The Boy With the Arab Hat

Afshin made plum vodka months ago using very cheap vodka (filtered through a Brita multiple times) and a bunch of plums from a tree in our friend Lucinda's backyard. He finally decided it was time to remove the plums, filter the vodka, and switch it from one bottle to another. He called for my attention; the filtration process was going remarkably well and he was justifiably pleased with himself. I looked up and saw that he'd taken several thicknesses of cheesecloth, covered the mouth of one bottle with it, and secured the cheesecloth filter in place with a rubber band.

"Nice work," I said.

"Yeah, it's all right," he said. He gestured to the cheesecloth capping the bottle. "It's called an Arab hat."

I couldn't imagine who, except maybe Afshin, called it that. Skeptical, I asked, "Do they really call it that?"

He burst out laughing.

"I should know better than to believe anything you say any more," I shrieked indignantly. "You jerk!"

My Night as a Zombie

For those of you who are interested (which means everybody—who wouldn't be interested?), I participated in the most recent zombie flash mob in San Francisco this past Thursday. As I was not among the first of the undead to arrive, I didn't manage to crash the mayoral debate, but I arrived in time to see the cops and security people lowering the gate. Party poopers. At least no zombies got tased.

After massing near Civic Center (and engaging in an impromptu zombie conga line), we progressed via BART to the Mission. Following drinks at Beauty Bar, we boarded the zombie bus, whereupon newly undead mayoral candidate Chicken John Rinaldi chauffeured us around the city. On the bus, we were treated to juice, snacks, and Fun-Dip, along with some rousing zombie karaoke. We made some stops to generally wreak (good-natured) havoc, pick up food and/or drinks, attack Cupid's Span (apparently Chicken John has a deep-seated hatred for this "artwork"), and feast on Stephen Colbert's brain.

You can see my photos of the evening's festivities here, and my charming coworker/makeup artist Jenn also posted photos of me. Here are more photos. And here. And here. And here. And I'm on the phone with my grandmother in this one. For more info about zombie flash mobs in San Francisco, see this site.

Oh, and the lesson of the night? Never put a tube of fake blood in your pocket. If you do, be prepared to soak your jeans in scalding hot water and pray.

Umbrella Chronicles

Oh god. I've clearly been at this job too long: I just made a bad video game pun. Anyway, I have a complaint. When it comes to rain, the citizens of the Bay Area are morons. You'd think that San Franciscans would comprehend the concept of rain, what with their constant fog and all. No. Apparently, once the water vapor that forms fog starts dripping on people instead of rolling across the top of buildings, San Franciscans go into panic mode. I counted no less than three of those massive golf umbrellas in a two-block stretch this morning. I'm sorry, but people who carry sidewalk-hogging golf umbrellas (and generally use them like battering rams) deserve to be sodomized with said umbrellas. Jerks. Unless they're on an actual golf course, naturally. Rain also seems to engender confusion in drivers and pedestrians—I watched the same idiot nearly get hit by a car twice in about one minute. It's just water and it happens every winter, people. Deal.

Semi-Intentional Witticism of the Day

Genie: when I was talking to Afshin the other day, he said that you guys were considering a move-
Me: we are?
Genie: out of the studio-
Me: i mean, yeah, we're considering it
Genie: that sounds like a really good idea.
Me: much in the way we're considering world peace
Me: we'd like to do it
Genie: ha!
Me: or see it happen, rather
Me: but it's unlikely to happen soon

Sleep? Snack? Or Both?

I have a tendency to eat at night. As in I'll wake up from a sound sleep, get up to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, and decide that I really need a cookie or some cereal or an apple or something. I think it runs in the family—my mom used to do the same thing. Of course, she also took Ambien for a time and would do and eat all sorts of bizarre things in the middle of the night, but that's another story.

When I was really little (maybe two?), I apparently woke up one night and told my mom I was hungry. She asked what I wanted to eat, and I told her ham and mashed potatoes. So she heated up some for me, thinking it was weird but that I must have just been really hungry for some reason. (My grandfather's an excellent and rather prolific cook, so of course we had leftover ham and mashed potatoes.) The next night I did it again. My mom was a good sport and went along with it. When I did it the third night in a row, my mom had had enough. She decided that I was not going to be a ham-and-mashed-potatoes-at-midnight junkie for the rest of my life. So that was that.

During the intervening two-odd decades, I've periodically gone on sleep-eating jags, but only one has been particularly noteworthy. A couple of years ago, I kept raiding the kitchen. I'd take cereal to bed with me. When I woke up in the morning I'd have an apple core on a napkin on the bedside table. Once I woke up with a spoonful of peanut butter stuck to the sheet. For a particularly abnormal week or so I'd eat brown sugar straight from the box, spilling very sweet, hard sand in the bed.

I am no longer allowed to eat in bed. Afshin passed the decree before I moved in with him. I think what prompted his decision was the time he woke up in my bed with a Lucky Charm stuck to his back.

Thus concludes (hopefully) the tale of my sleep-eating.

Nocturnal Injuries

Last night I woke up (as I often do) because I needed to use the bathroom. This is not unusual, as I drink lots of water and apparently have the world's smallest bladder. Upon waking, I lifted my head off the pillow—and bonked into Afshin's elbow. (It was totally encroaching on my side of the bed.) I rose, carefully picked my way across the bed, narrowly avoiding Afshin's feet and legs...and slammed my knee into the coffee table, waking Afshin in the process. Amazingly, I have but a single tiny bruise on my right knee. And Afshin has no recollection of the incident. But that's not unusual, as, after he's asleep, he's dead to the world until morning. So I apparently need not only a sleep helmet, but sleep kneepads as well.