A Long Life, Well-Lived

The older I get, the more I like to read the obituary section. This is not as morbid as it sounds. I'm genuinely interested in how people choose to use their time on earth. This is because I secretly believe I'll live to be 100, so I'm always looking for some good practical ideas on how to spend the next 70 years. I'm currently reading a charming book on the art of obituary writing, which includes gems like the following:

"Selma Koch, a Manhattan store owner who earned a national reputation by helping women find the right bra size, mostly through a discerning glance and never with a tape measure, died Thursday at Mount Sinai Medical Center. She was 95 and a 34B."

Anyhoo, the impetus for this post is actually someone who's still kickin', but will have an awesome obituary when he finally goes on to his eternal reward: Dr. Michael DeBakey. Widely regarded as the father of modern cardiovascular surgery, Dr. DeBakey will turn 97 in a few weeks, on the day after I turn 30. I first discovered him last year while reading a Wall Street Journal article on longevity. The highlights: He continues to work nearly 12 hours a day (and was still performing surgery in his early nineties). He only needs four or five hours of sleep a night. His one daily meal is a dinner salad that his wife prepares. He has deep personal connections to two places that have had a rough go of it lately---Lebanon and New Orleans---but he's still optimistic about life and the world.

'Scuse me while I kiss this guy. Whatta man, whatta man, what a mighty good man.

From the Jaw-Dropper Files

My dear friend Carli just tipped me off to this crazy story about how the newest edition of "Survivor" will divide the respective "tribes" or teams by race. Personally, I haven't tuned in to "Survivor" since season two---this is now, unbelievably, season 13---and this stunt doesn't exactly make me wanna return to the fold. After I initially recoiled in horror, my second thought was, "Am I just having some sort of knee-jerk P.C. reaction to this? Maybe it's not a big deal." One thing's for sure---the ratings for this all-but-forgotten show are about to go through the roof. I just don't think anything good will come of this for the folks who aren't making money off of it, although I'm willing to entertain dissenting opinions. Speak your piece.

Philosophia

When I was a freshman in high school, I had a really cool algebra teacher, Mr. Sturges. During the last ten minutes of class, when the other kids were goofing off and I had my nose in a book, he would often come over to my desk and ask, "What's your philosophy of life?" And I'd be like, "Um...I'm 14. I don't have a philosophy of life." But he never stopped asking, and now that I'm twice as old as the girl in that desk, I'm starting to think that I should come up with a proper answer for him. And for me. I'll post it here when I figure it out. In the meantime, I feel compelled to share two business philosophies that I really dig: one from publisher Alfred A. Knopf, which ran as an ad in the November 1957 issue of the Atlantic Monthly, and one from ceramist/designer/bon vivant Jonathan Adler, which you can find painted on the walls of his store.

The Borzoi Credo
I believe that a publisher's imprint means something, and that if readers paid more attention to the publisher of the books they buy, their chances of being disappointed would be infinitely less.

I believe that good books should be well made, and I try to give every book I publish a format that is distinctive and attractive.

I believe that I have never published an unworthy book.

I believe that a publisher has a moral as well as a commercial obligation to his authors to try in every way to promote the sales of their books, to keep them in print, and to enhance his author's prestige.

I believe that a review by an incompetent critic is a sin against the author, the book, the publisher, and the publication in which the review appears.

I believe that the basic need of the book business is not Madison Avenue ballyhoo, but more booksellers who love and understand books and who can communicate their enthusiasm to a waiting audience.

I believe that magazines, movies, television, and radio will never replace good books.

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The Jonathan Adler Manifesto

We believe that your home should make you happy.

We believe that when it comes to decorating, the wife is always right. Unless the husband is gay.

We believe in carbohydrates and to hell with the puffy consequences.

We believe minimalism is a bummer.

We believe handcrafted tchotchkes are life-enhancing.

We believe tassels are the earrings of the home.

We believe in our muses: David Hicks, Alexander Girard, Bonnie Cashin. Hans Coper, Gio Ponti,
Andy Warhol, Leroy Neiman, Yves Saint Laurent, and Madonna.

We believe in the innate chicness of red with brown.

We believe in being underdressed or overdressed always.

We believe in infantile, happy emblems like butterflies and hearts.

We believe celebrities should pay full price.

We believe in rustic modernism: Big Sur, A-Frame beach houses, raw beams, and geodesic dome homes.

We believe in Palm Beach style:
Louis chairs, chinoiserie, Lilly Pulitzer, The Breakers circa '72.

We believe our designs are award winning even though they've never actually won any.

We believe in Aid to Artisans.

We believe dogs should be allowed in stores and restaurants.

We believe in mantiques - suits of armour, worn chesterfield sofas, heraldic tapestries.

We believe you should throw out your Blackberry and go pick some actual
blackberries.

We believe colors can't clash.

We believe in blowing your nest egg on our pots.

This Just In

The Banana supports independent bookstores.

O, Blog...

....I have not forsaken thee. So many small happenings recently, but they refuse to cohere into a posting that is clever or even sane. So I'm going the random grab-bag route:

On Friday night I attended a panel discussion on "The Business of Letterpress" at the mysterious and wonderful San Francisco Center for the Book. This made me extremely happy, because I have a major paper fetish. To all my bride friends, I confess: At your wedding, I did not notice your exquisitely designed floral arrangements. I do not know the difference between chapel-length and cathedral-length veils. I only wanted to fondle your letterpressed invitations and caress your hand-drawn location maps. I am not ashamed. While I was at this gathering of fellow paper people, I was surprised to find that the gender distribution was fairly equal, although I suspect that some of the menfolk were there simply to appease their women. I was less surprised by the racial composition of the audience (and the panel). Lots of white people, a smattering of Asian women, and...uh, me. Represent!

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I spent Saturday in the city with my de-lovely sister and my not-quite 8-month old niece, Banana. We went to Green Apple Books and ate dim sum in the garden outside the DeYoung. On the way home, it took 30 minutes for the 38 Geary to appear at our bus stop. ("Muni waits for no one! You wait for Muni!"--props to Arethusa.) This was especially sad because Banana was feeling under the weather and was thus unresponsive to the many cooing strangers who tried to engage her. When the bus finally showed up, our driver was a crazy Russian man who kept arguing with would-be passengers and ejecting them from the bus. He also came very close to mowing down several pedestrians. We managed to escape with our lives, barely, near Powell Street. Did I mention how much I love my sister and my Banana? Nothing like a near-death experience on public transit to bring that sentiment to the fore.

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I need a consistent, unified Homeless Response Policy. Because I encounter many homeless people every day, in both SF and E-Ville. Sometimes I give them cash and/or offer to buy them food. Sometimes I avert my eyes in shame and don't even acknowledge their presence. Often I start out by ignoring them and then double back to give them something, but giving out of guilt doesn't seem kosher either. All of this makes me feel like I might be a bad person, or at least a morally unstable one. I think people move to the suburbs so that this sort of dilemma won't keep them awake at night. (Actually, what keeps me awake at night is my neighbor's addiction to obnoxious talk radio, broadcast at obscene volumes).

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I've been in love with the Vows feature in the Sunday New York Times since College, Episode 1 (that would be the era when it was still cool to blast Soundgarden from your dorm room window, for those of you keeping track.) Some cynics have given Vows and the entire Celebrations section the nickname "Mergers & Acquisitions", because it showcases so many ridiculously wealthy, successful, attractive young people. I think it's a shining beacon of hope, because it also spotlights love's power to transform the lives of the Socially Awkward, and the SA's are my peeps, yo. Please see this week's lovely couple. Do men this shy still roam the earth?

Word to your Bugaboo-strollin' mother. I'm out.

Tableau Vivant

I have yet to conclusively determine whether the art form known as tableau vivant is fabulous or just plain freaky. I first encountered it while watching an episode of the late, great "Arrested Development." One of the characters, participating in Michelangelo's "The Creation of Adam", tries to make a jailbreak during the pageant. At the time, I assumed that the whole idea of people "re-enacting" paintings was just the product of a staff writer's twisted imagination, but apparently this is a legitimate form of entertainment in Laguna Beach. Check it out.

Dear Lourdes: The Ignominy of Androgyny

Herein, our hapless heroine submits her real questions to an imaginary advice columnist, who dispenses preternaturally personalized pearls of wisdom.

Dear Lourdes,

I have a problem that I haven't seen in your column before. I'm a girl, but that fact isn't always readily apparent to the general public. Homeless people and store clerks mistakenly address me as "sir." Small children wander up to me on the street and ask whether I'm a girl or a boy. Elderly women approach me and exclaim, "What a handsome young man you are!" (I concede that this last example appeals to the little bit of vanity I have left; it seems better to be thought of as a good-looking boy than a homely girl.)

Just this weekend, while I was an enjoying an afternoon walk in my neighborhood, some nearby teenage boys pointed, laughed and yelled, "What's your gender?" All this while I was wearing a form-fitting pink sweater. Not to mention a bra with all of the uplift technology that $50 at Victoria's Secret can buy. What's a girl to do?

I will admit to having a square jaw and a boyish figure. And my hair is neither here nor there with regard to length and style, so it's not really tipping the scales in favor of the feminine. All the same, when I look in the mirror I definitely see a girl---an average-looking girl most days, perhaps able to pass for cute every fortnight or so. Not hot, but identifiably female. It's upsetting to me that my fellow man (and woman, but especially man) may not be reaching the same verdict.

Lourdes, how can I fix this? If you'll pardon the pun, it's really kind of a drag.

Signed,
Unisexy in the U.S.A.

Dear Unisexy,

Ay, mija, where to begin? Maybe we can start by having you take off your pants---namely, those Banana Republic khakis that you've been wearing to work. Every. Single. Day. You do own skirts, don't you? How will the fellas know you've got great gams if you don't show them off once in a while? I know it's chilly in the city, but bite the bullet already and pretend that it's summer. While you're at it, blow some dough at those vintage shops in the Haight and see if you can't beef up your dress selection. Who needs C-cups and junk in the trunk when you've got old school charm?

About the hair: it's time to let go of the 'fro. Actually, that time came and went a couple of years ago, but your Lola is willing to work with people whenever they're ready. I know you've enjoyed the freedom of a wash-and-go 'do. And you've still got a lot of trust issues stemming from that unfortunate 6th-grade Jheri Curl. Hell, every appointment you've ever had in a black hair salon involved fear and pain and at least four hours of your life that you'll never get back, most of it spent waiting. But real women take charge of their hair. If you look like someone who has at least attempted to beat his/her hair into submission, most people will give you the benefit of the doubt on that second X chromosome. Seriously--do some research, make a decision, take the plunge. You probably won't regret it, but even if you do, the wonderful world of wigs awaits.

Next, get thee to the nearest Sephora. Putting on a little makeup places you decisively in the Land of the Ladies. So what if all those pretty girls in black give you the heebie-jeebies, or the vast array of offerings is overwhelming? Take some baby steps. Go with a friend and buy a lipstick or some eyeshadow.

You don't have to do everything all at once. And I'm sure you've got your own self-improvement projects that you could add to my suggestions. Change is good. Of course, you could leave everything as is, and continue to fly the flag for the "looks shouldn't matter" movement. But as my friend Dr. Phil might say, "How's that workin' out for ya?" Not so much, eh? Maybe I'll bump into you at my next eyebrow waxing appointment.

Vaya con Dios,
Lourdes