The Harder They Come (Perry Henzell, 1972)

In her novel of post WWI novel Germany, Anna Segher follows the frantic lives of seven men, political prisoners escaped from a Nazi camp. Segher portrays the insidious effects of the regime - the generational divide, the fear that replaces domestic normalcy, the dogma of eugenics - in a matter of fact prose effective in recreating a tone of oppressive brutality. The musings of the fugitives and the people they encounter drift dreamily between insight and despair, but without the power of self determination, it is clear that that consciousness betrays a collective apathy prefiguring the Holocaust.

"Only when nothing at all is possible any longer does life pass by like a shadow. But the periods where everything is possible contain all of life - and of destruction." -- Anna Segher

Result of my first assignment for Intermediate Clothing Construction... cleaning out my closet, determining what to make. From top left, clockwise...

1. Dry cleaning, alteration projects.

2. Worn out, stained, scratchy, thick and bulky, shiny and slippery, baggy, fussy and busy, overly frilly, sexy or cute. "Raving" clothes. Grungy beach chic.

3. Sentimental. Saved only those items that have unique details, favorite fits, fabrics, etc.

4. Tanks, tees, boxers, pilfered medical scrubs, and an unmatched variety of pajamas. My typical uniform.

5. Clothes to keep. Comfortable. Easy to layer. Work on multiple occasions, outfits, coats and shoes. Most of these staples seem to have a clean lined, simple, lean silhouette with a bit of layered volume and some quirky architectural details built into the cut of the garment. A touch of gritty urban casualness and a standing collar always seem to work for me. My denim is all trouser style, but I think that's partly because I can never find or alter any slim jeans to fit me.

This color palette integrates what I already have in my closet with some future outfit ideas involving chunky organic accessories, a leather doctor's bag, and my ubiquitous plastic framed library glasses.
Since people seem surprised by my age, I'm going to work on more "mature" pieces for my fall semester projects and keep the sporty, street gear to a miminum. I have a beautiful red silk with black weft that I bought in Thailand and I have just enough fabric to make this pleated tank top from Vogue Wardrobe.

Perfectly proportioned reuben served with tartly dressed salad greens and a tall chilly glass of Delirium Tremens. The buttery-textured pastrami and charcuterie are house-made with a balanced flavor. Absolutely worth the ride out from the city, though next time, I might bring my own bread for the cheese plate.

A sometimes overly whimsical but always informative portrait of American sushi by Trevor Corson. Freehanded in his dramatization of early cross pollination between Los Angeles culinary history and Japanese tradition, Corson's book offers tidbits of wisdom both gustatory and trivial. For instance, the science behind the flavors of fish in different development stages is demystified, while a Mack Daddy's frippery is likened to the glittering flick of a mackerel fins.

Growing up in 1980's LA, the scenes described in the book are wonderfully familiar (eating for the first time at a conveyor belt sushi joint in J-Town), but the knowledge (that the advent of conveyors allowed Japanese women to finally eat sushi alone) is refreshingly new. Mostly, this book makes me hanker for fresh Tai and a trip to Tsujiki Market.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army (Guillermo del Toro, 2008)

I just bought this iron at Joann's based on brand recognition among sewing circles. The Rowenta Power Duo 6650 is fairly sturdy, feels nice when pressing and the buttons are smooth. However, since the iron doesn't have an auto-off feature, I find it very curious that there isn't even a basic on/off switch. Instead, you have to plug and unplug the cord whenever you want a break. Furthermore, the thing doesn't seem to stay on continuously nor steam on command - horizontally or vertically. After one rotation, the iron clicks a couple of times and the light near the cord goes off. Finally, the twisting fabric dial is beneath the handle so it's annoying to adjust.

What I should have gotten is the Black and Decker iron Canada Community College uses for sewing classes. All the same features plus, the controls are on top, along with the digital fabric window, so adjustments are easy to monitor. Although the iron has the auto-off feature, at least you can always tell if it is sleeping or ready to use. The caveats; the trap door is chintzy and the cord doesn't swivel. The pros; the auto-off feature seems to have a longer shut down period then other irons.

Jim and Neil are consummate dirt bike cowboys - two riders with campfire narratives whose tales are occasionally and blatantly tall. But, for the most part, their outlandish stories are simply true beyond belief. I grew up imagining perilous gorges crossed by a single railroad tie and the adrenaline rush of ditching police cars across the desert of San Bernardino county. My first time really riding with them was spent on a tiny chain slapping Honda CRF 100 in the Sierras, pant legs wrapped up with duct tape and shifter falling off at every small hill. At the time, I was in a funk of blues and aimlessness. A four month trip meditating in Thailand had made nominal difference on my state of mind. I felt untethered, overwhelmed, probably more than a little bored. My Godfather, Jim, thought riding would boost my confidence and give me something I could lean on for the rest of my life. He was totally right.

















My first bike was a used 2003 Yamaha TTR 125, without electric start, in perfectly cobwebby condition. The bike had unworn original knobbies and a small scrape on the left side fender. I rode as much as possible, every weekend practically, out in Desert Center or Big Bear or "Mentone Beach". On long weekends, we trekked to the Piutes or Nevada or damn near close to the state line at least. I learned how to swap the fishy fork oil, replace bearings that were ghosting my steering, adjust my suspension, check carburetors, change fluids, tires, handlebars. I lugged my first big purchase on and off trails, through sand and cactus, fields of rocks. I dropped it. I scratched it. I had a tremendous amount of fun. The camaraderie of the trail and the peace of the dusk fires made me forget the peccadilloes of day to day life that seemed suddenly inane out there with my face in the wind. On two wheels, testing my abilities against the earth but riding only against myself, I felt (a little sheepishly) free.

Moving back to the Bay Area last year I had to let the Yamaha go. No truck, no garage, no trailer, no tools... Without a single doubt but after a lot of contemplation, I started the process of getting a new bike. Easy for my small body to use as well as ridable on the street and in the dirt, the new bike needed to have a little more power then I was accustomed to. With emissions being so strict, there's not a whole lot of options in California for a small dual-sport bike. With it's low slung seat, the 2008 Yamaha XT250 is really one of two. The other is the new (for America) Honda CRF 230l with an extra gear then the Yamaha and updated brakes. I'm choosing the latter since the shop nearest my house is a tiny local garage filled with a bunch of white haired gentlemen who know Hondas, but foremost because all the cowboys I know wear red.

Three utterly different lovers, all selfish in their own ways, rolling around together in a pell mell of apples and oranges while the world rots around them. I suppose "the painted veil" of Maugham's novel is a euphemism for ignorance, the kind that only an enduring 16 year old franchise can perpetuate. And then again, "the veil" is a metaphor for the painfully awakened honesty only to be found by lifting away cultural safety nets and scraping away at preconceptions accumulated on the psyche. In portraying the futilely sharp edge of spite, Maugham gives a nod to An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

-- Oliver Goldsmith

The best moments are when Maugham's conflicted characters show their moral ugliness to the effect of revelation; Walter - locked in his anger and destroyed by his own self deception, Kitty - admitting, at last, to her own her pettiness, both - feeling and searching for some kind of restitution beyond the shame of their own desires.

"And now, throwing her head back wearily, she sighed: 'Oh I'm so worthless.'" --Kitty