Ah, do you remember the good old days, when we were all young and beautiful, carefree and perhaps a little naive. When we all had shiny hair and no wrinkles and a half-full glass. And dreams. Oh, the hopes and dreams that we shared back then.

Do you remember? It feels like only last week when we were young and foolish and said things like “I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time to update my blog in my less busy moments while at the convention this weekend! So look forward to hearing plenty from me then!”

Ah, looking back on it now, I cannot but laugh. In a slightly bitter way, jealous of my past self and how little she knew about the coming weekend and the endless amount of standing in queues, typing, more queues, late nights, smelly motels, early mornings, endless sitting in cars, queuing, sitting on hard convention centre seats and trying to find just one sodding plug for half a sodding hour it would contain.

I mean, don’t get me wrong; I loved being at Comic-Con, and would have already booked my hotel for next year if I didn’t think that was a bit ridiculously careerly over-optimistic. It was brilliant.

So I had a great and really interesting and productive weekend: I would just like to go back in time and warn that young, hopeful, completely clueless woman back in the mists of time - otherwise known as last week - that she should plan her time slightly better. And perhaps she shouldn’t be expecting to have enough time for blogging left over around the edges.

Sorry about that. Seriously. People keep asking about how the Madonna Inn was and I have to concentrate to remember when I went there. But I did. Last Tuesday.
And once I get to taking things off my camera and checking my notebook, I will be back with that.

And THAT’S not a hollow promise, honest.
Because I’ve got most of the week off.
Or sort of.

*Contrary to what you might have expected from the first few paragraphs there, these right NOW are my salad days. Because most of my days in the last week were
Daytime Diet: emptying my backpack of the daily supply of clementines and red bull and water.
Night time: Junk food and typing.

So now I must eat salad. ONLY SALAD.

is something you shouldn’t do in a car, for beeping is BAD.

However, going in a car is good, if it takes you somewhere you want to go. This week, one will be doing exactly that, as we’re going all the way down California to a conference. Don’t say “goodbye and have a good week etc etc”, because I’ll be online the whole time, and am planning to have time to post a couple of updates that don’t fit into the remit of stuff I have to write about for work.

But in the meantime well a) if anyone has any fun ideas of things to do or places to eat around San Diego, I’d love to hear them - I won’t have very much time at all for anything much, but a girl’s got to eat. Also tips on finding the best margaritas. Girl’s got to drink as well. I mean, not “got to” as in ‘will get the DTs if she doesn’t’, that would be deeply worrying. Just as in, you know, liquid is good (margaritas are better).

But you see, the most important thing is that on the way, I’m getting to stay at the Madonna Inn, a hotel of high kitsch value that I have dreamed of visiting. I will even be eating in their florescent restaurant, if I can keep anything down. But which of their hundred and nine themed rooms will I be staying in? I’m hoping for the boat-themed one, obv, but you can’t always get what you dream of.

You can get pictures, though. Oh yes. So many pictures.
To the road!
Day one of Anna and Her Beloved’s Brilliant So-Cal Road Adventure Begins!
YAY!

I am somewhat emotional. That won’t be a surprise to regular readers, or only as much of a surprise as saying ‘the sea is somewhat blue and wobbly’ or ‘glass is somewhat seethrough’ or ‘dogs are somewhat woofy’. My skin is not as thick as skins can be. I am, to external forces, a bit of a big pliable, malleable sponge, waiting for things to act upon/hurt me. I choose to think of this as a really interesting and good way of being. Shut up. I like it.

However it does mean that sometimes I cry and I can’t quite explain why. Sometimes I can come closer to explaining than others: I went to see the new Pixar film, UP, on a particularly stressful/emotional day and (just a warning to people in the UK waiting to see it) was crying so hard for the first half hour I had to shove my scarf in my mouth to stop myself actually wailing and screaming my sobs out loud like a professional tribal mourner. I would go back and see it tomorrow, when other things aren’t so fraught … but for the fear that it was nothing to do with externals; I’m just going to cry like that every time.

Anyway. Point was things make me cry. I realised that again this evening when I was listening to my favourite podcast: Coverville - which is, frankly, the best music podcast in the world if you like cover versions (and I really do; the person who writes the song is so rarely the perfect person to sing the song or interpretation).

And of the recent episodes, there were two songs that happen to be on the ‘SONGS THAT MAKE ME CRY’ list.

These are songs that are NOT related to any memory or anything, nor person; they’re just songs that - due to the lyric or the key changes or something - are pretty much guaranteed to make me weep as soon as listen to them.

So I thought I should make a list. And it’s funny, because I know there are lots more, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to think of them until I hear them. So this post will grow.

But to begin my list - for my own curiosity to see what the comment thread is, if nothing else:

SONGS THAT MAKE ME CRY (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)
1) Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks (or by anyone covering it. It’s the sentiment that makes me miss the bits of London I love.not moving back there, mind. Just makes me remember why I’m proud to be born there)
2) Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper - no excuse for this, I just BAWL. It’s the sentiment.
3) Best Days by Blur, I start crying by the chorus every time. Interestingly because it represents the flip side of all the London things I love in Waterloo Sunset.
4) One With The Birds by Bonnie Prince Billy - just does. Chord changes, I think.
5) Blackbird by the Beatles
6) I Will, similarly. And it upsets me even more that Paul McCartney can make me cry, because I generally want to punch him, frankly. But as a songwriter, these have me.

UPDATE (next day) - as promised, I knew I’d realise more as I was listening to my ipod on shiffle (whichis the normal position) - and we were, today, while cleaning.

7) It’s Not Easy Being Green - Kermit
8) Rainbow Connection - The Muppets (It’s the guitar, here)
9) Plain Gold Ring - Nina Simone (The piano is SO SAD for this one; it’s like someone beating out their patience on your heart)

…

10-Infinitum Other, by Other. I’ll add on here as things affect me. And they do. I just never remember until they come through the speakers. Then: suddenly: BAM. Tears.

[There are, of course, songs that just make me happy. I'll do a similar post about happy songs, because those are also good. I have a whole playlist of them on my ipod called HAPPY SONGS! And things like this ukulele version of the Imperial March that would be the thing to accompany me down the aisle if I was ever planning on doing that (don't hold your breath, you'll actually die). I'm not, but if I was, I would do it to this (wait for it to load, I promise you'll thank me)]

But in the meantime, and while I’m waiting to add more of your own, I’m desperately curious to know if this affects other people.
Songs that make you cry? Anyone? Anything?
And not the ones that are tied to memories: the ones that aren’t … is it the perfect lyric? The sentiment? The chord progression? Or just because you are, like all the best people, a ginormous sponge?

I went to Alameda Flea market the other week, again. I’d promised My Beloved that I was mainly going to buy paper goods, and I kind of kept to that. In that, well, I bought paper goods AndLotsOfOtherThings. Because: as previously noted, I love that place.

I bought a stack of TV Guides from various years, and spent a happy afternoon combing through them One of the best things in them were the ads. I’ll bring some more another day, but first off, these were my favourite non-food ones:

1. Phil Silva is sad. Because he is bald.

But he looks better, and feels better, because he has the skin of a small peeled mammal glued to the top of his head. Not like YOU. You’re BALD.

2. Cowboy news. This, I admit, is mainly interesting to me because of the fact I work in the field of television/media etc and am very interested in TV news, but I love this so much.

I love
a) the fact that they’re trying to make newsgathering cool like cowboys (it’s very much the same: you rope cows. And you rope news. So, you know, same-same)
b) I like the fact you can see that the cliche of super-cool newsman is not just a thing made up for television and film and things like Anchorman. I just shows this picture to a friend on IM. “Is that deliberately Ron Burgundy-esque?” he asked, referencing Anchorman. “Well, it’s from the early 60s, so it’s more that Ron Burgundy is deliberately THIS-esque…” I said, like the slightly smug muddyfunster that I am when I’m right.
c) I adore the fact they ran out of cool things to say by the time they got to the weatherman. “I can’t think of a cowboy reference!” - “Never mind, just call him Doc”

….And then there’s this, which I love for the obvious caption I put on it in flickr

And this, which doesn’t quite fit here, because I know I said no food, but this doesn’t really count as food, so …

You know why though? Because you gave them ‘chicken sticks in brine’. So you deserve it.

I spend a lot of time looking through rental listings for somewhere to live.

In general I do, I mean, it’s one of my favourite comfort activities for a Sunday afternoon, ever since I first stole a folder from my dad’s office aged seven and started cutting out house advertisements and paint swatches and cuttings from furnishing magazines to keep in it to plan the best place to live ever. I love it. can spend hours doing it, and imagining us in various houses, comparing room sizes and kitchens and descriptions.

So one of the most nervy things about the last few months has been not being allowed to check rental listings. Mainly because we just didn’t know where we would be living; in which city, in which country, what the timescale might be, or the situation of employment full stop - it was all a bit up-in-the-airish, which was endlessly frustrating. The Media: Officially not the most fun industry to work in at the moment.

Anyway, the situation we’re in at the moment, we know we’re going to be in San Francisco till the end of the financial year (next April, basically) but barring an economic miracle or some unexpected amazingness - and we are more than open to the concept of those, if any one has any spare - we’ll have to move back to the UK at that point. And that is all we are saying about that right now, because otherwise it gets complicated and I get sad (unless you have a miracle to hand).

In the meantime, we need to find somewhere to live for the winter which means - o joy of joys! - that I am let loose on Craigslist to find an apartment big enough for two people and two cats to live, and also to work in without killing each other, and small enough to be cheaper and easier to deal with, while still having a good cooking kitchen and well, lots of other little requirements and factors and pernickertynesses and ideas etc etc and man, I love searching through property listings. It’s brilliant.

There are only a few real criteria. Wading through the usual crowd of estate agents and realtors speaking crazy property double-speak. Though there do seem to be some unusually direct marketing approaches out there. “Receives Direct Sun, Though The Condo Does Not Bask In Solar Glory” is a little convoluted, though better than “If You Don’t Particularly Care For Sunlight But Like Space This Is The Place For You.”, which were both used for different flats. Though both of those beat “THIS PLACE IS NOT A DUMP!!!” hands down, because frankly if that’s the best thing you’ve got to say about your advertised property, I’m probably not that interested.

The main criterion, however, remains unshakable: being that My Beloved is currently refusing to consider the possibility of living on Uranus Terrace.

It’s mainly a theoretical concern, as there aren’t any flats on Uranus Terrace, it’s quite a small road, so there won’t be any. Also: it’s officially pronounced URRI-NUSS now, isn’t it?

This does not stop me thinking that it is possibly the best idea ever (as long as you insist on pronouncing Uranus as YOUR-ANUS - the correct, funnier, and more pleasing to my childlike brain way).

“Oh darling” we will turn to each other and say, when we are old and grey “Do you remember that lovely little cosy place up Uranus we holed up in those last six months in San Francisco?”

“Oh goodness me yes” the other will say “I’ll never forget Uranus.”

Who could NOT want that, if it was available? Madness, I tell you.
My lovely seeester agrees with me. She said … oh, I’ll show you what she said.

The Anna: he says we cannot live on Uranus. Because my jokes about it would become unbearable.
My seeeeester: No, you must live there. You must must. Beloved overruled!
The Anna: “Take a left up Uranus”
“The parking in Uranus is very hard”
“Do you remember that lovely little place we looked at on Uranus?”
My seeeeester: “Can you come and pick me up? I’m having trouble carrying the shopping up Uranus”
“I think there’s a bus service that goes up Uranus”
The Anna: Etc
My seeeeester: Overrule your beloved
The Anna: ok
My seeeeester: He’ll grow to love the joke
and if he doesn’t
well
everyone else will
The Anna: Ok. I will continue looking at Uranus as a possibility
My seeeeester: thank you
The Anna: Accomodation-wise
My seeeeester: though that’s a bit personal.

Etc.

Man, it’s just the address that keeps on giving.

I am going camping in the wilderness, like a rugged person.
Or, more accurately, in a campsite. Like a camping person.

I will be trying not to smell of honey, as it might attract bears.

I will also be trying not to smell of blood, as it might attract sharks. And they might come bumping down the road - or, you know, the hundred miles of road between us and the sea - in search of the blood.

And while I’m at it, I will try not to smell of … what do snakes eat? Eggs, right? I will be trying hard not to smell of egg.
But mainly because no one wants to hang out with the kid who smells of egg.

But other than that, I will be being very brave, and wilderness-like, and like a great woman of the outdoors, I will be hunting my own food.

In the sense of buying it at a shop.

Look, I don’t go camping very much.

Point was. Is. Um.
Nothing, really. I just wanted to give my mum something to read (see post below) (unless you’re my mum in which case: hey! I’m going camping!)

La la la la la.
I really need some sleep.

Opposite my house, quiet, unassuming, and without a hint of trouble or fuss or noise, there is a plain-fronted building with frosted windows and a signless front door.

It is, shall we say, a gentleman’s club. A gentlemen’s club made for gentlemen who wish to enjoy the other company of other gentlemen.

Perhaps while smoking cigars.
Where, you understand, ’smoking’ might be a euphemism for something else, and ‘cigars’ definitely is (because you can’t put the business end of one of those in your mouth in ANY public building in the state of California, as far as I am aware).

The funny thing is, you wouldn’t even know it was there.

I mean, we’d had indications. I work next to the window in the living room and spend a lot of the time gazing out of it for inspiration and procrastination, and so many other things that end with ‘nation’.
Except Aryan-nation, I’m not a frikking nazi.

And I started to notice that although this building wasn’t officially anything at all, or obviously so, it suddenly started getting busy after seven. With men parking up, or revving up on big bikes, or being dropped off, or wandering up the road and then disappearing through the door.

So really - apart from that. And the fact that it’s much harder for our friends to find parking on some evenings than others. And the fact that sometimes there was just a LOT of leather around the street. Apart from those things, you really wouldn’t know they were there. Because the nice thing about having a completely legal sex club as a neighbour is that logically, they’re bound to be the best behaved people on the block; because why draw attention? You already have a loyal member ship. Membership.

To be honest, I only know it’s there because one of our more curious houseguests got intrigued by the unusual coloured stripes on the flags above the door and googled first them, then when they got even more intrigued, googled the address across the road.

I can’t really go into the details very deeply. My mother reads this blog. And I don’t want to embarrass anyone who IS actually searching for the event schedule of the place across the road, so I won’t mention it by name: you should know only that it has a richly evocative yet down-home friendly, everyday name. Like Fellacho Friends. Or Come Chums Or Pinnis Pals. But not any of those actual things, just a bit like one of those. No guessing in the comment box. Keep it to yourself. Someone has to.

And the stupid thing is, I have no problem with it, clearly, why would you? But end up mentioning it on twitter and dropping it as an aside only because;
a) there really isn’t much I can see from my front window. And
b) once you know what’s going on in there, it is impossible to UNknow it. so
c) It’s just sometimes a bit odd when you suddenly think of so great a volume of excitement and bodily fluid in a so close a proximity of me sitting here trying to finish some work off and filling out my tax return.

I mean, who knows what goes on behind ANY closed door? But again, once you do…
You just can’t unknow it.

So that’s the club opposite my house that I mention sometimes.

I only get reminded of it now when a fire engine and ambulance turn up.
They tend to do that here, I’m not sure why. It seems that whether it’s the fire brigade or the ambulance you need, the other turns up just in case. Or maybe to be friendly. Or maybe the ambulance people just fancy firefighters and follow them around in the hope that one day some strapping person with an impressive helmet will notice them.

Anyway, they occasionally come screeching to a halt opposite my house. We were very worried the first time. But after a while, decided that there’s probably just some kind of smoke alarm that gets set off easily by rubbing leather together. Or something …

“What’s the flashing?”
“Oh, just a fire engine.”
“Just a fire engine?”
“Oh, no, here’s the ambulance. Poor lovelorn fools.”
“Do they look worried?”
“Not particularly. Maybe something just got stuck in something.”
“Or wedged somewhere”
“Someone might have had a choking incident”
“Oh, do you think you serve food?”
“I shouldn’t think so. I think you need a whole seperate license for that.”
“Yes … Oh! Right. Yes.”
“Or MAYBE. And this is just a thought: they’re just on a break. So they came to hang out.”
“Fair enough. What about the policemen?”
“They don’t come and hang out so much. They prefer donuts.”
“AH! Which is why they have…”
“Holes in the middle. Yes.”
“Interesting. You’d think the sugar would get a bit, you know…”

Etc.

So. Um. Well, you asked.

Gosh I hope my mum stopped reading quite a while ago.

Yes, that’s right. Muffled screaming from under a cushion is what I have to offer you instead of blogging right now.

I’ve been casting around for several days for the perfect, playful, lighthearted words to use on this here blog, and I haven’t got any, I don’t think.

There’s been a lot going on. Things, as usual, that I am not able to talk about while they are ongoing, and find it difficult to write about anything else because this blog is pretty representative of my life, and I am not good at lying, or sounding happy when I am actually worrity.

But I need to try very hard to write something, because otherwise I will just sit here stewing in my own tepid juices. I will therefore be going back to abandoned drafts, and the list of possible posts next to my bed and in my diary. And trying to pull things together from there. Just warning you, because some of them are a bit random. There’s one note in my diary that just says ‘DICK/GRAVY’, so while I might not tackle that one until I have a clearer idea where it came from, and start with the slightly more fully formed ones instead.

Otherwise, while I’m on that, if anyone just wants to suggest a title, and I can write a post to go with it, that would be really good. Really good, actually. I am too much in my head to be able to pull anything out right now, perhaps it would be good to start with someone else’s instead.

Yes. Do that. Can someone suggest a title?
It can be a sentence? Or a list suggestion? Or a quotation? Or just a title?
Anyone? Please? Help.
I’m a bit drowny.