Did the earth move for you too, honey?

Insert hilarious sex-based 'earth-moving' joke here. Seriously though - we've just experienced the biggest quake in California for 25 years. If you're popping your seismic cherry that one was a doozy.

I've got to admit that I was feeling pretty smug that while the rest of the states has had storms and hurricanes and freaking tornadoes, we've had a jolly nice few months. I still maintain that this is the best bit of the States from a geographical and meteorological perspective, although if I lived 80 miles closer to the epicenter of the 6.1 quake I think I might be less flippant about it. Especially with the drought and wild fires that are already kicking the crap out of region. That said, the frequency with which Cali is hit by seismic activity means that everyone is prepared. The civil engineers have to take extra earthquake exams to ensure that the infrastructure is sound and building maintenance chaps know to turn off the gas to avoid leaks and fires, so I guess this means its the safest place to experience an earthquake.

The San Andreas fault is, weirdly, something I learned about a school (my knowledge of North America gleaned from school, not TV, amounts to the San Andreas fault and a half-remembered calypso ditty about Christopher Columbus and his three ships), and when discussing the California move with friends and family in the UK the threat of earthquakes certainly rears its head so I've been following the seismic activity on Twitter and with an iPad app since just before I moved here.

My gorgeous Aussie chums have experienced quakes on trips to NZ and have tried to describe what its like, but you can't really explain the sensation, or guess how each person will react to it. It was a very weird experience to be woken up at 3:23 by all the solid stuff in your apartment moving around and banging against other stuff, and you can't really explain the unnerving-ness of it all unless you've experienced it. I wasn't scared (*sniff sniff* what's that smell? Is that bravado? Really? No, I think it must be blind stupidity), but I was certainly weirded out. The only real thing going through my mind was 'this feels like its been going on for a fucking ETERNITY! Surely it's going to end now. Now? Maybe now? Now?' Afterwards I was full of adrenaline, and, like the social media whore that I am, I jumped straight on Twitter. Not really sure why. To check that it wasn't just our imagination? To find out if my local chums had the same thought as me and jumped on Twitter? To find out if it was as a big a deal to other people as we thought it was? Whatever my reasoning, the constant stream of tweets fed my adrenal rush and, like the dutiful Brit that I am, I went and made a cup of tea.

Like I said before - if we lived in Vallejo or owned a wine shop I'm pretty sure my thoughts on this quake would be very very different, but I am currently sozzled on an odd cocktail of exhilaration, awe and experience.

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Exhilaration, from the rawness of this natural occurrence, and the incredible connection I feel to people as a result. There's nothing like a natural disaster to bring people together, and the wave of tweets and Facebook messages that the quake has generated of people sharing their stories of past and present experiences, near misses and future warnings has made me feel part of a huge international web of people. FFS - it sounds so trite, and, rest assured I am giving myself side-eye as I type this. But its true - the quake gave me the initial adrenaline buzz, and the connection with humanity in the darkest hours before the dawn kept it coming.

The awe I feel is pretty obvious. Now I've experienced the power of the earth, and the lack of control that we have over it, I'm a little more wary of it. I won't go so far as to say that I am less likely to take it for granted, but I'm certainly in awe of it.

And experiencing my first earthquake has made me feel inaugurated into the NorCal club. A noob no more - I have experienced a right of passage, and can legitimately bore people in pubs for the rest of my life. I had planned to do that anyway, though.

We want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher - Baseball for noobs

So, baseball is my new thing. An awesome friend got us some tickets to an actual San Francisco Giants game, and I am totally freakin' hooked.

I'm a Portsmouth girl, so allying oneself to a local team and supporting them with mindless (and sometimes violent) loyalty is in my blood. Seriously, don't get me started on Harry Redknapp. And I watched the SuperBowl in a Dodgers hoodie really hoping that it would sweep me up, but it left me feeling a bit meh. Being a part of a baseball game, however, has totally got me hooked. And not just 'what-a-lovely-day-to-sit-in-the-bleachers-and-eat-junk-food' hooked. The serious 'listening-to-static-on-AM-radio-in-the-car' hooked.

And I know my enthusiasm is real because I'm actually remembering the players names and numbers. My brain is pretty stubborn and if I'm not genuinely into something it won't even let me play along by remembering a few key facts that can be regurgitated in company. When I am interested, however, its like a fucking drunk at the bar, hovering up every last drop of booze and squeezing out the drip mats. This often backfires (despite not watching a single episode of Big Brother I can name every single fucking contestant and which minor celebrity they shacked up with upon leaving the BB house) and fills my brain with useless and embarrassing toot. On this occasion, however, I have already managed to impress people at the BallPark with my baseball banter.

"All we really need is Posey and Pagan."
"What about Morse? Surely we couldn't function without Beast Mode?"
"You're probably right, since he joined from the Seahawks the team have really come together. I think he's a good influence on and off the field".

There. See. Fucking sponge.

I think it really helped that I had a fantastic chum next to me explaining what was going on and when I should stand up/clap/take my hat off & whatnot. Here's a quick idiots guide:

1. If you're going to a ball game (its a game, not a match) then you'll want to sit in the bleachers. A box is fun, but you are further from the field (not pitch) and you stand no chance of catching one of the foul or practice balls.

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2. Bring a mitt or a cap to catch a ball if it comes your way. You don't stand a chance because there
are a myriad of pushy parents and snotty kids who will shove you out the way, but if you're feeling brave you can jostle the little shits out the way. Just claim you've got a terminal illness or something and the grown-ups will forgive you.

3. Don't peak too soon on the snack front - I went a little cray-cray and bought a lobster roll, garlic fries, a bucket of drink and some candy-floss before we sat down. Remember - you might be sat there for 4 hours, and the chaps will come round with snack age throughout the game, so pace yourself.

4. Bring booze. And snacks. And suntan lotion. Why the fuck not - you're allowed!!! Also, on a sunny day the UV will kick the shit out of you and you'll be the only lobster mincing out of the ballpark.

5. You have to stand for the national anthem AND take off your hat. Seriously - its exactly like off of the telly when they get some local hint to stand up and sing a warbly verse of the Land of the Free while everyone - no joke - stands with their caps dothed and their hands over their hearts. They even cheered when it got to the penultimate line.
"The land of the freeeeeeee **yeeeeeehaw!!!**...And the home of the braaaaaaave".
I have been assured that this is because the song is nearly over, but it does seem to accentuate the statement with an audible italicization and punctuate the 'land of the free' with an audible exclamation mark. Again, as I've been discovering, this is very very important in the US, for a multitude of very legitimate political and historical reasons, and me, as a fucking traitor Brit, really shouldn't take the piss.

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6. One of the anthem birds got proposed to and I cried (yeah, yeah, whatever - I'm not made of stone y'know) and everyone cheered the jumbotron (yes, its actually called that!!! I feel like I'm IN an episode of the Simpsons!!)

7. You'll make heaps of new friends. The bleachers are very intimate and everyone is chatting with everyone else. You don't HAVE to, but you kinda get caught up in the excitement of it all.

8. The game is split into 8 innings, plus the first half of a ninth inning. Each inning gives each team a chance to bat and get as many rounders...I mean runs...as they can before 3 of their players are caught out. If you have ever played rounders then you'll pick up the rules super quick. The first half of each inning is called 'the top' and the second half 'the bottom', meaning you'll be able to exclaim with confidence that "its the top of the seventh and no fucker has scored a dickie bird". The ninth inning gives the visiting team a chance in the first half, and if the home team are still in the lead at the end of the first half then the game is over. If the home team are tied then they get a chance to play in the second half of the ninth. More innings are added if the score is still tied.

9. The game can be a bit slow, and no-one scored anything for at least 2 hours, so to keep the crowd excited they played the organ music/the flappy bit at the start of 'Carwash'/theme songs for some of the batsmen. There wasn't any chanting though, which was weird. Then I remembered that we're in the US, not the UK. You are unlikely to find the home crowd casting aspersions about the sexual preferences of the visiting pitcher, or chanting in their thousands that the star player is a twat. There was a bit of booing when the opposition coach threw a tanty and kicked up the dust in a petulant strop, but apart from that its all very positive and hi-fivey.

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10. Some of the players have very nice physiques. I'm just saying. Its pretty obvious who the heart
throbs are, and one can enjoy their tight white trousers.

11. Some of the players DO NOT have nice physiques and look like they have just stepped out of KFC to wheeze onto the field.

12. When the home team started to pull their finger out and score some runs towards the end of the seventh inning the crowd went ape shit and it was SO FREAKIN' EXCITING!! Seriously - I found myself jumping up with everyone else and whooping and cheering. Very tribal and soooooo much fun.

13. Brand is key. Each of the players has a 'thing' that helps support their personal brand off the field, and sells merch. Michael Mores has 'Beast Mode' (and a deal with a clothing company), Pablo Sandoval is nicknamed the Panda, and you can buy corresponding panda hats in the dugout shop and Angel Pagan salutes whenever he gets on the field, supporting the troops and whatnot. The cynic in me thinks its all carefully crafted to maximize potential earnings, but the romantic in me thinks that they are all a thoroughly bloody nice bunch of chaps just having fun and enjoying their jobs.

14. At the end of the game everyone files out in an orderly and sensible fashion and gets on their public transport mode of choice and fucks off home. WHAT?? No drunken brawls? No chanting down the road?? No bowling into the nearest boozer to get tanked up tip closing time? Apparently not. I appreciate this is only one game, but my research suggests that baseball fans are pretty well behaved.

I'm still reading up on the rules, because, although it IS basically rounders there are some extras they've introduced to keep things fair and above board, but you don't really need to know because your fellow game-goers will drag you along and you'll know when to cheer and when to be indignant and when to nibble your churro nervously while the dudes in black watch the playback on a tiny video screen and decide whether your prized-batter is in or out.

It really was sooooo much fun and it felt like a rite of passage. Try and leave your cynical British trousers at home and put on your Giants baseball cap and you'll be swept along in a tidal wave of true americanism.

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Hey, Macklemore! Can we go thrift shopping?

Thrift shops in the US are just like Oxfam and Barnardos and whatnot, right? Um, no. Sure, there's the snazzy 'vintage' shops in SF that you could find in an big trendy city in the UK (except possibly a little more flamboyant. Thank you Castro - your cast-offs are fabulous!), and there seems to be a similar principle - buy donated goods with the proceeds going to charity - but these are not pokey little high street shops. Aw heck no.

I thought I'd give our local goodwill a go - I had a few bits and bobs to donate, so while I was there I had a bit of a look round. Two things struck me. These shops are fucking huge! Like out-of-town outlet big. Also, they smell very very bad. Not sure what the sitch is in the UK but nothing smells of piss. With the sheer volume of merch on display in my local thrift store they couldn't possibly clean everything, so its very much 'sold-as-seen'.

Armed with this quick shufty, and a developing understanding of the economic situation facing the lower working class here I think I have a new appreciation for Sir Mackle of More. His song Thrift Shop was a successful attempt to make thrift shopping cool, and to raise the profile of the lifestyles of Americans who don't often get any representation in the charts. Listen to the majority of mainstream rap, hip-hop and pop and you'll hear all about their extravagant lifestyles and the shit they have left behind. Macklemore doesn't turn his back on his past, instead he uses his position to highlight the realities of the masses (not necessarily pimping and hustling, but scrimping and saving).

A worthy Grammy-winner, methinks.

Everybody poops

I watch a lot of Syfy channel ghost hunting programs - they're like Big Macs for my brain - sate my hunger for weird shit and leave me hungry to research more. They are also hilarious. In an attempt to entice viewers with spooky sightings they approach obviously fabricated or imagined stories with a faux-journalistic earnestness that belittles any genuine unexplained phenomena. I have a pretty vivid imagination - I can scare myself shitless looking into an empty room, or out of a pitch black window - telling me that a bit of dust is a ghostly orb just makes me laugh.

The most interesting thing for me about the old houses, asylums and ghost towns they explore is that, unlike a beautifully curated Museum, you are actually in the space occupied by humans like you, who, not long ago, did normal things until one day everyone was gone. You can actually FEEL the history of the place. Intoxicating? Yes. Arousing? I'm not going to confirm of deny that.

Poop joke. http://www.gifbay.com/gif/babypowder_fart-11945/

While on a school visit to Ostia Antica many moons ago my hilariously inappropriate father took a photo of himself having an imaginary poop on one of the ancient communal lavs. Hilarious, yes. I despair of a time that I will ever not find poop jokes hilarious. But there is an additional, more human element. Its hard to imagine the Romans (those people from I, Claudius who talk funny, have orgies and whatnot) as real people. They are only ever presented to us in scripted scenes for our entertainment or through the flat words of translated literature written by wealthy men. My dad's comedy turn flattened the pages of the history books and (I'm not proud of this trite little description) brought the Romans to life. Urgh. That felt so cheesy, and its so overused it doesn't really convey the actual feeling of sitting on a slate toilet seat making fart noises where, centuries ago, another human who looked and moved and sounded like my dad did exactly the same.

The beauty of the Museum or the tv interpretation is that they create a narrative to draw us into the world of the artifact, event or place and give us some context. And it really works - watching the kids at London Transport Museum engage with the talking cockney horses drawing a tram you can see they are loving a bit of historical narrative. But, watching the grown-ups sit inside a real steam-pulled locomotive as it ploughs through London's Underground tunnels as it did exactly 150 years previous is an entirely different sensation. The narrative of history is flattened, and all at once you are sat next to the annoying know-it-all with BO trying to talk to you while you desperately try and catch the eye of the surprisingly attractive woman in the seat opposite. And you know thats EXACTLY what happened every day in this exact same coach amongst people living under Queen Victoria and wearing different clothes, but basically BEING the same as us.

Now, take that flattening of the historical narrative and reapply it to a freaking ghost town, where these people who pooped and picked black bogies out of their noses (you think London is a bit dirty now, try traveling on a steam train through the underground, or working in a coal mine) and fantasized about the girl behind the counter in the local shop and swore and (mostly) got drunk had a sudden thing change everything forever. Its a very humbling sensation.

Thats why I love ghost towns, and why I cannot wait to start visiting some of the gold rush towns around California, like Bodie. And why I love reading and looking at the pictures that urban explorers post of cities like Kolmanskop in Namibia, Hashima in Japan and Pripyat. Images of Kowloon Walled City (before it was demolished) are spooky in the normal sense (is that Slender Man peering through the tattered blinds??) but are also incredible historical, anthropological, geographical, meteorical and political statements desperate to be explored.

Its for all these reasons that I beg that owners of old properties that offer tours stop making up spooky stories about their cash cows just to create a buzz (I'm looking at you, Winchester Mystery House. I love that place, but when you find out that much of the spooky stuff was made up mere weeks after the death of the old lady to attract nosy locals who have been shelling out a few dollars a time to take a tour of the fascinating building ever since, it sort of leaves a bad taste in the mouth. Have I just been played? Focus on the incredible 1906 earthquake damage, or why the old porch is now deep in the heart of the house, or why the steps are all 2 inches tall, or the fascinatingly dark dining room, which was quite normal at the time. And it sounds like this place has taken a similar tourist-y turn. Very entrepreneurial, but at some point you have to start thinking about other people and not just your own coffers. Preservation, not exploitation).


Alcatraz has got this down pretty well - its history is surprisingly recent, meaning that they were able to have actual inmates narrate the audio guide, but that aside they managed to give an incredible picture of the actual life on the Island. Kids playing in the streets, no-one locking their doors, regular visits to the mainland.

Alcatraz cell with toilet.

Tell the real story of the building and the people that lived there. Let us learn from our mistakes (I've yet to come across a ghost town that wasn't created by some catastrophic human act - Picher, Oklahoma, Okuma, Fukushima and Oradour-sur-Glane, France -  or failure to realize the natural catastrophe waiting to occur - Pompeii, Italy, Plymouth, Montserrat or Deception Island, Antarctica). And, why not  do so with a little humor. Everyone loves a good poop joke - as Willy Shakespeare demonstrates, humor and tragedy are excellent bedfellows.

Every day is a school day

Gotta love a mince through the Tenderloin in SF. I'll admit we stand out like a couple of impossibly naive-looking tourists, but that doesn't seem to bother some of the more eccentric residents. This week, we walked past a guy swaggering his way through a verse of Rumpshaker (choon!) before stopping dead and bending double to flamboyantly address a used sugar packet on the pavement with "Oh my, is that Mary Jane?"

I found this fucking hilarious and totally random, until I thought that maybe Mary Jane was slang for something. Lo - a quick internet search revealed that it is the literal translation of the word Marijuana of spanish origin (Maria Joanna = Mary Jane). Well, I learned something new, and I guess that his statement makes a little more sense, though as the Lad points out, he was still loudly singing early 90s hip hop and talking to an empty sugar packet.  Drugs are bad, kids, m'kay.