Since there appears to be some confusion about this issue, I would like to inform my readers that neither of the people in the image below is responsible for the content of this website:
The author of this website is, in fact, female, rather short, and far more interested in food than either of these individuals are. Therefore, accolades, complaints, and gifts should be showered upon me, rather than them.
Capiche?
Laura Splan makes art.
Most of her work plays with themes around the body, blood, hospitalization, crafting. Her work is distinctive, unique, and might make some viewers feel a little uncomfortable or squicky. Unlike Bodyworlds, her art is not educational, persay, although it does provoke a response. It is evocative, haunting art which I would love to see in person.
You should check out her site. I particularly like the Blood Scarf, a piece which requires some interaction and sacrifice from the wearer. The idea of clothing which takes from you while it warms you, of a scarf that slowly kills you…I love it. I also like the Exam Gown, a strike at the depersonalized hosptial environment, and way more stylish than most exam gowns I have been exposed in.
She does a great deal of work with blood, which intrigues me in this era of fear and biohazard. Where did the blood come from? How does she handle it in her workspace? What kinds of tools does she use? I think about this while I ponder her wallpaper made from blood.
She’s the ultimate gothic artist, with a stylish website to boot.
I think I might need to be her when I grow up.
The Navy is holding a meeting later this evening to unveil the plan finally selected for Site 12. The option chosen involves excavating soil to the depth of four feet, but not under the hardscape. The areas dug out will be backfilled with clean soil from an offsite location, and the soil removed will be screened and then disposed of in a special landfill. The Navy has not indicated where the contaminated soil will be trucked to. Work will begin in February of next year.
Cap’n Boysenberry and I made an interesting discovery yesterday which relates to cleanup on Treasure Island. At the last informational meeting, we are assured that there is “no radiological material anywhere on the Island.” This is a statement which does not leave much room for error. The Navy claims that the excavated soil will be screened for radiological contamination because this is standard in all situations like this.
The Cap’n and I are wondering if perhaps the Navy is also expecting the presence of radioactive material in the excavated soil, thanks to our adventures yesterday in Area 1.
The only potential contaminant listed for Area 1 is silver, due to onsite film processing. We, however, found radioactive material in Area 1, in the form of illuminated exit signs which contain tritium, or radioactive hydrogen. Tritium has a relatively short half life of approximately 12 years, and is not estimated to be harmful in low, contained doses. Indeed, the EPA allows trace amounts of it in drinking water!
The backs of the exit signs clearly list that they are radioactive, and are considered to be controlled objects. Transfer of the signs is prohibited except to properly trained individuals and institutions. The signs also may not be abandoned, which is clearly the case in Area 1. Tritium contamination has happened in other parts of the United States, primarily because tritium will form water when exposed to oxygen, which will lead to groundwater contamination. Disposal of the signs in landfills results in the creation of radioactive water. Breaking the tubes inside the signs will also cause exposure.
Tritium signs are constructed by enclosing the radioactive material inside small tubes. The tubes are coated in phosphor, which reacts by glowing when exposed to the radiation. The tubes are mounted behind glass, and the stencil for the sign is mounted in front of the glass. The glowing tubes will evenly illuminate the sign without an external power source. Self illuminating signs are highly useful as safety devices, because they can illuminate exits even in complete darkness.
Tritium is also used in the construction of nuclear weapons, where it is used as a trigger. In addition tritium can be found in nuclear reactors and a wide range of self illuminating devices. Government workers and people who work in nuclear facilities are exposed to tritium on a regular basis. Allegedly, tritium emits very weak radiation which is not capable of causing damage. But when tritium enters the bloodstream, as can happen when people drink tritium contaminated water, the substance will bind to other organic materials. Most tritium is expressed in the urine within one month, but not all of it. Therefore, bioaccumulation of the substance is an issue.
Tritium exposure increases the probability of getting cancer. It disperses easily into the soft tissues of the body, some of which are very sensitive to radiation. The most reliable test for tritium exposure is urinalysis…which makes me think it’s time for some cup peeing fun time! For now, I’ll be extra vigilant about flushing, lest my toilet start to glow.
What troubles me about this is not so much the existence of tritium, which appears to be relatively harmless. It is the fact that the Navy did not dispose of the signs properly, which could result in environmental risks. Furthermore, the Navy lied about radiological material on the Island, and it makes me wonder about other locations which may have tritium signs. The signs were abandoned where any individual could access them, and potentially release the tritium inside. The buildings on Treasure Island are explored by most of the residents, and many things inside and out are broken or damaged in the process. While some people may feel that the destruction of property is illegal, the fact is that it happens either way, but it doesn’t usually release radioactive substances into the environment.
For now the signs continue to glow ominously in the dark, waiting in case of emergency.
I watched the sun rise over the seawall this morning.
I had no shoes on when I left, threading my way carefully along the street. I left warmth and confusion for cold and sudden, bitter clarity. The grass was cold and wet when I reached it, and it became hard to distinguish from dots of pain and a sudden rush of cold to the foot. It was still dark, but expectant, and I came out onto the perimeter road, my toes grasping the asphalt one at a time and the Bay murmuring in the dark.
First I went to the west, and watched the traffic patterns, the artery of Market Street glowing even at six in the morning, surrounded by delicate veins of lights feeding into the central core. The Ferry Building was like a beating heart throbbing at the waterline. Mist shrouded the Golden Gate, so I could only see the tips peering out over the fog, and the Bay Bridge hummed with life.
Then I drifted from the East, walked out along the rocks, and hunched over while I gazed at Berkeley. I was wearing the same clothes I had been wearing twenty hours ago, when the day before was warm and sunny and full of promise. My thin cotton shirt was cold and stiff against me, my feet tucked up under my legs for warmth.
Thus coiled, I saw the slow crack of light emerge in the East, at first difficult to distinguish from the lights of the refineries, the growing light of traffic, the lights coming on one by one, home by home. The light grew steadily until the sun rose drunkenly through the mist.
Ah, I said.
The sun and I gazed at each other for a moment before I ducked my head in shame.
I walked back home through the gathering light, my bare feet picking up occasional slivers of glass which embedded for a moment before dropping away. The dew was still heavy on the grass as I trudged through it and the bottom of my pants were quickly soaked. Shivering, I ducked through the front door to nothing in particular, stumbled upstairs and into the shower.
I went to bed with my hair still wet. I did not sleep, but I tossed and turned with visions of numbers. My hair made a cold, damp puddle which surrounded my cold, damp head. When the sun came in, it danced across my face in a long line of searing light which I could not avoid, and I rose, restless and impure.
Sometimes we make our own decisions, and sometimes others make them for us.
Being in the throes of a moral quandary at the moment, I decided that the best thing to do would involve distracting myself. The best source of distraction, for me, is abusing innocent phone support workers. I realize that some of my readers are troubled by this dark and terrible part of myself, and I do honestly wish that I could purge it. But there is something so deeply and innately satisfying about browbeating people in phone banks, a pure and simple happiness which I strive for in daily life but rarely achieve.
Luckily, in this modern world where otherwise respectable restaurants call patrons “fucking cunts*” and the phone company tries to sneak inappropriate charges onto my phone bill, the problem isn’t finding someone to abuse…it’s choosing who to abuse.
Enter Comcast, stage left.
Comcast, for those who are not aware, has a monopoly on high speed internet and cable service on Treasure Island. This means that if you want either of these things, you are forced to go through Comcast, and Comcast knows it. Oh, does Comcast know it. The Boys use Comcast and Cap’n Raspberry does battle with them every time the monthly bill arrives.
That’s why I was so delighted when I got my last bill…it was for the correct amount, and they were charging me for the correct services. I was actually flabbergasted that Comcast had decided to not suck, and I was tempted to frame the bill to marvel at. Of course, the online payment system wouldn’t let me in, but I figured I could phone in a payment closer to the due date.
Alas, such was not to be, I discovered when I finally remembered to check the mail today. In the dark crevices of the mailbox was an envelope from Comcast. It crackled ominously as I pulled it out and opened it, revealing a bill for approximately three times the amount of our monthly services.
Ah, Comcast.
Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart, for having 24 hour service.
Calling Comcast at 1:00 AM results in a long hold time, for an unknown reason. But ultimately an innocent “customer care agent” came on the line and I gave her what for.
I’ve got to give the lady credit, she kept her cool, even in crisp exchanges such as this:
“Well, I see here that you were charged $59.95.”
“Yeah, see Yvonne, the thing is, I see that too, and that happens to NOT BE THE CONTRACT WE SIGNED UP FOR.”
“Well, you signed up for internet, Ms Jones, correct?”
“Uh, yeah, we did. We did not sign up for $59.95 worth of internet. Who in fuck’s name would pay that much for monthly internet service, even to a bloodsucking cockroach such as Comcast?”
“Uh, I’ll check on that, ma’am.”
Comcast has won round one, with a “call back” promised for tomorrow. Yvonne actually agreed that we had been incorrectly charged, but couldn’t do anything about it.
Couldn’t…or wouldn’t?
I can hardly wait, billing department. Bring. It. On.
*You are going to have to disregard my earlier comments on Piacigate, my friends, because I have taken a new stance: please don’t eat at Piaci and please don’t eat at their new restaurant, either. You know. Assuming that you live anywhere near Fort Bragg. Calling patrons “fucking cunts” is simply not acceptable by any stretch of the imagination, especially when you are the owner of a restaurant.
It is hypothetically possible that your intrepid girl reporter ventured from from the Island on Saturday night wearing sneakers, a cheerleading skirt, and a shirt with a goose on it, with a FastPass stuffed in her bra and polka dot socks. It is also possible that in this outlandish costume, she attended a large event, filled with dancers and music and light, and that she danced to the point of physical pain. She danced upstairs and downstairs, in a conga line and alone in the middle of a dance floor. She danced so long and so hard that if her hair hadn’t been moussed down with industrial adhesive, it would have floated around her face like a halo.
Maybe she sat in a seat looking down on a dancefloor filled with people and felt a strange instance of love and affection for them. Maybe she drifted through that massive crowd, forgetting for a night the perils of social anxiety and nervousness.
It is even possible that she accepted a communion from the hand of another, and spent the night entranced, mesmerized, flowing with the music and the light and the people. Perhaps she felt like she was only a small part of a giant organism which moved and breathed together. Perhaps she found herself lying in a pile of people staring up at the sky, hoping that the night would never end.
Maybe the music was loud, and good, and danceable, and she lost herself in the moment of plunging, writhing bodies. Maybe she was thankful.
Maybe on the bus home, she was filled with a sudden sense of crushing lonliness, and when she got home she sat in the tub and stared at the rubber stamped words on her arm, wondering what had really happened.
As of today, we have officially been fighting the war in Iraq longer than we fought in the Second World War. This is rather a sobering thought when you think about the large amount of anti-war sentiment, combined with the general sense of failure in Iraq. The recent midterm elections suggest that many Americans are hoping for a change in the situation in Iraq. Only time will tell whether or not the Democrats will take steps to pull troops out of Iraq.
Walking through San Francisco the other day, Cap’n Raspberry and I were talking about the greatest generation, and hope. The conversation was spurred by the proliferation of 1950s style diners in the City, which are altars of hope and bygone days. Although neither of us was around for the 1950s, we see the decade iconized all over the place. It seems like it could have been a decent time to be around: the economy was good post-war, people were friendly, everybody had puppies and kittens apparently, cars and housewives and all sorts of things that seem quaint and antiquated now. Now we have everyone in the household working and electronic devices and pointless wars.
We were pondering what broke the greatest generation, and what caused the sea change in American culture that led us to the state we are in today. I argued for two things: Vietnam, and the increase of technology. Vietnam seems like an obvious choice, because it was a time when the nation polarized on a major issue. Much of America woke up and began to speak out more, be more active in their society even if it meant challenging idealist values.
But technology, too, has been a major blow for society even at the same time that it is a boon. Cellphones and laptops have become so ubiquitous that I think it is difficult for many of us to remember when we didn’t answer phone calls in the middle going to dinner with our friends, didn’t disappear upstairs to check our email when we were entertaining guests, could go a few days without something. We’ve plunged into the depths of an instant gratification consumer culture, and I think it has profoundly changed us.
Perhaps the second Gulf War will mark another change in society. I suspect not, primarily because this generation is too lazy to do anything that cannot be accomplished in a few hours. Armchair revolutionaries all, with no hope of ever actually altering anything. Our apathy is fed by computers and video games, and most of us go about our days in a technology and drug induced stupor. It’s kind of a tragedy, really, the waste of all these minds.
I sometimes wonder if the collapse of public support for the war is due to the fact that it has dragged on so long. If we had been able to get in and get out in sixty days, I have a feeling that people would generally speak well of the war, of our decisive and collected move. Showing them who’s boss, you know. Instead, the war drags on and people become disinterested by and numbed to it. I suspect that most people don’t support the war because it has taken too damn long, not because people are dying or because perhaps we shouldn’t be there.
I think America wants its wars like it wants its food: instant, fast, can be eaten in front of the television. We’re so used to Rice-A-Roni that we’ve forgotten what home made risotto tastes like. War in a box. What kind of instant, modular world have we built for ourselves?
Today was the sort of day when it seems advisable to cling close to home, with the City overwhelmed by Black Friday sales. Having worked in retail on Black Friday, I try to stay clear of our monuments of capitalism to avoid trampling and stress, although I’m sure it’s amusing. The Chronicle had a feature on people who arrive early to shop, clustering around doors in the wee hours of the morning to be the first into such and such a store. I’m so glad I don’t work in retail anymore. Good god.
We woke up around noon and had some leftovers before wandering around on the Island for awhile. We explored the pool, which has some amazing graffiti right now, and then ambled out along the sea wall. We ran into a few people on our travels and smiled and nodded while the warm sun blazed overhead and a refreshing breeze nipped at our ankles. It was a beautiful day.
We hooked up with the Cap’ns and began a feast of leftovers, which continues even as I write. Various foods are scattered about the kitchen counters, cats are fat on stolen foods, and Harry Potter plays on the television screen. It’s a good day for doing nothing at all, not reading the papers or answering the phone or caring about anything except whether or not I can fit another mouthful of mashed potatoes down my throat.
Survey says yes.
Dinner appears to have been successful.
On the table at 5:00 PM:
Through the door at 5:02 PM:
The Cap’ns, bearing a roasted turkey on a sheet of marble, with gravy in tow.
The leftovers are stowed, the dish washer is humming, we’re watching Serenity, and nursing glasses of wine. Pie and apple dumplings lurk on the table, challenging us. A good Thanksgiving, all in all. It may not have been vegan, organic, or locavore but it was a delicious meal with wonderful company.
It makes me miss some of my friends back home, or even friends in the area who were off doing other things today. I hope more of them can make it next year…and that I get some more plates before then.
Happy Thanksgiving, gentle readers…tomorrow we resume our regularly scheduled offensive topics, mockery, and …leftover report.
Fried stuffing, anyone?
Two grown men wrestle with a turkey while dough is kneaded for another batch of bread.
Pie fights for room in the oven next to roasting garlic.
Pots of water are ready for deployment while yams rest in the sink.
The wide insert for the ricer is missing and kitchen implements are strewn across the counter.
What possible good can come of this?
Stay tuned for details.
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