Missing Month Well Stored

Once again I've managed a full month without posting. Why? Because I am no longer in San Francisco but rather home again in God's country where I've been making a valiant yet fruitless attempt to consolidate the contents of two storage units.

My first storage unit came during my college years. When I moved from my own apartment into a shared abode with the boyfriend of the time, not all of my furniture could make the move and still leave room for his. And so it began. The storage saga. In the fifteen or so years since the unit was first rented, the contents held in storage have varied widely.

For the first few years after college I moved often. First to a small apartment, then to a small house, and finally to a spacious 3-bedroom house with a converted garage. As I increased my living space with each move, my need for a storage unit decreased -- but it also coincided with the time of my brother's greatest need. He and his then wife were also moving frequently, small children in tow. The virtually empty unit began to fill again.

In time, I took a second job in Nashville. After a couple years of spending 4 hours of every day driving to and from work, I moved from the large house to a smaller duplex near the interstate and my things began to return to storage. This time joining whatever my brother had left behind.

Through a rushed move in the midst of 90-hour work week (coupled with a 24-hour per week commute), I watched as the storage unit began to take on a sinister disorganization which only got worse a year later when I traded in that small duplex near the interstate for an apartment in Nashville by way of another rushed move.

Though I'd finally killed the commute, my storage unit had become rather full and terribly messy. Furniture bought for the changing needs of each home -- a guest room here, a converted garage there -- now filled my storage. But on top, underneath, and beside that furniture, piles of miscellany had spread kudzu-like through the unit, tendrils everywhere. A box of knick-knacks sat on a fridge; Christmas decorations covered an oven; toys from my youth were heaped on a dining table; school books and notebooks lurked underneath.

When the time came to leave Tennessee entirely, there was no question that a second unit would be needed to store the contents of a working home: couches and chairs, beds and nightstands, bookshelves and books, desks and computers, dishes and pans. That second unit, not filled hurriedly, is blessedly organized. But the first...

Well, I've spent a month here converting THIS:

to THIS:

It may not be done yet, but it's getting there!

Finally.

Tuesday Noon Siren

Kiddies! Now you can play the Tuesday Noon Siren home game.

Get your clicking fingers ready. The Tuesday Noon Siren is only minutes away.

In San Francisco, you can hear it in STEREO!

Just click here at 12:00.

TRAUMA is no Jack Kennedy

I'll leave the rather accurate review of NBC's Trauma, set in San Francisco, to the guys who get paid for it over at SF Gate. To sum up, it's a pretty city shown well as the backdrop for a formulaic show in an over-saturated genre.  Nothing new here, folks, except the scenery.  And to be honest, that's the only reason I tuned in in the first place.  Because unlike what must be millions of Americans who keep this genre afloat, I am not a fan of the Surgical Soap Operas.

I am a fan, however, of San Francisco views, and the series opened with two beautiful shots of the bridges -- first the snobby, touristy Golden Gate and then the REAL one, which became the (almost) center of what one might call a plot when a tanker exploded more near than on the Bay Bridge.

Big money went into effects and the cast, of course, has that uniformly attractive sheen.  But the plot lines are thin and the dialogue may be where the series will live up to its name.  It's painful.

In one particularly "original" scene, the obligatory loose cannon character, "Rabbit," takes his Fastback Whatever (it was a night shot, so whether it was more good-guy Mustang or bad-guy Charger will be determined by people who either have a better eye or who are willing to watch that episode again) on an airborne cruise of a San Francisco hill not only making a less-than-subtle reference to a scene in Bullit, but also asking his passenger (and his audience) to put two and two together as he recreates the famous scene.  "Have you seen Bullit?" he asks, just before the jump.

Our response to that question is a groan.  Whether we've seen the whole movie or not, we've seen that scene.  And calling it out is like saying "ooh, look at me, I'm going to recreate it for you!"  Like no one has done that before.  Yeah.  We get it.  In fact, our emotional response almost parallels the response of his passenger, which SHOULD be a good thing.  Maybe, finally, we'll relate to someone.  Then, after the car lands, she opens her mouth.

"Yeah, I saw Bullit.  I love Bullit.  I love Steve McQueen.  I got news for ya, buddy.  You ain't Steve McQueen."

And off we groan again.

"Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy: I knew Jack Kennedy; Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy."  

By the end of the episode, I had already written off the series.  It's not like there's a dearth of pretty pictures of San Francisco; one doesn't have to watch TRAUMA to see it.  In fact, it's prettier in The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill.  But when the promo for next week's episode came on, I knew I'd be a glutton for punishment and tune in again.  Not because some clever plot point caught my attention -- Good God, no! -- but because I'd seen the scene being shot along the Embarcadero in July.

So while the show backed into a second chance in my living room, I'm not sure that will be true in living rooms anywhere else across the country.  Sorry NBC, but this one may just be joining ER in the "great waiting room in the sky."