Imagine My Horror...

...when I picked up this at Community Thrift...
...only to discover THIS inside when I got home!

Where Can He Be Now?

Exotic Elda in Evanston stares into the abyss, waiting.
Haughty Hedda in Hartford lets heartfelt tears fall onto her henna locks as she waits.
They both wait for his phone call that has yet to ring in the dark.
His wife Wilma in Wilmington waits numbly, a routine that has rendered her weary.Even lovely lonely Lulu lingers in the nursery.
While her baby brother stares in the dark.
Where can that man be? And why does he torture each of them with this waiting?
Is he off on his latest vehicle?
Or was he drawn to some equestrian dalliance? These questions dance aimlessly in the wind like a winning lottery ticket heading toward the storm drain.

Shopping Tips from Anita

Goods, Foods and Mushrooms

I'm Becoming Henry Darger!

This evening after work I needed to nab some things in the land of Big Box Stores (sorry, I own a fuel efficient car and I vote), and afterward I could not resist driving to the other side of the 280 and stepping into DAISO. I spent barely $50, but my bounty was huge. This is not even 5% of it. And with barely anything priced over $3, they make it so hard to resist. Expect a really cool episode of Junk Thief TV in the near future.

Powder Room Stimulus Package

When I walked through the front door around 6:45 p.m. Friday, I realized that this was the first time during the four months Bow and I have been together that we have been apart for more than eight hours. Her English nanny gave a report earlier in the afternoon that she had done well with her, but it was a thrill to see her reaction to me. She stood on her back legs, flailing with her front ones in a state of near disbelief. Her curled tail was fully extended and wagging as if she'd magically transformed into a Labrador. Then she just pushed into my thigh, as if to make a heat imprint. Then she ran into the kitchen and then back and repeated every exact action. Then she sat on my lap and sighed. Not hysterical, just solemnly content

It had been a strangely mixed week. An unusually upbeat and productive week in Denver was contrasted by the fact that more than 70 of my coworkers are now my former coworker due to no fault of their own or the organization. Just cruel realities of the American capitalist system that is staggering not unlike British colonialism nearly a century ago. Meanwhile the media obsessed over the tragedies of Madonna brooding in her British mansion due to the fact that she can't buy African children as easily as British husbands and Oprah's franchise is staggering because her carefully branded all-girl school is filled with sexual improprieties.

A slight injustice slapped me that night because, as if to recreate the opening moments of What's Up Doc?, some idiot at SFO picked up my charcoal gray Kenneth Cole suitcase and left behind their light gray tacky Samsonite bag of the same exact size. Since the courier called me at 12:35 a.m. and again at 6:03 a.m. saying they could drop the bag off within a "window" of 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., I opted not to be a hostage in my home and went down to their operation on Linden in South San Francisco. I interrupted the Winston-Salem break of a baffled underling with my ID and United claim check and headed further south to the Hillsdale Shopping Center where I fueled my desire to complete my bathroom transformation.

Was it narcissistic, insane or clueless to want to replace tacky white plastic switch plates with shiny chrome ones at Restoration Hardware? I really hated buying them there instead at Cole Hardware or other local, mom and pop stores. But none of them had ones that would specifically fit this particular socket. With three items in my hand, I felt somewhat smug with my new economy frugality in this remnant of the late 1990s economy. Yet I avoided being too smug when, after being approached three times by clerks with an almost stern "May I help you" as if they feared I might shoplift their precious restoration fixtures, the fourth clerk approached me with a placid EST-esque tranquil mantra: "We're having a Restoration Hardware Stimulus Package this weekend. If you spend just $500 -- that right just $500 -- we'll take off $100!"

"That's fine, I'm only spending $25," I said, holding up my three marked down items (cucumber dryer sheets, "vintage" shower curtain hooks and a polished chrome swicth plate). Bewildered, the clerk replied, "Uh, I thought that was...impossible....I mean...here." Had I thrown a blow against the staggering, dying empire? Was I yet another self-deluded bourgeois? Was simply a Jewish spendthrift?

When I opened the front door 20 minutes later, Bow gave me the same greeting she bestowed last night, sniffing my purchases dismissively and then folding her spine into my thigh. I was reminded of a comment of a friend from the early 1980s: "Gloria Vanderbilt? Calvin Klein? Alexander Julian? They clothe our naked bodies with delusions of class and grandeur, yet we are oblivious to the fact that every stitch and crease was created by under compensated peasants in China and Pakistan who could never pronounce the name on the label that they have so meticulously created."

Now I Am Really Curious

Which past purchase got me on this list for this direct mail house. Bizarre. But that laser gun might be helpful if Bow and I run into any pit bulls on our walks.

For Every Generation, Some Dreams Are Mixed

For many years I kept detailed, diligent journals of every dream I could recall, sometimes jotting down just a word or image and forcing myself to dig deep to pull it up later in the day. Not much became of those journals, and they mean little when I look back at them.

I feel lucky that the dark recesses of my subconscious that emerge in these dreams are not as spooky as my daydream wanderings. And rarely are my dreams completely pleasant or nightmarish. Just murky and confusing.

And they often merge into one another with no logical sequence, such as last night when I was visited by one of my exes who was distraught that the economy had become so bad that The Gap was going out of business. "What a blessing!" I exclaimed, thinking about how that store seemed to embody all that I most despised about our time together, seeming so prefabbed and soulless, a paint-by-number relationship out of a magazine. "But how many times did you go there? How many pieces are still in your closet that came from The Gap? How many of them do you still wear?" I agreed that he was probably right, and looking at him with a certain lessening degree of disdain, wondered why I couldn't put them in the recycle bin.

I passed from this scene, realizing I was riding in a car with my father who died two and a half years ago. I was aware that he was neither dead nor alive but very present, and in a jovial but disconnected state as often he was in the last three years or so before Alzheimer's accompanied him for his final exit. He told a rambling story as he wove through traffic, stopping at green lights and buzzing through red ones. I could hear car horns blaring, tires squealing, people cursing and metal scraping against the car -- yet it kept moving forward. Knowing it was impossible to pull his firm hands from the wheel, I rested my head his leg as I did when he drove me home from summer camp as a kid, trusting that we would arrive home safely.

When I woke at 6:30 a.m., I felt peaceful but still conflicted.

In the afternoon, I realized I needed stamps and went across the street to the video/copy shop. The clerk said that the only stamps they had were ones promoting Alzheimer's awareness. "That's fine," I said. After I paid and took my change, the clerk smiled, handing them to me, "So you'll remember."

Pork Product News

Bow said that she thinks she would prefer them for her dental routine more than her Greenies. They are available at Amazon. They list at $2.49 new and $.95 for used. Ew!

Uncharted Lands of the Far West

Sometimes I have wonderful dreams that I have discovered an unknown room in my house, or unexplored treasures of a street in my own town.

That really is often the case even here in dreary old San Francisco. Living in the Mission, it's easy to think 24th Street is the center of the world and that heading over to Valencia is some grand adventure. And I have a bad habit of thinking that civilization ends west of Arguello But from time to time I discover a real jewel there. For years I've heard all the raves about Green Apple Books being such a treasure. My furtive stops there have always been disappointing, perhaps because I've breezed in with expectations of it being Portland's Powell's or Manhattan's Strand or -- even worse -- going with a big box store mentality of thinking that stepping in for five minutes will yield some great treasures. Sauntering over via the 33 (which yields some of the oddest transitions of any bus line in the city) I gave the store the untimed, leisurely exploration it deserves as afternoon gently shifted to evening. I even returned after a pleasant Vietnamese dinner, enjoying the slower pace of Clement as opposed to freeway-esque Geary. I was also struck that after a stroll of a good dozen-plus blocks there was not one encounter with a panhandler. The abundance of families at all-you-can-eat buffets were a nice prelude to a Father's Day that will be marked by memories and no current realities. The annex that features music and DVDs is not definitive, but it was a thrill to capture a copy of Les Enfants de Paradis at a fraction of any listed price and having a sweet conversation about the film's power with the gawky rail-thin clerk.

The neighborhood feels oddly not a part of San Francisco, almost echoing Seattle's Ballard. Well, yes, I know pho isn't exactly Scandinavian. Best of all (and I know my many whiny "cold" adverse friends will bristle) it was perfectly cool and foggy. Great weather for a nice long walk and lugging home books about French cinema -- and a landmark piece of French cinema.

Last Virgin Standing?

While it's hard to get too teared up about a big box store closing, the announcement of the Times Square Virgin Megastore closing furthers the lingering doubt about how long there will still be one in Union Square. I can't remember how many years it's been since I actually bought music there, but thinking that Best Buy would be the only big box choice for DVDs (they've never heard of Criterion, Kino or most of the labels I seek out) is chilling. It's not as if we don't have Streetlight, Amoeba, Rasputin and this internets thing I keep hearing about, but there is still something about such a big box store that does evoke old memories of trips to "real cities" in my youth and the excitement of picking up music that was not Journey or Rick Springfield. I'm sure there were similar sentiments when sheet music stores started shutting down.

Medical Action Figures of the Mission

Daiso

It's very rare that Junk Thief endorses a product or a chain of stores, but he just has to say how wildly impressed he is with Daiso Japan. Sometimes even Junk Thief needs to head off to the 'burbs for some of the things in those dreaded big box stores, and having Daiso in Daly City sweetens the deal. Where else can you find super nifty paper goods, mosaic candle holders, a Spanish flag, Japanese doll furniture, gardening tools, $.99 premium Danish cookies and gorgeous wrapping paper all at one stop? Ichiban Kan is also a huge favorite, but Junk Thief is beginning to prefer Daiso more. However, does anyone know the correct pronunciation? Day so? Dah-ee-SO? Day-eye-so? Die so?

JTTV - Season 2, Episode 15 - Cinco de Meow

Bunter and Junk Thief herald the Fifth of May with a musical extravaganza that simultaneously celebrates and debunks the consequences of globalization. If you prefer to see it full screen, click the YouTube link for that version.

I Saw a Similar Sign Last Week at Wilkes Bashford

An Open Letter: V.I.P. = Very Insulting Prejudice

Dear Sir Richard Branson,

J__ and I were down in Union Square last night after dinner and I picked up a few DVDs, something I do if not once a week, at least three times a month. Thus I am a card carrying member of your V.I.P. program. Your overall business philosophy and commitment to philanthropy are laudable, but I must admit I have a bit of an issue with a coupon I was given last night.

As an old Jew I am all over coupons and appreciate the frequent discounts I get at your store. Sometimes I roll my eyes at certain ones -- discounts on tickets to see Barry Manilow in Vegas, $10 off your "fashion" -- but on the whole they are straight forward such as frequently a coupon for $5 off any item for my next purchase. Thanks, and I appreciate that you value my business.

Last night I got a $10 coupon in honor of African American History Month. Great, a huge percentage of my music collection is by African American artists. I'm all for that. Okay, here's where I started getting upset: the coupon qualified that it is to be used for any jazz, hip-hop, rap, blues, soul or R & B disc. Sure, I have plenty of interest in discs from those genres, However, it implies that I can buy works of white artists in those categories such as Chet Baker, Emimem, Eric Clapton, Paul Whiteman, Hall and Oates, etc. with this coupon? However, it would not apply to African American artists in other genres, i.e. Audra McDonald (classical/pop vocals/cast albums), Scott Joplin (opera/ragtime), Leontyne Price (opera), Charley Pride (country). And what about people like Joshua Redman, decidedly a jazz musician but with mixed racial heritage. Would you apply only 50% of the coupon? Okay, jazz, so that applies 100%.

Mind you, I am all about honoring African American history and its wonderful impact on the U.S. culture, but I'd suggest that in the future you use a wider lens in defining it. I'm a tad insulted but will likely continue to shop at your store. However, I'll be curious to see how you handle Latvian Pride month come August. I'll be watching.

Sincerely,
Junk Thief.

Divas Where You Least Expect Them

(Overheard at the Potrero Center Safeway. Fireman #1 is Italian American, #2 Asian American. On the1-5 fireman hotness scale, #1 is 3.5, #2 is a 4.8)

Fireman #1: I'll have to be careful bringing these bags into the station.

Fireman #2: Really? Why? Won't they be glad you went shopping?

Fireman #1: Nothing but divas in my firehouse. They won't touch anything that's from Safeway, even if it's organic. It has to be Rainbow or Whole Foods.

Fireman #2: I hate Rainbow.

Fireman #1: Me too. It's dirty and overpriced. But those divas at my firehouse love it.

Fireman #2: I'll take Safeway any day. Good prices and it's clean and convenient.

Fireman #1: They're even worse about soap. No Dial or Dove for these guys. It has to be Lush or Body Shop.

Fireman #2: Oh, I'm with them on that one. I have very sensitive skin.

Fireman #1: Diva.

Foiled TD at TJ's

Overheard at the Trader Joe's on Brannan at 11:12 a.m. today. (Him - Filipino American in a Ricky Martin sweatshirt and big silver wrap around glasses. Her - African American woman in a Hollister t-shirt, motorcycle boots and wallet on a chain.

Her: Dude, we still need to replenish the bottom shelf. Hand me some more.

Him: (Hands on hips) I know I'm pretty femme, but I still know how to pitch a football. (Throws a six-count package of garlic naan.)

Junk Thief: (Picks up two $.79 each grapefruits)

Him: (In a girlish, cheerleader scream as he looses his balance, falls backwards, knocks several dozen grapefruit on the floor, lands his butt on my shoes.) Oh, sometimes I don't even realize my own strength!

Her: Dipshit, you pitch a baseball; you toss a football. Stop fucking around and hand me the rest of the naan. I'm almost ready for my break.

I always feel the universe is out of balance when I go more than two weeks without a trip to Trader Joe's. I'd not been since early December in order to avoid crowds, especially those getting last minute XXXL mark downs at Nordstrom Rack that shares the same parking lot. Some might critique it as a big box store, but then Whole Foods is based in Texas, while they are headquartered in South Pasadena, just a stone's throw away from the John Birch Society and Blue Boy and Pinky at the Huntington Museum. Pasadena, I've heard it said, is just like mid-America, only more so. I always find it comforting to go there, a movie set version of the sort of streets where I grew up.

Best song ever written about a shopping experience can be found here on Jennifer Terran's Cruel. I've yet to be aware of Albertson's or Safeway inspiring such a ditty.

Deadly Desires and Pedal Extremities

Greed:	Low
Gluttony:	Medium
Wrath:	Medium
Sloth:	Very Low
Envy:	Medium
Lust:	High
Pride:	Medium

Discover Your Sins - Click Here


A tip of the fedora to Huntington for alerting me to this interesting albeit somewhat dubious test. I don't fully agree with the assessment since I'd rank pride being in the high level, but most of the others seem pretty on target. I share the high level lust quotient with Huntington, however unlike him I am morally opposed to flashy jewelry. I can't explain why, but it offends me.

As a typical Thanksgiving ritual, I've been going through a process of various forms of taking stock and being thankful. I am in a far more thankful mode than I have been over the past seven years, having gone through dealing with several years of family illnesses and deaths.

On the material side, I've just completed a photographic inventory of my shoes, something I've done in the past and have found a useful way to keep my shoe lust in check. How many pairs are identical or so similar that they are indistinguishable from each other? Fortunately less than 3% of my current stock. So how many pairs would that be? Well, I won't reveal the exact number, but might run a contest to see who can guess how many digits are in that number. (The ten digits I put into those shoes each day don't count.)

I have mentioned before that one of the tipping points of dumping a guy I dated a couple of years ago was that he took pride in the fact that he could buy his entire wardrobe at Marshall's. (Or was it Mervyn's? Which is lower on the pecking order.) At the same time, I remember being with an ex at the Bloomingdale's at Stanford Shopping Center when a queen chased his significant other into a dressing room screaming, "Oh, no, you're not going to try that on. Not only is it plaid, it's button down!" I turned to my significant other and said, "If we ever get to that point, let's promise each other now that we'll call it quits." We did call it quits a couple of years later but it wasn't due to button down plaid but over whether or not it was insensitive to throw away a gift certificate a friend gave us to Pier 1. Perhaps that's why I ranked a little low on the pride scale because I ended up using the gift certificate. Pier 1 does have pretty decent candles, and once you pull off and throw away the labels no one knows the difference.

Withdrawal Therapy for a Catalaniste

Barely 48 hours back in San Francisco, I've been looking reminders of Barcelona that are here, and surprisingly there are many more than one would realize. Although I consider most of the architecture here to be absolutely hideous -- too many pastels, overwrought Victoriana, and incongruent wrought iron -- sometimes there are points of beauty and subtlety. And, of course, this is a Mediterranean climate, and today was almost identical to what I was experiencing 72 hours ago as I descended Montjuïc and strolled through Poble Sec, a working class barrio that could almost pass for the Mission albeit a much cleaner and safer version of it.

Fortunately I'm off to have dinner with a couple of friends at Las Ramblas. This afternoon while running some errands in Union Square, I stepped into Zara. Besides liking about 90% of the items downstairs in the men's department, it was thrilling to be surrounded by male customers and staff, all of whom looked as if they'd just stepped off Passeig de Gracia and none dreary cargo-panted/vertical striped tedium of H&M or Old Navy or, for that matter, the $650 shirts at Barneys that could pass for $39 knock offs at Nordstrom Rack. I had to resist saying "Sí, pagaré con el plástico" as I put my items on the counter at the register.