Wednesday, July 07, 2010


This past Saturday, Tom (for anyone just joining us, that's my tall, handsome ex-boyfriend/best friend) and I drove a City CarShare Prius to Sacramento to visit Ann and Mac. The Prius, like the other City CarShare cars at our nearest location, was kind of grubby inside—if I ever switch to another car-sharing operation, that will be the only reason—and it was also weirdly jerky, as if Tom was putting his foot on the gas pedal and taking it off again over and over.

In fact, I suggested possibly more than once that he was doing just that, but he finally convinced me that it was the car, not him. I don’t know if all Priuses are like that or just this one, but 200 miles of it was enough. Fortunately, our nearest City CarShare location has two other cars, and there are any number of other locations nearby.

Our visit with Ann and Mac was lovely, as always. Ann treated us all to lunch at a Boudin’s in Sacramento and we for the most part hung out and chatted.

After I got home that night, I watched Goodbye Solo, about a Senegalese cab driver in Winston-Salem, NC, who tries to prevent one of his passengers from committing suicide. It was OK. Next I saw The Men Who Stare at Goats, which was about the worst movie I’ve ever seen. It didn’t look like something I’d really enjoy, but it supposedly takes place partly in Ann Arbor, so I was curious to see if I’d recognize any sights. I didn’t, and the movie in general was so incoherent that I turned it off before it was over. It seemed like kind of a waste of George Clooney, Jeff Bridges, Kevin Spacey, and Ewan McGregor.

On Sunday, the Fourth of July, I drove a CarShare car (not the Prius) to Berkeley to visit Lisa M. and see her new apartment. I’m sorry to say that her new neighborhood is quite terrible—grilling was underway in all directions! Practically the first thing I saw upon exiting the Scion was a man with a 100-pound bag of charcoal briquettes, and the smell of lighter fluid was everywhere. However, Lisa’s apartment is the perfect setup for the writer and artist that she is, and she has lovely views of trees, flowers and grass from several windows. We had lunch at the Vault CafĂ© on Adeline St. and then Lisa gave me a beginning hula hoop lesson. “Good effort!” she beamed as the plastic circle hit the floor yet again.

That evening I watched The Bodyguard, with Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. This was an instant download from Netflix, and since it’s from 1992, the picture was quality was iffy, but I got the general idea. It was more frightening than I’d expected. For some reason, the only thing I’d pictured was romantic scenes of Kevin Costner carrying W. Houston around in his arms—is that on the cover?—why, yes, it is—but it actually was kind of creepy. If you like either star, it’s worth seeing.

Several days ago, my father sent me a cryptic email entitled “Golfers Law” and containing a clue in the form of a question. In a subsequent email, he said I might want to discuss with my friend Anna Graham. Ah! An anagram. I started by going online to see how you solve an anagram. You solve an anagram by typing the letters into an online anagram engine, natch, but if for some reason, you have to use a pencil and paper, a few pointers were offered. My father asks very little of me and offers much, so whereas my resolution to get the old blind down myself didn’t last long (rightly not), I will solve this anagram without a computer if it’s the last thing I do.

This past weekend, my father offered another hint: The answer is two words of five letters apiece. When I began work on the anagram again, I counted the letters in the words of my latest attempt (A LOSER FGW). Hmm, only nine letters total. The prior attempt was also nine letters, and ditto every single attempt including the first, which was FLAG WORSE: when I started trying to solve the puzzle, one of the Ls didn’t even make it onto the playing field!

So I’m going to keep at this, but with all the letters from now on.

I have determined that the answer is not LARGE FLOWS, LOWER FLAGS, or FEARS GLLOW.
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