Child’s Play

I’ve had another article published on the Girls That Roam site, again on Orlando. It’s not my very favorite of the Orlando series, but I’m happy enough with it considering the challenges I faced writing it.

The first challenge was the subject matter: Kids in Orlando. You’d think that would practically write itself, and it’s true that there is a lot to say on that matter. But I’m about the least likely person in the world to say it. I don’t have kids, and while I did travel to Orlando and see lots of children having fun, the week I spent in Florida was actually one of the least kid-friendly experiences I’ve had since my early 20s. Of all the articles I’ve written this year, this is the one that required the most post-trip research.

None of us in the group I was traveling with have any children, which is good, because if we had, Child Protective Services would have taken them away in the first 24 hours. We spent our first evening seeing a John Waters one-man show, and then we drank with him, and then we went out for tacos in the middle of the night. And it only got less wholesome from there. We closed bars three times in one week, and at least two out of the eight of us hooked up with each other. (No, I wasn’t one of them; I just caught them making out in the back of the van.)

As for hookups outside of the group, I can’t begin to guess how many happened, facilitated by the modern marvel that is Grindr. Grindr is something that I almost thought was a myth, but whoa, Nellie, is it real in the world of young gay men. I got little enough sleep, but the guys…I don’t know how they’re still alive.

The second challenge I faced is the simple fact that I have written about 18,000 words so far on Orlando, and before I sat down to write this, I was starting to worry that I didn’t have many left in me. (For comparison, a respectable novel is 100,000 words.) But somehow another 1,800 found their way into a Word document, and arranged themselves in some kind of comprehensible order. I’ve been writing one article a week since mid-May, and now I get a little bit of a break, which is kind of nice. I’ve only got two more Orlando articles left, and they’re short, so I’ll make them happen somehow.

Cringe. C-R-I-N-G-E. Cringe

I am not an extroverted person by nature, and I don’t normally like to be the center of attention. I kind of freeze up when all eyes are on me and it’s not a situation I like to seek out.

My writing, though, is something I do like to put out in front of people. I’m oddly unselfconscious about my work and always quietly proud to see it out in the world. I don’t think I’m delusional about the quality of what I do, but I have not yet outgrown the kick I get out of seeing my name in print. I’m always pleased when an editor decides that something I produced is strong enough to survive out there. I suspect I feel about an article the way a parent feels about watching a child in a spelling bee. Maybe the kid isn’t going to be a winner, but I’m proud to see him up on the stage competing.

Occasionally, though, something happens that makes me feel more like my kid’s up on stage all right, but maybe with his hair sticking up oddly, or ketchup stains on his shirt.

Something like that occurred recently with one of my Orlando articles. This one was on the city’s lesbian scene. I’m happy with how it turned out, and was very pleased to see the publisher, Girls That Roam online magazine, promoting it.

I was a little taken aback, though, when I saw the lead photo used to promote the article. The shot was taken at a lesbian pool party that I’m sure really happened, but not in any universe I’ve ever occupied. In the foreground of the photo is a striking looking woman in a bikini. She is tall with chiseled features and an envious mane of hair—she looks something like the product of a union between Laura Dern and Barbarella.

Behind her is a baby butch in Ray Bans and a backwards baseball cap—this is the kind of lesbian who looks like Justin Beiber. She appears to be about to grope the amazon woman, and she has an expression on her face that looks a little like she’s thinking impure thoughts and a little like she can’t believe her luck. (It’s exactly the expression I would be wearing if I had even been invited to this party.) Behind them is a soft-focus sea of Sapphic debauchery, scores of wet, oiled, drunken 21- to 25-year-old women on the make.

It’s awesome.

And it would all be fine, except that the day the article hit the Girls That Roam social media pages is the very day my 93-year-old grandmother decided to find out what this Facebook thing is all about.

I accepted her request immediately—I was her first friend--and then went to my page, curious what impression it was conveying that day. Because I’d been tagged in a Girls That Roam post about my article, it appeared at the top of my page along with the photo.

This is not an awkward outing situation—my Grandma has known the score for years and treats Pipi like a fifth grandchild. So no real harm done. I am still quite proud of my kid, and we will all get past the fact that he chose to wear his raunchiest t-shirt on his big day before an audience.

Killing Me Softly

Girls That Roam online magazine has published another of my Orlando series. This one is about soft adventure in the Orlando area. Candidly, I like this one. It was fun to research and fun to write. Some articles are only pinned down on the page after a struggle. Sometimes it takes a while for me to decide what my point is. Sometimes structure is hard, and sometimes it’s just hard to find more than a few words to say about things I’m expected to go on about for paragraph after paragraph. But none of those problems came up here. There is so much fun stuff to do in and around the city, and learning this was such a pleasant surprise, that this article practically wrote itself. This week, though, I have to start an Orlando family travel article. This may be a different story. Anyway, the link to the outdoors article is here: http://girlsthatroam.com/killing-softly-orlandos-outdoorsy-adventurous-side/.

Blue is the Funniest Color

And here’s one more Orlando article I’ve just had published. This isn’t even the end of it, but it is all for now. I’ve written so many Orlando articles in the last 6 months that there’s a little bit of a backlog on the Girls That Roam site—they’d have to call it the Girls That Spend a Lot of Time in Central Florida site if they all went up as quickly as they’re written. So I expect that a few more will go up in the coming months, but I can’t be sure of the schedule. This article is on my first Blue Man Group experience.

More Orlando

I just noticed that another of my Orlando articles has gone up on the Girls That Roam site. It has actually been up for quite some time; I just happened to notice a link to it in an online newsletter that the site sends out every so often. Here’s the article--it’s a review of an excellent restaurant called Prato in the Orlando suburb of Winter Park.

Where Were We?

There was a time when I had a goal of writing one blog post per day. Lately, though, I haven’t quite been checking in that often. In fact, I haven’t even hit one per year in a while. Mostly that’s because I have been doing more editing than writing lately—although, I’m not going to lie; there was also a part of me that got tired of giving away my work. In the last few weeks, though, a couple of things have changed. One is that I did recently get commissioned to write some articles about Orlando, the first of which was recently published. And I wanted you to know about it. The second thing is that I realized I missed this. Writing a blog is really a great gig. It doesn’t pay much (did I mention that already?), but I’m my own boss and editor and publisher, so I always get my way. I assign the topics, write them any way I please, and get them done when I get them done—no deadline worries. You, in turn, read my work, or you don’t, as suits you. I’m free to follow my muse down whatever weird rabbit hole I choose, you’re free to ignore me…everybody wins, is what I’m saying. So I will try to do this more often, and keep a good attitude about it. It’s good to have you back.

Fearless Travel

Pipi and I like to think of ourselves as brave, independent travelers but sometimes we break the faith. For instance, when we went to Cuba, not only did we do it completely legally, we also went as part of a tour group. And recently, we booked a cruise. So I’ve been worrying lately that while I may feel like a youthful backpacker at heart, my vacations may be entering middle age.

So imagine my relief when I opened the travel section of the San Francisco Chronicle last Sunday and found an article about traveling safely in Mexico. Part of the article was a graph suggesting Mexican destinations based on the reader’s preferred level of activity and required level of safety. “Totally Spooked” travelers who self-identify as “Sun & Sand Seekers,” for example, were directed toward the heavily guarded havens of Cancun and Puerto Vallarta. And “Objective But Cautious” vacationers who might be described as “Culture Vultures” were urged to visit places like Guadalajara and the nicer neighborhoods of Mexico City.

I myself have been to Mexico three times in my life. The first two visits were short stops in Ensenada while on weekend-long cruises out of Southern California. Ensenada is not even mentioned in the travel article, probably because there was no room for a category of traveler called “Chronically Inebriated” whose interests include “Eating Anything with Cheese on It.” Both times, the ship only docked for a few hours in port, and I can only assume that this stop in the itinerary was an archaic throw-back to the days when sailing ships could not make a three-day loop out of San Pedro without running dangerously low on viruses and tequila. I was onshore just long enough to ingest quite a bit of both, apparently, and both times spent the rest of the trip in a miserable gringo heap on my bunk, cursing agave and wondering if the seas were really heaving or just me.

So that barely counts as travel to Mexico, but the third time, I was with Pipi and we saw a lot more of the country. We did some whale-watching at San Ignacio, and then flew to the mainland where we boarded a train that took us through Copper Canyon, in the states of Sinaola and Chihuahua.

I’m perversely intrigued to report that the Chronicle not only used the word “deadly” to describe these two very states, but that they also prescribe a Copper Canyon visit to those who fall under the “Fearless” heading. And it’s not just for “Fearless” travelers; it’s for “Fearless” travelers whose tastes run toward the “Adventure Lover” end of the interest spectrum.

So I guess there’s no need for me to worry. Nearly 41 years wise and still traveling like an American idiot.

Sports Tourism

Pipi and I are doing our best to pioneer a form of travel we call sports tourism. This is exactly what it sounds like: Traveling around the world following our favorite sports teams and events.

It started in 2003 when we flew down to Los Angeles for a family visit, and then rented a car and drove from there to San Diego to watch that year’s WUSA professional women’s soccer championship. I’m glad we did because the league folded shortly thereafter, and so that match turned out to be the very last WUSA game ever. We’re learning that with sports, particularly women’s sports, you have to jump at opportunities to see games because in spite of what people say, there isn’t always a next year.

Our biggest trek so far has been to China for the 2007 Women’s World Cup soccer tournament. It would be hard to top that, in terms of both distance and adventure. The only idea we have that even comes close is that we’d both love to go to Melbourne for the Australian Open tennis tournament someday. (See, it’s not all soccer, although we are a little obsessed.)

The idea that we’re working on more seriously is going to Germany this summer for the 2011 Women’s World Cup. (Hard to believe it has been almost four years since China!) Actually, my hope is that by writing this, I will spur myself into action. Soccer is a big deal in Germany and I can’t count on tickets and hotel rooms being available at the last minute.

Part of what’s making me think of all this is the news, breaking this morning, that Canada has been awarded the Women’s World Cup in 2015. I’m a little relieved, although not surprised, that Canada won out over the other finalist, which was Zimbabwe. Women’s World Cups appear to be getting easier and easier to get to from my perspective. The United States has already hosted twice in the short history of the tournament, so I don’t expect to be able to drive to a game any time soon, but a trip with no time-zone crossings (hello, Vancouver!) will be nice.

Everybody Think I Goofed

The bad news: There’s a typo in paragraph three of my article. The good news: There is none in the seventh. It just looks like there is.

When I first read the phrase “everyone come here,” I thought that was a mistake. Turns out it’s not, at least not in Australia, which is where the new Curve editorial regime is from. Australians, like the English, treat collective nouns as plurals. So it’s correct to say, “Everyone come,” because Australians think of “everyone” as a group of individuals, and use the same verb form they would use in the sentence, “One hundred thousand people come every year.”

Americans, on the other hand, think of “everyone” as a monolithic group, so the word gets a singular verb, the same form used in the sentence, “One person comes every day.”

Yes, you can certainly make the argument that I am an American writer writing for a primarily American audience, and so Australian words should not be put in my mouth. But what’s done is (are?) done. And I have to admit, the Australian way of thinking does kind of make sense. Isn’t “everybody,” by definition, more than one person?

This is my story, and I’m sticking to it, because I would rather you know that I’m a grammar dork than suspect that I don’t know how to conjugate.

Published!

That Australia article I wrote last summer finally saw the light of day. I’m a Curve subscriber and just got the issue that it appears in in the mail, so it should be on newsstands soon.

The article is on page 64, if anyone’s wondering, and no, the two women pictured are not Pipi and me. I don’t know who they are. I think it’s a stock photo.

Why Bother?

I went to this trouble because I recently got a gig writing blog entries for Travelocity.com, and they require all freelancers to have a business license. I was very excited to get the job, because, for one thing, it pays pretty well. (Well, more than this blog, anyway.)

Travelocity is also the last company that employed me full-time before I started freelancing. I knew even at the time that this was one of the most fun jobs I would ever have, and it was hard to walk away from the people there, who were mostly my age and who for the most part shared my love of travel and writing.

I’ll be working at home, so I won’t see that crew every day (and of course a lot of my co-workers have moved on as well), but I’m still pleased to be associated again with a company I enjoyed working for in the past and of which I now have nothing but burnished happy memories.

Almost Done

The following Monday, I was able to turn in the zoning permission form, and they instantly gave me a permit number, which was the one missing piece I needed to fill in the last form, which was the actual business license application. With that done, I headed upstairs to the tax division at the recorder’s office and submitted the application, and one last check. (Actually, this office took credit cards. Nice. Who writes checks any more?)

I won’t have the certificate in my hand for another month, but my understanding is that at this point all my ducks are in a row and I am the proud sole proprietor of Clause and Effect writing and editing services. (And I have the sudden urge to see the movie Brazil again.)

The Paper Trail Lengthens

The naming paperwork was just the first step in setting up an official business, although it turned out to be the most expensive and complicated part. The second thing I had to do was to get zoning approval, essentially permission to run a business out of my home. This is really easy for a business that doesn’t involve food or people coming to the house to shop, but turning in the form still required one more check and one more trip downtown.

I almost got this task completed on the same day as the business name approval, but the zoning office is several blocks from the fictitious name bureau, and closes at 4pm. So at the end of my first administrative day, I had a name for my endeavor, but no legal place to do business.

The Jig is Up

I know you all would have eventually read the legal notice in the Oakland Tribune, because nobody can get enough of administrative arcana printed in six-point type in regional newspapers. So I might as well let the cat out of the bag and tell you now: The new business name I registered is Clause and Effect.

This is a name that I have been using informally for a long time, but I thought it was time to make a going concern of it. It’s a little silly, but it made the woman at the County Recorder’s office chuckle, and she must see a lot of new business names.

Not as Exciting as it Sounds

Applying for a Fictitious Business Name sounds like asking for permission to lie on your tax return, but it’s just an odd formality required if you establish a business and give it anything other than your own name.

Last Friday, I got my made-up name approved, although there is one more hoop to jump through: I have to take out a legal notice in an Alameda County newspaper and run it once a week for four weeks in a row. This is the part I really don’t understand. What’s the point of having a fictitious name if you’re going to take out an ad to reveal your deception to the world? I guess I have a lot to learn about subterfuge.

Guess Who Has a Fictitious Business Name?

Or will, once the paperwork goes through? Yes, me. I am so pleased at this development. I’m now one step closer to my ultimate goal of being a mysterious woman.

Curve Goes Paperless

Even better news about Curve is that they are on a quest to make their office paperless. This means that payments, among other things, will be handled electronically. In other words, they will deposit payment for articles directly into a bank account. This is great news for me. The ritual of waiting around for a paper check to arrive in my mailbox is not one I’m going to miss very much.

Good Publishing News

I’ve had an article about Australia in limbo for so long that I was beginning to lose hope. Curve accepted it months ago, but then there was a change of ownership at the magazine. The new editors told me they’d still like to use it, but I never got anything in writing.

Until today. This afternoon I got an email addressed to all the writers whose articles are appearing in the March issue. Even better than being included on this list is the fact that the email was asking us to send information to help us get paid. I was not exactly planning my retirement around the fee, but this is a happy ending to the story nevertheless. Watch for it on newsstands soon!

Would This Be a Bad Time to Talk to You About the Heifer Project?

I’m nearly done with my North Oakland survey. I’ve already covered the roughest parts of this ’hood, and now my last two walks have taken me into Rockridge, which is actually one of the tonier parts of the city. Nevertheless, I still managed to have an unpleasant interaction with some of the locals.

The two people who accosted me didn’t have any of the hallmarks of what I’ve come to recognize as North Oakland trouble. They weren’t both conspicuously wearing the same colors. They weren’t working on cars, or flagging down slow-cruising automobiles. They weren’t shaking hands at idiosyncratic intervals with people they’d just met, and they weren’t waving around money clips.

This was worse: These two, a man and a woman who both looked as though they need to seriously consider re-admitting fish, or at least dairy into their diets, were loitering outside a pet food boutique. They had clipboards and perky attitudes, and they were clearly after my money. Well, my charitable donation, anyway. I could just tell that if I said (truthfully) that I didn’t have any cash on me, they would steal something even more precious—my time—and probably shake me down for a signature on a petition, as well.

When the confrontation went down, it was far weirder than I imagined it would be. They both stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk, blocking my way. I had headphones on, but I could see that the woman appeared to be gesticulating grandly, and perhaps actually singing. When I got closer, I could hear that she was chortling in a faux-operatic voice, “YOUUUUU have the power to save WHAAAALES!”

Now, I’m not going to say I am blameless in what happened next. But I will say, in my own defense, something that I really thought everyone knew already, which is that it’s a really bad idea to bring up the subject of whales with overweight people.

Honestly, I can’t believe I even have to say this, but if you ever see a person of heft huffing and puffing her way down the street, and she’s minding her own business, just trying to keep her heart rate in the zone her trainer recommended (because, see, she’s working on the situation), please don’t get in her way. And whatever you do, do not invoke the image of an enormous mammal too ungainly to survive on land. Because believe me, this woman already has blubber on her mind, and now she knows that you do, too.

I didn’t really have time to explain about the heart rate needing to stay up, so I just barked that I needed to keep going, and dodged around them, in a manner that was perhaps a little more brusque than was called for. As I passed, I could see the two of them exchange an eye-rolling glance at each other, and I heard them snicker a little, as if to mockingly say, “Well, I guess Miss Thing is too busy for the whales today.”

Now enraged at these bright-eyed and bushy-tailed creatures, both 20 years younger and 30 pounds lighter than myself, I turned around and muttered, “I can hear you, you know!” And by “muttered,” I mean, “yelled at the top of my lungs,” because I was still listening to music and honestly could not hear anything well, least of all myself. And then I stormed off, because what else can you do when you’ve just created an almost entirely unnecessary scene in the middle of an upscale shopping district four days before Christmas?

All this is a fairly long way of explaining that I’m somewhat relieved to have the meanest streets of North Oakland behind me, but not as relieved as you might think. Because at least the drug dealers don’t make me feel fat and utterly depleted of my youthful idealism.

Cakeland

I’m still working on my exploration of Oakland on foot. Right now I’m in north Oakland, a rough neighborhood that, like every other part of town, does have some nice surprises.

One that I discovered recently is a storefront on Shattuck Avenue that I at first took to be a bakery—from across the street, I could see that it had a sign saying “Cakeland,” and there was what appeared to be an enormous cake in the window.

Closer inspection showed Cakeland to be an art installation by a local artist named Scott Hove, who specializes in large-scale pieces. The gallery is open by appointment only, so I didn’t go in. The part I could see through the window looked like what would happen if Louis IV and the Marquis de Sade had opened a patisserie together. There’s a lot of pink, a lot of rococo accents, and lots of little sets of fangs poking out of blobs of frosting.

I’ve said before that I like to give my thought process a little something to gnaw on when I’m walking, and I got it that day.