On timing, letterpress, and the theory of everything

A few nights ago I wanted to give my husband and his visiting friend some privacy, so I took myself to a late night movie. I used to do this more often, but now that I have a toddler, going to the movies is kind of a rare treat. That said, I wasn't particularly excited about the film and, once there, I found myself completely alone in the theatre. Which kind of creeped me out (think: old theatre, smallish screen, red velvet curtains on every wall). But once I chose a seat, the screen immediately lit up with this:



Then they got right to the previews. So I had this weird reaction of simultaneously feeling impressed that the video found an appreciative audience (of one), mixed with some cosmic mumbo-jumbo about feeling like I was clearly in the right place at the right time, mixed with some paranoia about targeted advertising (which, of course, this wasn't). That I was there to see the Stephen Hawking biography, The Theory of Everything, also felt relevant to this whole experience somehow.

All of this to say, Local Local's short video on Green Girl Press is lovely and worth a watch.

Ocean Beach & Cliff House in 1930

There's this great blog I follow that's all about my neighborhood, and they recently posted this fun video of scenes from Ocean Beach and the Cliff House, back in 1930. Since I'm a fan of local ephemera, I thought I'd repost it here.


This might resonate a little extra for me because I used to live a stone's throw from Ocean Beach and the Cliff House, and also because my grandpa grew up in the Sunset and he or other relatives sometimes talked about the Playland at the Beach. I feel grateful to have experienced a little bit of history crossing generations, as when I lived in the Outer Richmond, the Musee Mechanique was still housed below the Cliff House. I often took long walks along the Great Highway that ended at the arcade, where I'd spend my spare change on Laughing Sal and the nickel and dime machines.

CBS News: Handwritten Thank You Notes

Stationary is becoming a luxury instead of a staple. The advent of email, ecards and the like make it easier than ever to say thank you or happy birthday or "I've arrived safely" and so on, which is a good thing. Not to mention, greener.

So I'm not here to advocate or change anyone's mind about using paper stationary, but for what it's worth, here's a recent CBS News segment on sending handwritten thank you notes:


(As seen via @stationaryshow on Twitter; may not display properly on Firefox browsers)

Personally, I grew up writing and sending thank you notes for every holiday, gift, etc. and when I was a tween, I had something like 7 pen-pals, including one as far away as Russia, which was then still part of the Soviet Union. Besides my stock of Hello Kitty papers, I also had my great-grandmother's stationary, which was always tissue-thin, perfumed, scallop-edged, in pale pastels. There was some yellow stationary I remember well, printed with butterflies. It was lovely and I used it all.

Jane Austen once wrote to her sister:

I have now attained the true art of letter-writing, which we are always told, is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth...

My own opinion is that a hand-written thank you note is a nice gesture, but only if it's not completely generic. You can always recycle the paper afterward. Otherwise, maybe a simple thank you in some other form would be best, though I've recently heard that saying thank you publicly and online - on Facebook or Twitter - is not good etiquette because it lets your inner circle know what they've missed or were excluded from. That, too, can be argued in more than one way. It's tricky business, being modern.

San Francisco Ephemera

My husband sent me this great film clip (set to music, Air's "La Femme D'Argent") of old footage taken from a streetcar going down Market Street in 1905. That's right, 1905 - before the big earthquake.



I love the slow hustle and bustle, the way everyone seems to be going in every direction. It makes me feel rather small, the way we replace each other but the street remains.