AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: New Blog!
DATE: 8:36:00 PM
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BODY:
Welcome to my new weblog. I decided to switch from Blogger to Typepad while attending the Web 2.0 Conference in San Francisco. Unfortunately, neither company can tell me how to migrate my content (143 posts!). Despite the claim that Blogger content can be imported to Typepad, there is no such function in Blogger. And I refuse to copy/paste 143 posts in a beautiful, sunny, Saturday afternoon.
So, if you want to see any of the old stuff, it's here.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Web two-dot oh
DATE: 10:10:00 AM
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BODY:
Brea from Cleveland-based Insurance.com, introduced herself to me on the pub crawl and wanted to know all about Web 2.0 lingo.
Alexander, a long-time GABA member, is the business developer for city of Berlin and had a booth at the expo.
Hamish who joined us on the pub crawl, was looking for interviews to podcast for his social media advocacy station in England.
Sheryl the marcom consultant was looking for a white wine to trade her beer for and told me about her upcoming 10-day Buddhist retreat.
Dahlia, a long-time colleague in the German-American business community, told funny stories about the way expo attendees would react to the invest in Berlin booth.
Summer is a recruiter I met at the Leverage Software party, and told me at the booth crawl that she met her husband at a 1999 dot-com party.
Tim, one of my first GABA team recruits, has "found the right place" split between Oracle and his start-up.
Colette, Internet/Web coordinator for California Nurses Association, was looking for relevant session content, and a good beer.
Marc from Rochester is on a 7-month Intel sabbatical, and lost his way on the pub crawl.
... And many other stories of the Web 2.0 conference this week, a mid-size industry affair that was light on session content but heavy on expo fun, and did prove this area is the Web 2.0 center it claims to be.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Yoga in the park
DATE: 8:53:00 PM
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BODY:
Completely dispensing of our brightly-colored slippery plastic mats altogether, our group of three took to rooting our sit-bones into the damp grass (worms underfoot; Cypresses wild with a spring wind), cold feet facing one another, and at his cue, progressed at varied cadence from seated bend, flinging legs backward into Plow, pulling them forward crossed Indian-style through arms, then straight into Chaturanga, V-ed at the waist into Down-Dog, crossing them once again to send back through the arms, and straight into a seated bend.
Though giggling -- and toppling part-way though -- it felt good. Probably due to being outside in the fresh elements: wind blowing hard enough to knock you out of your Warrior One, sun so bring you have to squint into your Bridge, and the beauty of Strybing blowing about with brightness and life. And with others who have gathered here word-of-mouth, to this spot that's so close I can walk to it.
Yoga in the park has become one of my Saturday morning traditions -- usually occurring between an early-morning ride, and the over-easy eggs or stack of pancakes I save for lazy weekend breakfasts.
Aside from storing up on positive ions, I'm feeling good from practicing head-stand and learning a new Warrior One/Warrior Two/Warrior Three movement series. Plus I get to be around good people. Namaste!
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Conversation starter
DATE: 7:21:00 AM
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BODY:
Going on a thirty-plus minutes wait for an outbound N-Judah train, smashed up against exasperated office drones, in a sea of white iPod tails, and the arrival of a curious pack of girls all wearing the same pink-printed T-shirts, at one of the busiest Muni stations smack in the middle of commute-hour yesterday evening, a kind-faced woman surprised me with a question about how I like my book.
I'm already half-way through Nickel & Dimed since starting it a week ago, a refreshing change from the tedious serious of "should" reads before this (GTD; Rules for Renegades).
She looked not unlike Barbara Ehrenreich herself, asked me if I'd heard the author speak, and then said to me, "I hope there's more class action suits... well, at least they're still in court over Wal-Mart." Then her M-train arrived.
I've noticed a lot of eyes on the train scan the cover of my book with the same curiosity and concern about the working poor that's attracted me to keep turning these pages. Maybe they are, or have been, or know someone on welfare. I looked up her website and wikipedia page, and notice that since being publishing in 2001, she continues to tour the country to speak about economic inequality.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Olympic Torch Rally
DATE: 7:32:00 AM
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BODY:
I went to witness the lively mid-day scene on Wednesday-- thousands of protesters had gathered downtown along the planned SF route of the Olympic torch relay -- and to see my classmate Jill Mason, one of the 80 torchbearers, before discovering that a surprisingly effective security blanket had moved the route to Van Ness Ave in order to avoid the chaos of earlier European legs.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: The Parrots of Telegraph Hill brighten my commute
DATE: 8:56:00 PM
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BODY:
I get to see the infamous Parrots of Telegraph Hill every day-- their cheerful chatter, curious consumption of cherry blossoms, and striking kelly-green coats, brighten my daily commute.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: "Honey, WHO does your color??"
DATE: 10:02:00 PM
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BODY:
"Hi I'm your four o'clock."
He was mid-bite, jumping from a perch on the stair behind a mirrored panel at the back of the store.
"Oh! Hi, hi. So -- um. Hi, can you, uh. Read this to me..."
He pointed to the appointment book where my name was written in pencil, the sweeping block letters barely fit in the box. He smiled at me and giggled, unabashed, and swept his hand over the absurdity of the question. He was right to be a little confused: the "L" looked like a lazy "C."
I laughed and he took me over to the swivel chair in the back room, instructed me to go ahead and clear off a pile of stuff from the seat, and sat me down. I pulled off a baseball hat and tore out the ponytail band. He looked at me in the mirror and asked "Ok: What do we have here?" tugging on chunks of hair, and watching them humbly fall. Of course why would I do my hair that day if I was going to get it styled? I felt the teary urge to dump my entire hair history-- but refrained, rather saying, "I want to see what you're going to do..."
He didn't hear me, suddenly spitting a horrified, "Honey, WHO does your color??"
Uh, me. A blond bottle wash to be exact, and it was just for fun. Over five months ago. An excuse started to bubble up but before I could finish it he shushed me with a cheery fix it and before I knew it he was already puttering around with a bowl and mixer -- "This is an OPPORTUNITY!" he declared -- and oh yeah, not to tell them up front.
That was how Abel ("like Cain and Abel"), the sole stylist at the Pure Beauty Inner Sunset became my best friend for about 45 minutes on a sunny Sunday afternoon, while he worked magic with dye, shampoo, hairdryer, flat-iron, giggles and stories... about people who work with computers trying to press the delete key in real life, about General Funston of San Francisco who fought fire with dynamite, and do I have a social calendar because I need to let him do tresses, and about his City Hall wedding right before it was outlawed again, about his engineer brother-in-law "working for da OIL Man, but I still love him," and "ooo, I know THIS kind of hair! if you just talk near it... whoosh!" blowing his cheeks out and splaying his hands behind my head for effect.
We chuckled about 20-somethings, and recovering catholics, and how it's too windy to walk by Ocean Beach. Then just like that, I said goodbye to the barrel-chested, baby faced Central Valleyan, who'd just made my day.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Great Highway ride
DATE: 12:10:00 PM
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BODY:
... Early morning in the park when most weekenders are still waking up... long stretches of road... wind whistling on a down slope... wet pavement against an iron colored sky... sleepy sweatshirted dog walkers and packs of synthetic-wearing marathon runners... roar of breakers along rev of engines... brightly-colored condos with weather-worn front doors... the nod of a fellow cyclist passing on the other side of the street... a garage sale, a coffee house, bum with a backpack, soccer players arriving at a game... water bottle at a stop light... shifting, graveling, sailing... home.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: The angels of Heyday throw "All the Saints" book release party
DATE: 12:29:00 PM
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BODY:
Last night, Heyday Books celebrated the launch of "All the Saints of the City of the Angels" by J. Michael Walker in San Francisco.
Walking along colorful Capp Street in the Mission District to get to the Community Music Center set the stage perfectly to check out this artist’s homage to everyday Angelenos, in a grand gold-covered storybook about how contemporary life intersects and reflects our mythological past.
After stirring speeches from the author, and Heyday Publisher Malcolm Margolin, Francisco Herrera inspired the crowd to dancing and singing, while party goers got the chance to pose as a saint against a beautiful "All the Saints" backdrop.
The Angels of Heyday deserve praise for their tireless work to showcase the soul of our community, and thus connect enthusiasts like me to the fabrics of our humanity.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Second GABA "Women in Business" event a success
DATE: 6:21:00 AM
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BODY:
The second GABA Women in Business event, held at Mindjeton Wednesday March 12th, doubled in attendance from our launch event in the fall. Attracting attorneys and accountants, students and C-level professionals, entrepreneurs and intrepreneurs (corporate innovators), one guy (who was there to represent his German boss), and the attention of local tech entrepreneur network Women 2.0. The women came from Berkeley, Santa Clara, Sausalito and Los Angeles; from their families and home businesses, corporate desks and a German language newspaper. And they want to do it again.
Bettina Jetter, Mindjet Co-Founder, offered insight and an in-depth account of her experience as a female entrepreneur, in Germany and in the US. Others shared their stories, discussed career moves, the glass ceiling, and new jobs.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Moment of beauty
DATE: 5:54:00 AM
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BODY:
A moment of beauty in the chaos of commute; a single crumpled page falls from a man's book, marked "DOSTOEVSKY," between frowns, iPods and shopping bags in the stifling car.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Virgin Velo
DATE: 6:50:00 AM
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BODY:
On a new years' resolution kind of whim, I decided to crack out my fancy Specialized Stumpjumper from its dark convalescence and join the Velo Girls™ (from a bumper sticker spotting) for a Sunday morning SF-to-Tiburon ride.
The morning couldn't be sunnier, I couldn't be more rested, fully geared and prepared with tires pumped, plenty of synthetic layers, shades, Camelback, and Shimanos.
A group of 20 smiling women dressed in pink and black and lime gathered in front of Presidio Sports Basement and then we were off: up to the toll plaza, across the Golden Gate, curving around to Sausalito, and onto the bike path that leads around the crescent of the bay toward Tiburon Marina.
I knew the route from training with SFRRC; but my current and casual weekly 12 miles running and 14 miles walking (not to mention an 18-month hiatus since my last ride), did not prepare me for four hours of sitting on that seat!
Soon, the crisp sunny morning turned all-too warm, the weight of the bike and my pack grew heavy, pedaling through pedestrians and cars misery, bending into the ferocious bay wind treachery, and resting at the Sam's ferry landing half way through our ride all-too tempting.
Nevertheless, I soldiered on to finish what I'd started (though not after talking my way out of a few extra miles on the return route). Hills or no, the pain continued. Finally back over the Golden Gate, crumpled into my car, knowing there's no where to go from here but up.
And vowing to come back and do it all again next month.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Story of a synchronistic event, on my morning commute
DATE: 9:50:00 PM
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BODY:
I don't usually walk on the East side of Davis Street. So when I chose to take the Embarcadero instead of Montgomery stop 0n my way into work yesterday morning, and happened to walk on the East side of Davis Street instead of the West side by the sleeping bagged-bums lining the parking garage wall, AND happened to look left at the very moment of passing the overpass on the outside instead of the inside, I thusly noticed a block-letter statement chalked across the outside, causing surprise and delight with its simplicity and directness. A synchronistic event, worth noting.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Venture to Elkdom
DATE: 10:11:00 PM
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BODY:
Two co-workers talked me into discount drinks for happy hour at their local Elks Lodge, and soon I found myself entering the fraternity on Post street (that's also the Kensington Hotel) and touring the narrow staircases, arrested-development recreation rooms, and mediocre athletic facilities.
San Francisco Elks Lodge is #3 of almost three thousand lodges nationwide and the oldest continuously operating lodge, which explains the hotel business and the 1890's-era leather ceiling and dusty showcases. The pool room contains a row of high-backed shoeshine chairs and ancient pool cue cases. There were bleachers and a bar off the racquetball court, and from the roof we could see into the bleak black windows of the St .Francis Hotel, Harry Denton's Starlight Lounge bling, and up the steep incline of Mason Street.
Despite needing an update to the facilities, to the gender balance (open to women starting in 1995), and to the membership age (Heather claims the average age was brought down from 70 to 40), Elks is quaint, and welcoming.
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AUTHOR: linda
TITLE: Morning cup of joe
DATE: 7:05:00 AM
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BODY:
I set out to mail a Valentine's package to my sister yesterday morning from the Embarcadero post office, on my way to work on Battery Street. I had some time to kill since I stepped off the Muni amazingly on time (or, early) so I had time to debate about where I wanted to buy a cup of coffee. I walked by the Starbucks on California, the Tullys on Davis, the Braizz after Clay, there's another Starbucks on Battery, and a Peets up ahead on Embarcadero One... then I saw it, up ahead: Gambinos, a quaint green-white-red joint, no closer than right next door to my waiting point.
I ordered a large coffee from the smiling guy behind the counter, who asked if I wanted room for cream. Handing him two bucks, I asked if there was a place to wash my hands, "... muni, you know..." But with a quick glance around the narrow shop, I'd answered my own question. "Technically, no. But, well. You can come back here real quick."
Perfect! I dropped a handful of change in the tip jar and scurried around the long row of deli cases while Mr. Register informed two perplexed sandwich-makers that "this nice young lady is going to come back here just to wash her hands real quick." I was there and back with a bunch of thank-yous before one of the Aprons replied, "that'll be twenty-seven dollars."
I laughed and said that I paid the guy up front, who agreed, and said they get a smile, *cheese* to which Register agreed: "and what a nice smile it is!"
On my way out, I assured them that this was my first time here, see, and, now I'll come back.
Two co-workers talked me into discount drinks for happy hour at their local Elks Lodge, and soon I found myself entering the fraternity on Post street (that's also the Kensington Hotel) and touring the narrow staircases, arrested-development recreation rooms, and mediocre athletic facilities. 
