Scootergrrl, dated barristers, and winter tales

Scootergrrl wrote to me just the other day to say she had picked up a copy of one of my favorite books, A Winter’s Tale, by Mark Helprin. She will be blessed by its scrumptious goodness. For whatever reason, graced by gods that are bloggily random, I was reading Frank Poynter’s delightful interview with Denise Howell on my walk home, tonight, even though it was published almost four years ago. In it, quite by surprise, Denise dropped this rather lovely reference to Winter’s Tale: “…there are two kinds of books in the house. Vertical ones (on shelves, read) and horizontal ones (on every spare bit of table space, unread). The horizontals are winning... With all the wintry imagery on people's blogs this June day (Shelley by the Bay; Doc bound for Vancouver; RB questing like a salmon for certain peaks, valleys and streams), I should mention one of the verticals, several times over, is Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale: "There was a white horse, on a quiet winter morning when snow covered the streets gently and was not deep, and the sky was swept with vibrant stars, except in the east, where dawn was beginning in a light blue flood." Hmmm, gonna have to lay that one flat again for sure.” She also offers a list that warms me, given my sister lives outside San Francisco and Hot Mama lives way down south by the border of Mexico: The single biggest difference between the two halves of the Golden State is the flood of animosity pouring south, and the absence of it headed north. Just A Few Of The Several Reasons Living In San Francisco, California Totally Kicks Ass An acute case of self-importance actually comes in quite handy. There is at least one trendy restaurant within .2 miles of any point in this city, and each and every employee behind the reception desk is good-looking enough to bone, but does not prefer your gender. Homeless people on Market smell like Dungeness crab - well aged Dungeness crab. Newscasters are required to have no tits. No one cares what time you show up for work, what you wear to work, or if you call your boss "Rover." You get to walk everywhere. Access to the largest collection of linalool-sensitive noses on the planet (see The Aroma Wheel). Summers consist of restaurant heat lamp residue, with the occasional shower of bike messenger sweat. The neighbor across the hall who calls himself a "serious incentivzer of viral metrics" is going to be unemployed much, much longer than you. Charlie Manson lives here. And a bonus reason: 11. Foreigner 4 tracks always playing somewhere on the radio. That last reason is my favorite, hands-down. Reason enough to move there. [recessional: Juke Box Hero] ..