was ready, and I picked it up this morning.  It costs a lot of money to repair an old watch.

The watch ticks softly and perfectly and it will sit on my wrist exactly as it sat on my great-grandmother's wrist.  Perhaps we have similar wrists; I don't really know.  Perhaps I will have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren; perhaps they will have similar wrists; perhaps I will give one of them this watch.   I don't think any of my other devices will still exist in 90 years.

1.  One of these days, the neighbor's 5:30am newspaper delivery is going to turn violent, but they won't get us because they will be scared by my ferocious barking.  You'll thank me then.

2.  Even though I cannot catch a tennis ball thrown directly to me, I could totally catch a bird if you'd let me off this stupid leash.

It doesn't have to be on a person (though if you know someone I might find crushworthy, you might mention it...).  I'd settle for a project or a job or something to get excited about.  I've got that treading water feeling, where things are fine and the water's perfectly comfortable, but I'm ready to swim towards something for a change.  Ideas?

If you've ever discussed such things with me, you've probably heard me proclaim that "marathons are for crazy people!" and I have not changed my mind at all on that.  Today, after I ran two laps at the track at Kezar, I said to my pal/trainer Sharon that I have no idea how people run long distances at all because oh lord, it is so very very boring to run.  And while my heart rate was totally fine and my shin splints, for once, were totally fine, I realized that it was highly unlikely I'd ever get into the zone or the zen or whatever it is people say they get into.  Nope. No distances for me.

But then I thought "you know, I could probably run a 5k, just to prove I can" and at that I recognized that I'm at the top of that slippery slope that turns people into runners (or in my case, really really not slippery at all because I'll never ever be a runner, I promise) and I googled "5k san francisco" and found that the SF Marathon has an option they call the "progressive marathon", where you basically run 23.1 miles sometime before the race day and then on the race day you run the 5k and voila! You've completed a marathon! Go you!  Clever, huh?

So hey, why not?  There are 138 days between now and the SF Marathon.  If I run a mile on 23 of those days (plus an extra block at some point), and sit on my ass for the other 115 days, and then show up on July 29th and run that 5k, I'll be an official progressive marathoner, or, as described above, officially progressively crazy.

I will be raising no money or awareness or anything with my 115 days of ass-sitting, punctuated by some occasional running, but that should not stop you from encouraging me.  And since so many of you do your best encouragement by mocking, feel free.  You can come encourage/mock me in person on July 29th too, if you like.  I'll be there, I think.

Book: Show us the latest book you bought, borrowed or received.

Shantaram

Gregory David Roberts

I'm reading Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.  It's a 944 page extravaganza based on the author's life story, which involves breaking out of prison in Australia, disappearing into the slums of Bombay, setting up a free clinic in the slums, getting involved with the Bombay mafia, acting in Bollywood films and various other adventures.  He apparently wrote the novel three times, as the first two drafts were destroyed by prison guards, and he's now sold the story to Johnny Depp and the film is in production. 

The author's story is almost too ridiculous to be true, and the book is a novel, not a memoir, but it's much better than I expected and I'm enjoying the length of it rather than struggling through it the way I did with, say, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell.  Recommended!

I promise I won't ever start dogblogging, but if Lyle did post something right now it would say something about how he did not ask to be born into a world where a person dares eat cheese without sharing it with her dog.  

If you're keeping track, that's four in about six months. Whee!

Today's was at 5:30, as I was coming home to pick up Lyle for our 6pm dog training class.  I tried to fix it with the magic fix-a-flat stuff but no dice.  So there we were at 5:40 with no plan, which quickly evolved into a "hey, we can take the bus" plan. 

Lyle is a damn fine busrider of a dog.  No barking or squirming, and lots of charming the other passengers.  We got to class more or less on time, learned another round of things (tricks are *so* much more fun than boring obedience stuff like "heel") and then got back on the bus and came home.

Later, I changed the tire, with Rick's moral support.  At some point tomorrow I'll have to go get yet another tire and have the tire people look at me incredulously.