Kaman Iwana Lei Ya...

Last night at The Tropicale...

The best cure for a cold, ever...

I was only going to be in San Francisco for four days, three nights. So I couldn't bear the thought of any more time wasted on being ill. I'd been taking the vitamins, drinking the tea, sipping the soup, even getting some rest (kinda). But I knew it was gonna take something just a little more drastic to finally kick the cobwebs outta my immune system, and fire up the recover just a bit quicker.

Naturally, I called my mom. She suggested a shot of tequila with Tabasco. So off to Sasha's bar I went.

She fixed me up real nice. And though I started sweating, I felt the need for one last shove into recovery. Sash suggested the hot tub at her dad's.

"It has jets," she said. And so I bid my hasty adieu and booked it straight up to her dad's (oh, by the way, he's on vacation) and fired up the tub with some Epsom salt.

I can't begin to tell you how magical this suggestion actually was. There's just something about being enveloped in a bath of warm water, something about the relaxing effect of the Epsom salt on muscles, the way the bubbles tingle the skin...

Okay, yeah... it was the jets. I am here to tell you that the hands-down, all-time, best cure for a cold, my friends, is a self-induced orgasm aided and abetted by the full-power water-vibrator known simply as the jacuzzi jet.

Hallelujah.

And everything was smooth-sailing for the rest of the weekend: clearing out and cleaning my old apartment with help from my pal Jeff, a romantic and sober overnighter with Thespian, a brief but lovely quality bar hangout time at Molotov in Lower Haight with Sasha, and the subsequent sad, but temporarily satiated, flight back to Palm Springs, where I would be giving news that I would not be staying but would, in fact, be giving up my fulltime, permanent position as a corporate newsroom features reporter, in lieu of returning to the city I love, the city of many afternoon delights. And so many more to, uh, come.

Moving on up...

The view from Sasha's dad's house in the Oakland Hills... yeah, that's San Francisco and the Bay Bridge over there...

TCB, baby...

I was so stressed out over the prospect of what I'd have to do in SF that I couldn't sleep, and I just kept feeling worse. And, of course, being sick wasn't gonna make anything easier. When I landed at SFO, the pain in my ears from all the congestion pressure was almost too much to bear. I saw the skyline of the city through a throbbing drum behind my watering eyes, and it wasn't the beat I wanted to dance to.

Regardless, I couldn't help but smile through the sniffles, riding BART downtown just in time to run up to the street and spit a thick wad of snot into the gutter outside of the Civic Center station.

It was a little after 8 a.m. by the time I climbed into bed at Sasha's house, and half-brain slept for about an hour before the mystery subletters started calling, wondering when I was gonna stop by. I rustled poor ol' late-night-working Sasha up and convinced her to drive the getaway car, Montclair, to my tragic flat in the Inner Sunset just to get the damn "meet and greet" out of the way and find out what the action plan was for these people--and me--to get all our shit out.

I was nervous to meet them. First, I didn't know what the Model might've said to defray any blame on himself, what he must've tried to pin on me, as he said in not-so-many words that it was all basically my fault for leaving it in his hands (although he insisted that was the only way he'd work). But more so, I was pissed that these three, and not TWO, fuckers were largely responsible for me losing my apartment ultimately, and that I'd had to take time off work to come up, with a fucking cold, and move my shit out, blah blah blah.

But when they opened the door--MY door--we all seemed to drop disappointments and judgments in a matter of seconds, and just got down to the task at hand. They were just "dudes," as Sasha noted--young, but seemingly good guys, which made it not as awful as it could've been. We came up with an agreeable plan for moving and cleaning, I (well, mostly burly Sasha) grabbed some boxes of my crap, and proceeded on over the Bay Bridge to Sasha's dad's deluxe bachelor mansion in Oakland Hills.

When Sasha went to work, I crashed out for a couple more hours, trying with all my might to regain any energy I could, so that I could dine with the Thespian later that night. Admittedly, I was a bit of a zombie girl but simply couldn't miss out on what would surely be an entertaining evening. Oh, and it was. Thespian took me to a swanky bistro in downtown Oakland called Levende East, which was all softly lit, low-hanging chandeliers, impressive oversized art, brick walls and dark wood tables, and a lovely mixed crowd of the young, urban and pretentious.

My head was getting fuzzier by the moment but I do recall something like scrumptious gorgonzola-stuffed figs (or was it roquefort-stuffed dates, hmm...) and Thespian downing tequila gimlets followed by a Schramsberg Rose he found appealing and then a pinot noir of some sort and I'm not sure but there might've been another tequila gimlet in there somewhere but this was not a good idea because I think Thespian possibly forgot that HE DOESN'T DRINK. And our polite dinner conversation turned into a comedic-for-me but apparently dramatic monologue about the plight of medical marijuana and the political downfall of law and the scandal of mainstream media and it was finally determined in all of this, at least according to Thespian, that "SOMEONE MUST DIE!!!"

And I don't think he meant it really, but diners had stopped dining, and had taken to leaning in closer to pick up any subtle nuances they might be missing out on, and although I was enjoying the intellectual spark, I understood that Thespian's tone and volume were perhaps distracting but it annoyed me to no end that nearby tables couldn't engage in their own interesting distractions. Still, I collected my dear dinner date and deposited him safe and soundly to his pad before I ambled back to Sasha's dad's, where I proceeded to crash out for the next day and a half.

Life is a cabaret, old chum...

So I was stressed out at work in Palm Springs, and I was stressed out about having to deal with the Sublet O' Hell in SF, and living at the parents' house had taken another disturbing turn.

They had sex. Loudly.

It's funny, you know, how you can wear ear plugs or headphones and still somehow you simply can't block out the sounds of carnal activity. It must be a primal thing. In any case, it was MY PARENTS. And it was Gee-ROSS.

The next morning I woke up with a monster head cold. Go figure. But I wasn't gonna let it stop me from attending the cabaret, darling. It was going to be at my new favorite hotel, The Viceroy, and it was the one thing I'd been looking forward to since I'd met the producers of Upright Cabaret the month before, and wrote a Desert Post Weekly cover story about it, which I'd love to link here but apparently you have to purchase the archived article. Whatever. Here's the abbreviated online version.

Um, so yeah... MAJOR crush on the producer dudes--they are FABULOUS! So charming, so handsome, so much style and class. Of course they're gay, my friends.

But you know who wasn't gay? The Viceroy's general manager, and object of yet another of my most famous major crushes. The man was the ultimate charmer, also handsome, so freakin' funny, with that awesome Australian accent, a sparkle in his blue eyes AND the man is a CHEF!! You know how I love the foodies. But yeah... he's married. Also, of course. Such is life in Palm fucking Springs.

So I took some crazy naturopathic meds that didn't do shit and bundled myself up in order to survive the frigid winter cold temps of the lo-desert--the cabaret was gonna be set up outdoors, poolside.

And the ambience was incredible. The guys did an awesome job of setting up a cozy, glamorous stage and intimate tables with individual outdoor heaters. They had reserved a table for me all to myself that was ideally situated up front and just off to the side. Then they started me off with this amazing spread of cheeses and roasted veggies and hummus and olives and... I did feel a little weird sitting at this VIP table all by myself, eating from this huge plate o' goods. But then Mr. Wonderful, the GM, came and sat with me, feeding and serving me like a queen from the next several plates of deliciousness, regaling me with tales of his fantastic fabulousness and just generally damn near charming the thermal underwear right off me.

His wife must be very nice.

But anyway, the show was great. There were five performers, most of whom had extensive Broadway backgrounds, and they were all very, very, skin-tingling good. There were some holiday songs, there was some wholesomely naughty banter, there was some crazy ridiculous raw talent. So I was really glad I went.

The next morning at 6 a.m. I hopped on a plane for San Francisco.

Getting back to what I've been doing the past couple weeks...

First thing Monday morning (and coincidentally, the day after my weird QOTSA-spawned turning point), I get a letter from the lawyer of my San Francisco apartment's landlord. You see, I'd been subletting my flat to a friend (whom I've never actually met) of a friend from Maui for the past couple months while I determined whether or not I'd be staying in Palm Springs, only it turned out that my subletee--a male model from New York, no less--had his model pay liened by the government for unpaid taxes and therefore, couldn't pay his rent. Finding himself in a bind and not wanting to stress me out, the Model decided to rent out my apartment to THREE other people (he actually said it was two people, and didn't tell me until after the fact anyway), and then those three people decided to have a party and the neighbors called the landlord to complain and the landlord (who's Chinese, and doesn't speak a whole lot of English) showed up and the people there had no idea who I was. So, not wanting any "funny business," the landlord KICKED ME (and my "guests") OUT.

This, of course, was more than a little disturbing on so many levels but I promptly bought a ticket to SF and requested a couple days off from The Desert Sun in order to deal with the situation.

That whole week was a mess--at work, I was feeling frustrated by nonstop last-minute assignments that weren't exciting or interesting to me, and were piling up to astonishingly undoable proportions. And the Editor (the one who hired me and who I do like a great deal) was insistent that we "have a talk" and I got the impression that it was time to come to a decision about my stay there.

He had already done the career equivalent of the boyfriend who asks the girlfriend, "If I was going to ask you to marry me, would you?" Meaning, he'd already asked me a couple weeks prior that, if he was going to offer me the fulltime permanent position at the paper at this point, would I be interested? Then, I'd said it was too soon to tell and could I please have a couple weeks to think about it.

So here it was, a couple weeks later, and I would be going to SF to clear out my apartment. Some would take that as a pretty clear sign that the desert was where I should be. But clearly, that was not where my heart--or head--was at.

The Ghost of Christmas Past...

So yeah... the Queens of the Stone Age concert...

Man, what a fucking trip.

It was Dec. 9--on a fucking SUNDAY, OKAY??--and at the McCallum Theatre in Palm Desert. This tripped me out for a few reasons. First of all, when I was growing up in the desert, the McCallum was the beautiful, old but lovingly restored theater where acts like Wayne Newton and the Nutcracker would come perform every year. For you Maui folks, it's akin to the Castle Theater--only a bit more aged, I would say. At the Castle, we mostly had acts that our aging hippie parents would enjoy. At the McCallum, it was our aging hippie parents' conservative parents who'd don their mink stoles and venture out for the night.

Okay, so also when I was a young, nubile Palm Springs scenester in the late '80s/early '90s, the progenitor of QOTSA was a band called Kyuss who, along with the dudes from Fatso Jetson and Eagles of Death Metal (who opened for QOTSA's Dec. 9 show) and a multitude of other "stoner" or "desert"-hard rock bands, would perform nearly every weekend in the middle of the desert (when there was A LOT more desert to spread out in, of course) at an old abandoned nudist colony, powered by generators. And they played there because a lot of the musicians or their girlfriends and most of their friends were underage and had no venue, other than a weak all-ages dance club that was in existence for about 30 seconds. But also, there was no way any adult club or venue in the desert was gonna let a bunch of long-haired, leather-wearing, amp-blowing kids into their joint, much less on their stages.

And the other thing? Kyuss was not necessarily the best band of the bunch. I do distinctly remember making fun of them, in fact, because they took themselves SO seriously. Naturally, the joke ended up being on us eventually anyway, as that kind of rockstar-earnestness paid back the Sons of Kyuss--and ultimately, QOTSA--a cool few million-fold in record sales and recognition. And oh, I am definitely a fan--and it's not for sentimental reasons, they are just really fucking good.

Okay. So now, here it is, nearly 20 years later... and the QOTSA (formerly wayward, hack-rock, generator-party playing Kyuss) is headlining a rock (and not just ROCK, but HEAVY, HARD, DEVILISHLY DELICIOUS rock) show at our grandmothers' venue, the McCallum Theatre. Yes, I know, I know--this should be a GOOD thing, right? Finally, the hometown validation, yeah? The Man, at long last, has succombed to what we've been trying to express all these many, angst-filled, desert-voided years, and our colleagues have made it bigtime. Fan-fucking-tastic, right??

This is where I am attacked by strange feelings of guilt and depression. Because when I show up for the concert, I see old people. Lots and lots of old people. Only, the thing is, they're my age.

And they're excited because most of them haven't gone out in nearly 20 years, and have kids now about the age they were when they were going to shows, and they've brought earplugs, and have maybe a little less hair but a few extra pounds, which sneaks out of the waistline of their jeans and dusty old leather jackets they uncovered at the bottom of their storage closets, next to their kids' dilapidated XBoxes and soccer uniforms.

Me? I was drunk, you see, because I knew subconsciously that this was gonna happen. So I downed a few whiskeys at the dive bar around the corner, and I slapped on some lipstick and zipped up my boots and slipped wide-eyed and tentatively into the Theatre. I immediately spotted a couple girls I went to high school with, and said hello as they looked me up and down and scurried away. I also turned and found myself face-to-face with an old boyfriend. Okay, I'll be honest--he was not so much a "boyfriend" as he was somebody I slept with on occasion, because he was a few years older and to me, more experienced and worldly. And it was strange because, in my mind, he was this larger-than-life character, somebody I'd always felt intimidated by because he was older and (I thought) infinitely cooler than dorky ol' me. And yet when I saw him again, 20 years later, when I was staring him straight in the bespectacled eye, he seemed rather small. And old.

And I think I might've said something to that effect to him. Awful, eh? He flinched.

"Well, you've aged well," he said, and slipped me his card. "Call me!"

Now I was feeling dizzy and sick so I decided to find my seat, which was box-side so I had a great view of the stage and the rest of the audience. Fatso Jetson, headed by the Lalli Brothers, were awesome, but I was dumbfounded by the experience of seeing them up on this particular stage and looking out at the crowd, all of whom were SITTING, mostly because they had to (again, think CASTLE THEATER) but also because they were OLD.

I was momentarily brought out of my addled reverie by the Eagles of Death Metal, fronted by Jesse Huges, who I don't really remember from back in the day but who I know was a part of the scene along with everybody else. And he RAWKED the stage; it was a really fun show. I actually got the sense that it was just as much of a trip for him to be there as it was for us to see him up there. And that was oddly comforting.

But then Josh Homme and QOTSA were on, and I was back to being disoriented and disturbed. He also put on a great show; the band was tight, the riffs were appropriately intense and wailing, his voice was on point--at once melodic, mournful, playful, sinister and full of swagger. It was just kinda weird. I mean, there was some disconnect there, like something missing. I think it sounds a bit contrite or cliche to say this but, it felt soul-less somehow.

When it was all over, I ran back to the dive bar for another whiskey cleanse but ran into someone else who I used to have a huge, big, gigantic crush on, who was also someone I let intimidate me (how was I so unbelievably shy??) and who, now, looks just, I dunno, human. I took great pleasure in saying hi to him, because it didn't matter anymore, and I would no longer agonize over him with my girlfriends or beat myself up at what I did or didn't say, and you know what? I think it was disappointing for him, too, to not see the fear and adulation in my eyes.

UGh. Weirdness.

Anyway... that was probably the most depressing--and yet, fun, too--night I've had by myself in the desert since I've been back, but also I think a turning point in how I feel about being here. If I could pull it off, in order to continue fulltime employment as a journalist at the Gannett daily newspaper. Sure, it could be good for my career, but I think after this night, and all the rest, I'm thinking it's time to head back to the city, where I left my heart, and where I could replenish my battered, old, dried-up desert spirit.

The surreality of it all...

And then the next weekend was the Queens of the Stone Age concert at the McCallum Theatre, along with Eagles of Death Metal and Fatso Jetson.

But I'll have to get more into this tomorrow... it's late and I'm tired...

Palm Springs is a nice place to visit...

Oh, this is from the Walk of the Inns I did around this time, as well. This was one of my favorite inns, the Korakia Pensione--a Moroccan/Mediterranean-style villa where apparently Winston Churchill used to hole up in a room and paint, but is now the sometime backdrop for fashion shoots. These photos are of the poolside lounge area out back--it's kind of hard to tell, but there are three streams of water flowing from the wall, and a wraparound couch around a sort of rootless campfire. It's really freaking awesome, actually...

Holy Cornhusk!

I went to the world's largest tamale festival in Indio--I believe it was the first weekend in December. The event was enormous, spanning several blocks. There were hundreds of different kinds of tamales, from the traditional to the ridiculously gourmet and just plain odd. I think I ate about 12 tamales that day, including a guava and cheese, a grilled chicken and mango with ginger and habanero BBQ sauce, and a turkey with sweet potato and cranberry. But my favorite, of course, was the Belgian chocolate with fresh raspberries and carmelized walnuts--tamale.

Oh, and also, there was a trained monkey.

Ooohh, somebody needs a spanking...

And I do mean literally, not figuratively. Of course, you would like that, wouldn't you? I know I would. Aw hey, wait--I'm totally getting off track here. Sorry, it must be all the AquaNet and Chanel No. 5 in the air...

I think I'm just trying to apologize for the nearly two week lapse in blogsville. Fortunately, I've come equipped with photos for ya, as I do a quick recap.

Here we go...

The Hollywood Revue of 1929...

I'd had a hard day.

So it was absolutely necessary to check in with my girl, Krista, on Oahu, who midway through our conversation, had to put me on hold for another call--during which, I got my period.

It was time for some whiskey.

After checking in with the parents (yes, I am actually doing this), I mumbled something about having to do some errands and then (well, I did return something at Macy's) headed straight to the Red Barn in Palm Desert.

The Red Barn, as you can imagine, is a bit of a dive bar here in the desert. There are only a couple dive bars I have found, really, but this one seems to be the most varied. Apparently, they host live music on the weekends, which range from surf rock to jazz and blues and odd-spontaneous jukeboxed Maroon 5 sing-a-longs. I'm still in flux about calling it mine...

But for tonight, it would do.

I've been getting into the habit of dressing like a city beat reporter on the prowl--all pencil skirts and high heels, silk shirts, crisp leather belts, an ever-ready reporter's notebook and a sardonic smile... the riding crop attached to my hip helps, too--kidding, but it's in my eyes...

Anyway, I might've stirred up some cobwebs when I walked into the joint, which was packed with the usual diverse and unclassifiable riff-raff. Quickly and casually surveying the place, I copped a seat on the corner, between a quiet-looking dude in glasses and an empty stool. Two seconds after I got my whiskey and coke, some other dude in glasses planted himself next to me and stared. I looked at my drink.

It took about 10 minutes of him staring and me ignoring him before he broke the silence.

"All my friends here said I liked ya so I thought I'd better come say hi," he said, in a thick Scottish accent. "My name's Jerry. That's my girlfriend over there, we live together. You know what you remind me of? You know how in Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton movies you always know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are? Yeah, you look like one of the girls in a Buster Keaton movie."

And so it was.

The quiet dude on my left began talking to me after Jerry inadvertently broke a glass on his arm. It turned out that the quiet dude was a prominent artist in the area, and we got into a lengthy discussion about the balance of art and commerce--which, coincidentally, had been weighing on my mind quite heavily in the past few days.

"I imagine your journalistic writing is a lot like my commissioned art," he said. "And that you struggle to keep your voice in it, while applying your skill to the task at hand."

I sighed, and asked for my second whiskey and coke. Please, and thank you.

As Dave and I continued with artistic discussion, Jerry took it upon himself to attempt matchmaking--this time, instead of himself, he encouraged the poor bloke down the bar to tempt his fate with the likes of me. The new guy was about 20 years younger than Jerry and Dave, and probably pretty good-looking for a bartender from Ocean Beach, but way too awkward and uncertain of himself to hold my gaze, and consequently, my interest, for too long. Plus, that wasn't what I was there for. That night, anyway.

I could feel the tides turning and felt that it was time to make my hasty exit so I bid adieu to my new friends and left.

When I got home, the parents were reading in the living room and invited me to have a glass of wine. I was grateful for their literary distractions, as it gave me quiet time to reflect upon the evening, and the day's challenges.

Before I went into work that morning, I knew it would be a demanding day. I had at least six stories due before I would leave at 5 p.m., and a couple more I knew I could postpone until Monday, although that would make the start of my week as tough as the end of this one. Still, it was all about survival. And the fucked-up thing was, it wasn't Pulitzer Prize winning shit I'd be turning in.

Among which was the post-event, narrative piece on the "Walk of the Inns" tour I took the night before, where the historical boutique inns of downtown Palm Springs had an open house--which was actually very cool, architecturally, interior decoratedly and just a sweet nighttime block party. And then there was the piece previewing the book-signing of a Hollywood costume designer--actually the very cool wife of director John Landis, who among other things, designed Indiana Jones' sexy hat and archeo-garb for Raiders of the Lost Ark. And lastly, with about an hour deadline, I was to cover the Palm Springs Walk of Stars "Starfair" at the Convention Center, where old-time celebrities would be on hand to sign autographs on photo stills for movies you'd never be able to recognize them from anymore.

But actually, there were some greats... and even the lesser known stars I recognized as part of my burgeoning cultural awareness of film, television and stage culture.

I saw Lou Ferrigno from the Incredible Hulk. That giant guy with the creepy silver teeth in the James Bond films, Doc from the Love Boat... and there were really so many stars that I saw and knew from the screen but... it was a bit disconcerting to walk past as they sat there at their little booth donning photos and DVDs and books, watching me walk past and smiling blankly, I just couldn't seem to say anything at all to any of them.

And that included the celebrities I eventually interviewed. I saw and was excited to say hi to Della Reese, to tell her that I'd recently seen Harlem Nights (1989) again and was blown away by her sass and comedic bravado. It was genius! I loved her! But all I could get out was, "Hi. I work for the local daily newspaper, The Desert Sun..."

To which she said, "Well, I won't hold it against you--we all gotta work at something, I guess."

And then I moved on to Robert Culp. Robert Culp! I used to watch reruns of I, Spy (1965-68) and hi, Bob & Ted & Carol & Alice (1969)? Genius! But then what did I actually say to him?

"So how is this first day of Starfair going for you?"

"Well, it's always better with tomorrows," he said. "Today? Never mind."

Awesome.

I even got up the nerve to say what's up to Ms. Jane "rocket bra" Russell. Jane Russell! Although she was flanked on both sides by her assistants who clearly weren't going to let her speak unsupervised.

But still, who I really wanted to see, who I really wanted to give appreciation to was Olivia Hussey. She wasn't yet there, but was scheduled to be. And I can only hope that if she was there, that I would've finally pulled myself together enough to say to her, "Ms. Hussey, I just want you to know that... when I was much younger--and more beautiful, ironically--I felt so awkward. But one day, one of my mom's friends told me I looked 'like Olivia Hussey in Romeo and Juliet. (1968)' And I just thought you were so beautiful in that film, and so full of life, that if I even reminded someone of your immense fire, I might be special, too."

Thankfully, she wasn't there for that blargh.

But the point is, perhaps all that I perceived as hell initially... well, it wasn't, really...

[IT WAS THEN--BACK AT HOME, AS I WAS SILENTLY PONTIFICATING--THAT MY MOTHER ERUPTED WITH A MEDIUM-TO-LOUD-RANGE FART.]

From the kitchen, I could hear my mom and step-dad stifling a collective giggle.

I paused.

"Hey mom," I said. "How do you spell the sound of a fart?"

"What?" she asked.

My step-dad simulated the noise, then thought hard.

"With a 'B' followed by a bunch of 'R's,'" he said, with all seriousness. "And maybe a 'Ph' somewhere in there. Or maybe start with a 'Ph' followed by the 'R's' and a 'B.'"

"This is some serious intellectual conversation we're having here," said Mom.

"Hey, I've always wanted to know this," I said. "It's important stuff."

Naked and Famous... For Real

We, uh... spent a lot of time in bed that weekend, making bets on the thread count and reading the daily delivered LA Times. We'd split sections up wordlessly and share them, occasionally calling out something we'd read or wondered if the other knew anything about. I perused a great article about misogynist literary great Norman Mailer, who'd recently passed away, and Thespian asked if I'd read any of his books. I said no, but now I really wanted to check out his nonfiction, since I'd just learned that it was he who transformed journalism by incorporating elements of novel-writing and utilizing the voice of his larger-than-life persona. He founded the alternative press and, in fact, helped establish the Village Voice.

Anyway, this somehow led to a discussion of Arthur Miller. Thespian, when he taught drama to freshman college kids, was shocked to learn that they'd never read any of Miller's plays in high school. We shared our grief for the new generation... in bed.

Thespian is an Italian-American with dual citizenship, as he was born in India, while his father was on some sort of diplomat status, designing their train stations. He mostly grew up on the East Coast, and has that raspy crazy D.C. accent I so adore in men. He lived in L.A. for a while, doing bit parts on TV shows--usually playing the bad guy they suspect "did it" but really didn't--and graduated with honors from the American Conservatory Theater in SF, mainly by doing a lot of bit parts--"Rodrigo, your sword!"--in Shakespearean plays.

I found out a lot about Thespian that weekend, as we plodded around the boutique inn in our bathrobes, luxuriated at the spa with couples massages, melted into the jacuzzi late night under the stars, and sipped fancy cocktails, poolside, during the day. That was when we'd peer out at the beautiful people surrounding the pool, as they peered back out at us over their Chanel and Vuitton shades, and we'd guess who was a Hollywood heavy hitter, who was an aging rockstar, who'd had work done, and most importantly, who was driving the Bentley parked out front.

"But do you think anyone else here makes their money selling pot?" he asked, with a sheepish but proud grin.

I just giggled.

Oh yeah, Thespian also happens to help run a medical marijuana dispensary.

What?

Like royalty...

So last weekend... ahhh.

The Thespian came down, on a much-needed reprieve from his overworked and chilly life in Oakland. We'd really only been on about three dates in the Bay Area so I was initially nervous about spending the weekend with him. And there was no way in hell I was gonna subject him to the 'rents, despite their insistent inquisitions about my impending whereabouts. But I was happy--as I'm sure they were, too--to get out of the house and live like royalty for the last couple of warm, sun-soaked days of the season in Palm Springs.

Any anxieties I might've felt were instantly quelled as soon as he got into my car at the airport. He's tall and lanky, the Thespian, with spiky salt-and-pepper hair and--oh, you know I love this--black rimmed glasses. He also has impressive muttonchops and his eyes are bright, with brows that're kind of cocked in this frequently wild, surprised look that works well for him. But he's real laidback, completely easy to be with.

Yeah, he's sexy and cool. I'm totally hot for him.

It was my job to find the right place for our desert rendezvous, since I'm temporarily residing here. So I picked The Viceroy, located conveniently downtown in the vicinity of the restaurants in which we'd be dining (also my job to locate) and the casino in which he'd be playing blackjack, when the unfortunate happenstance of me going back to work would prevail on Monday.

When we checked in, he was already pleased. The Viceroy definitely has style--a glamorous, modern, quirky, sparse Euro-hip kind of style that apparently attracts all the big players of L.A. And their hot daughters. I could tell the front desk and lingering guests at the bar lounge were trying to ascertain just who Thespian and I must be...

Last weekend...

Oh, but what about last weekend, you ask??

Yeah, enough with the trivial details of my mundane everyday existence! (Or, at least, I'll get back to that tomorrow.) Bring on the noise! Bring on the funk!! Bring on the seedy exploits, baby!!!!

Okay... here comes the photographic evidence. Explanation to follow...

WHOAAAA... time flies!

Hi! How are you? I'm sorry I'm so shitty about keeping in touch. I've always sorta had this problem of losing track of time... anyway...

Tonight it was my turn to make dinner for the folks. So I spent some time at the big corporate newsroom--between making calls to the mall to find out what Santa's hours are, and arranging to interview the costume designer wife of a famous movie director--to find an appropriate recipe utilizing the meat my parents are insistent on thawing out.

And though you must read this with the sardonic tone of a raven-haired, bespectacled angsty goth teenager in a graying, dry contacts-wearing, bloated and angsty 30-something-year-old body, I am grateful for all of this, I swear.

But so I ended up making this fresh herb, roasted garlic and apple-bacon wrapped pork tenderloin with lemon glazed sweet potatoes. And it was pretty good. But honestly, I think my mom was a bit too drunk to really enjoy it, although she exclaimed shock and delight that her "little girl" knows how to do anything beyond boiling water. And then she blew her nose repeatedly and looked at it, like she always does after dinner. My stepdad does it, too. Only this time I couldn't hide my disgust.

"Does that offend you?" he asked. And I wondered if he was talking about the drunkenness, the weird snot ritual, or the disturbing practice they both had of letting their two rottweilers slowly and rather loudly lick my parents' feet and faces clean. And yes, in that order.

"Uh, no. I am grateful to be here," I said.

"Well, it's just remnants of our drug-filled past," he answered, clearly about the nose-blowing, though I promise I didn't ask. "Believe me, Sam, if we could take back all our cocaine years, we would."

And for some reason, I totally sympathized.

Naked and Famous

This is a photo of my painting I had to leave behind at my house in Pukalani (DC is taking care of it for me--that's his trophies and crap on top) when I moved back to the Mainland. I love this painting and was so sad that I couldn't figure out how to take it with me, but I just didn't trust myself to disassemble the frame and roll up the canvas, like somebody said I should. Anyway, I'll be back for it someday...

It was painted by the lovely Adrienne Martinez, who is now co-owner of Cafe Marc Aurel in Wailuku. And no, the girl is not me--it's Adrienne's sister. Back when Adrienne was doing the whole Wild Banana art gallery and Exotic Erotic party project in Wailuku, I saw this piece hanging up in the main exhibit room and just couldn't take my eyes off it. There's something profound in it for me that I've not ever been able to articulate... it's seductive and wistful somehow, but also a little dangerous--kind of manga-esque violent in its starkness and the tone of her hair and outline of her body, the sharp lines of her ass. Well, so, my boyfriend at the time, who was also an artist and big fan of Adrienne's, bought the painting for my birthday--he was a sweetheart. And it became one of my most prized possessions...

Spring Forward, Fall Back...

So last week was the return of the whole Daylight Saving Time change for me, after 10 years in Hawaii of not having to think about it one iota.

It's weird, you know, the whole time change-- at least, in the fall. Of course, in the spring, that extra hour of daylight has socio-economic and psychological benefits, like extra hours spent shopping after work, less crime and traffic fatalities, and as Winston Churchill once said, it increases "the opportunities for the pursuit of health and happiness among the millions of people who live in this country."

I, however, am more apt to agree with Robertson Davies, who referred to Daylight Saving Time as, "the bony, blue-fingered hand of Puritanism, eager to push people into bed earlier, and get them up earlier, to make them healthy, wealthy and wise in spite of themselves."

In general, I would wholly support the addition of another hour of darkness in the fall, for I am not much of a daylight person anyway. But this means that it gets dark here at around 5 o'clock, which is usually about the time I get off work. This is all fine and well, but my routine as of late (or the past two weeks here at my temporary full-time position living and working in Palm Springs), is to go home (my parents house) and sit around shootin' the shit for cocktail hour, then leisurely gather 'round the dinner table for supper.

But since last week, I have felt a disturbance in my biological clock. The early onset night is bringing out the wolverine in me. I would howl at the moon, if the parents wouldn't gripe at me about putting the dishes in the dishwasher before I go off for a fresh kill.

No, all the daylight saving time change does for me is make me want to have sex. Like, more than usual.

And it seems there is no sex to be had for a youngish heterosexual single chick living at her parents' house in gay old Palm Springs.

So... that sucks.

Perhaps I should explain those pics below...

Just in case you're at all interested, that dude pouring drinks in the first photo is David Nepove, the chief mixologist for Southern Wine and Spirits. He was heading a seminar on bourbon, and my old chef buddy Marc* (who I ran into at random, hadn't seen him seen he was working at the Ritz on Maui) were all over it.

*(Actually, I knew Marc way back in '89 when we both lived in the desert, although we went to different schools. Anyway, we sort of leapfrogged each other after that to San Francisco then Maui and now Palm Springs again, without prior knowledge or planning. Okay, so we might've hooked up, for like half a minute, when I lived in Santa Cruz. But now he is a desert-dwelling, home-owning, happily married high-end chef with a young pup on the way and I am very pleased for him. And he was intent on convincing me that such a happy existence would surely await me, once I found my niche in the desert, even though I patiently explained how living here was much like living on Maui in that it was far too comfortable and, frankly, a bit boring, and that I really wanted to get back to the city. He wouldn't hear it until about his fourth bourbon cocktail, a spiced apple cider with Bookers, that made him wistfully recall one foggy night in San Francisco, cozied up at Vesuvio and watching the rain make jagged lines down the window, before scampering over to City Lights or perhaps a nearby bistro for a double espresso and some live jazz...
"Oh, go back to San Francisco!" Marc mock-cried, hanging his head over his woebegone bourbon cocktail. "Just go back already.")

The second photo was of this snazzy booth featuring Roberto Cavalli vodka (oh, I know Miss Kimmy would like that one) and Frida Kahlo tequila. I was initially put off by the young, L.A. model-ubergods and goddesses pouring the spirits, but once I put my pettiness aside, the anejo tequila was surprisingly smooth. It really was some good shit.

Another nice surprise was the discovery of the Cosentino Winery (third photo). They showcased their Cabernet Franc (strong eucalyptus) and Meritage blends. My faves were the "Poet" (red) and the "Novelist" (white). Great names, eh? Seriously, it was the only vineyard represented that I went back to every day of the festival. I will surely be stocking up on this stuff, you know, to help with the writing.

Fourth photo? Um, yeah... that would be my new Porsche Boxster. Oh shit, or is it their Carrera Cabriolet? I was getting them confused with the Audi Roadster, another sexy car, but of course I was drinking mega amounts of wine. Well, whether it's $55K or $100K at that point what difference does it make, right? (Spoken like somebody who's real happy with her Scion at the moment!) Anyway, I'm not really a convertible kind of girl but for this car I would definitely give it a try.

The last photo's just of the sun setting over the mountains and tent tops. I am enjoying the desert sunsets...

Boozin' and Shmoozin' in the desert...

The past four days I've sorta been M.I.A., as I was buried in the trenches of shmooze at the 2nd annual Art of Food and Wine Festival Palm Desert. The Desert Sun deemed me as their sole reporter for the event, as so I set forth to uncover and uncork (haHA! oh yes, the puns overfloweth) the various elements--people, food, wine and the salacious shenanigans as a consequence of combining all three--of the event, which was really a lot like the Food and Wine Festival in Kapalua on Maui.

I was most looking forward to the opening night--a chocolate and champagne reception outside by the fountain at the grand McCallum Theater. But I was a little put off by the snobbery and mass that prohibited free flowin' and choco-munchin'; i.e. Get yer goddamn camera crew outta the way so I can sample some o' that dark chocolate-bacon-mint truffle!

Yeah, actually, that one was not so good. But the dark chocolate with Earl Grey Tea caramel was excellent, as was the pomegranante white chocolate with lavendar butterscotch that promptly exploded all over my amply displayed cleavage, perhaps partially explaining the scornful looks I was getting from all the blonde bedazzled boob-lifted muckety mucks. I ignored them as I devoured the ambrosial hot cacao drink made by this cool lady, Elaine Gonzalez, and stuffed discs of Mexican chocolate from Ixtapa into my purse.

Then this dude tried to get all in my game and somehow badgered me into sitting with him by the fountain and telling me his story, which was fine 'cause he was sorta attractive and seemed smart if not a bit egomaniacal and intense (I was reminded of a certain musician/actor I once dated, rather briefly, on Maui) but--and please forgive me if this seems sexist, 'cuz it totally is--I forgave him of his blatant obnoxiousness because I thought he was gay. And then, much to my surprise, he leaned in for the kiss, and I gave him my cheek, and he slitheringly asked for my number and mumbled something about really "liking" me because he's a Pisces and he just "knows" right away about these things.

Um, yeah no.

I Guess This Means I'll Be Writing More Blogs Now...

So today I sent a co-worker this Holoholo Girl column I wrote almost two years ago about a trip I took to Palm Springs. The co-worker, who is The Desert Sun's vivacious, young star features reporter, loved the column and said it made her want to read all of them. It made me feel really good, and a little wistful. But mostly it made me feel grateful to have had that opportunity at Maui Time to write something I was proud of, that some people related to, and that was true to me.

Especially in light of the material I'm covering now--Retirement Living TV, wealthy post-menopausal women who write travel memoirs or make chocolate, AYSO soccer coaches with polio, American Cancer Society's National Smokeout Day, why the Boomer Generation needs more hearing aids than ever--although I am very grateful to be working at all, and in journalism. Still, I am having a hard time figuring out how to keep my voice alive. You know, like it was waaay back in July, before I decided to come out here and find it all over again.

In fact, I think I'll send a quick thank you email to Tommy, Jen and AP right now...

(P.S. If you are looking for HG archives, you'll only find them here for now-- until MTW updates their new website, which might be awhile.)

P.S. I Love Gay

Here's pics from the Palm Springs Pride Parade today...

Not so much lesbian

I love women. And there are times when I am even attracted to them. Sometimes I find myself admiring a woman, noticing how the elegant curves of her neck and calves align, watching how she arches her eyebrows or talks with a smile when telling a story. And I wonder how she must make a man feel, and hope that there will be a man who will appreciate those curves, that smile. I think, if I were a man, it would be so easy...

But I am not a lesbian. Okay, yeah--I've been intimate with a couple girls in the past, and it was fun. But for me, it was just sex. I know that I'm not equipped to actually have a relationship, other than friendship, with a woman. It's my opinion that women are--how shall I say it? They're crazy. They do change when sex is involved. And I hate to say that, because I realize that it's a bit of a reflection on myself--that it should mean, in essence, that I am crazy and change my behavior when sex is brought into the equation. And I hate seeing myself as one of those "mostly straight" girls who strays when it's convenient. So that sucks. But regardless, I know that I am basically heterosexual... much to the disappointment of some friends, ex-boyfriends, Latinas and occasionally, my mom.

For lack of a better term, my mother is something of a fag hag. But no, I have to take that back, because I don't really feel comfortable calling my mom a "hag." Plus, she's been quite happily heterosexually married (and believe me, they're still active-- ew ew ew) for, like, 22 years. She's more of a friend to the homosexual community at large. A queen of queers. No, that's not quite right either. A homey to the homos. Ergh. How 'bout a Same-Sex Sally? Yeah... no. Uh... well, anyway, she's just a pro-gay gal.

So last night, we were at the bar at Shame on the Moon (a very classy, very gay joint with excellent food, a charming bartender who calls my mom his "best friend," and is my parents' sometime neighborhood tavern), and in walked these two mega-hot, totally done-up, young-ish women. And they were biologically female. They were also obviously a couple. My mom was enthralled--and in a bit of shock. You see, while Palm Springs is one big ole gay town, from what I've seen, it's mostly of the male variation, and older, more... um... subdued lesbians. You know, the kind that like big trucks and country western music. Like, the UPS lady. And the dog trainer.

But so my mom just couldn't get over the fact that the young, hot lesbian ladies were so feminine. "They're lipstick lesbians, Mom," I said. "Lipstick lesbians?" she asked, incredulously. "I've never heard of that."

Anyway, we're on our way to the Gay Pride Parade in downtown Palm Springs. I'll post pictures after.

Photo time!

Here's one of my mom, back in her junior year at Bakersfield High School. I love this photo, and it's also the last time anyone's seen her natural hair color. Well, blonde or no, you have to admit she's a pretty foxy lady...

What the World Needs Now...

You know what I really want to hear?

A cowpunk or honkytonk cover of the Scorpions' "Rock You Like a Hurricane."

Yeah...

Yes, it's all making so much sense now... except for the no sex part

Well, shortly after my first assignment/first day on the job as a general assignment reporter, I developed a wicked case of insomnia and a wretched, if-i-could-sleep-it would-keep-me-up-anyway-it's-so-bad, cough.

It might be the poor air quality due to all the smoke from the Governator's heroic speeches about dealing with the fires burning up everyone's ranchero-style homes in San Diego. Or it might be the drastic climate changes I keep putting my dear old body through, as I go from tropical to cold urban shoreline to dry hot dusty desert to air conditioned office. Who knows? Who cares?!

But strangely, after a couple nights of sweaty restlessness (by the way, there's no sex happening at the parents' house, folks--er, I mean, not any that I'm involved in... EW!) I started experiencing a kind of clarity of purpose.

It occurred to me that perhaps everything is actually going the way it's supposed to. Oh, certainly not according to my quick and easy plan:

1) I sacrifice EVERYTHING on Maui to move to San Francisco, where;
2) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime city newspaper/newsweekly/magazine/website, and;
3) I make tons of dough and lots of new friends and have tons of great sex and in a few years, New York beckons. Then, the world...

Apparently, I missed a few steps between 1) and 2). Like:

a) I freeze my ass off from day one and can never shake the cold unless I am wearing my old college hoody sweatshirt, full thermal bodysuit, two pairs of wool socks and my thick, ratty black terrycloth bathrobe, which is all the time, because;
b) I am unemployed for the better part of three months, despite sending out seemingly endless resumes and cover letters everyday to every publication I can find, and even an occasional university sleep research lab where they stick electrodes on you and watch you sleep. Yeah, I applied to do that... But I figured I had nothing better to do, because;
c) I can have no fun since my reserved funds are tapped out after the first month, my friends stop coming around because they're too busy working their asses off to survive in the big city themselves (and possibly because I am always wearing that fucking robe). But somehow (because I am a girl) I do manage to score a few spare nights of hot sex (because it helps in downtimes like these), although I am reminded that even hot sex with hot strangers (even if they are nice strangers who are not so strange) is not as hot as hot sex with someone you love, or even just like a whole lot--i.e. I am reminded that I am, yet again, single. And, when you're cold, broke and in thermal underwear, that means very, very A-L-O-N-E.
d) I run to mummy and daddy's house as a last resort.
e) I get hired as a small-time writer in a bigtime, small town newspaper, where I learn lots, mainly about my own flexibility and openness, before;

[CONTINUE TO #2...]

This pretty much sums up So Cal for me right here...
A quote from today's New York Times:

"There were Mercedes and Jaguars pulling out, people evacuating, and the migrants were still working."
- ENRIQUE MORONES, who helps immigrants in Southern California, discussing illegal immigrants left to fend for themselves in the wildfires

That, and this odd perpetual desire to get my car washed.

My First Day...

So I did pass my drug screening, in spite of my paranoid dreams and secondhand-ish date with the Thespian on Saturday night.

They asked me to come in at 2, in order to fill out the requisite Gannett paperwork and such, then the nice ladies in HR chatted amiably about Hawaii and my so-called reasons for moving away from there, and they snapped my photo, tacked it onto a badge, and shuffled my up to editorial--or, "The Information Center"--on the second floor.

I was told straight off that my immediate supervisor was no longer there. So the first editor greeted me and suggested I attend the Page One meeting, where a handful of other editors discussed what was worthy of attention for the next day, then they scattered across the newsroom and my initial editor left me with one of the senior writers to introduce me to the computer system which, we soon discovered, I could do nothing with until I had my official sign-in name and passcode assigned by IT.

So then IT came over, mumbled some weird tech-jargon and dashed off, when another editor came over and hospitably suggested we take a tour of the facilities.

And let me just tell you--the place is gargantuan! Each floor was a labyrinth of cubicles and departments, with glassed-in corner offices for the heads. Down in the basement, a factory of industrial workers moved in beat to the automated pressline, surrounded by surreal-sized spools of paper and vats of ink... I loved the smell of it at once.

There was also a cafe, two employee lounges and an exercise room. Then she dropped me back off at my "desk"--or just an empty cubicle--mentioned what my first assignment was going to be: The Art of Food & Wine Festival (Hurray! Right up my alley! But she also mentioned that we couldn't get started on it until the next day's press conference). Then she told me to scope around and get comfortable with the computer system. As soon as she left, the old-school dial-up phone on my desk rang loudly. I leaned over the cubicle in front of me and asked if I should answer it.

"Beats me," said anonymous writer dude. "I'm not usually here either."

After a while, I went searching for one of the editors for guidance, and was told to split--"Just be back by 9:30 tomorrow for the meeting."

So I left, lingering a bit outside the building to admire the sun setting over the San Jacinto mountains and the cream-toned colors of the desert floor. My mom insisted we meet at our favorite fancy (and gay, thank you) neighborhood bar and restaurant, Shame on the Moon.

While she showed off my badge to random passers-by, I tried to engage my gay-boyfriend crush of a bartender, Johnny, but was getting cock-blocked by the fabulous May-December couple to my right. We went home shortly thereafter, where I opened a mailed box of a beautifully archived book of all the Holoholo Girl columns I'd written at Maui Time Weekly.

I'll admit, I got a little choked up, scanning through the pages of debauchery and cheap thrills of life on Maui. Of course, doing this walk down memory lane over the din of spoiled Rottweilers play-fighting and spitting drool in every direction, my step-dad blurting out wine scores from the latest Wine Spectator and guffawing, my mother periodically shuffling off to crush more ice for her cocktail, all while I was thinking about the perplexing non-events of my new exciting career day... well, I hate to say it was a defining moment but...

"For every door that closes, another one opens," said Mom, suddenly.

Um, yeah...

Yes, I Live With My Parents...

Tonight my mom asked me where the phrase "cut the mustard" originated from. My stepdad poured me a glass of 2004 Bogle Phantom--a lovely old vine zin, petite syrah and mourvedre blend--while he roasted lamb, and I quickly searched online for my mom's request, telling her of my discoveries of the many theories of the phrase.

From this, she proceeded to launch into a story my grandmother used to tell her about making mustard as a girl, and how her grandfather suffered from the effects of mustard gas used in WWI.

"But you know, your step-father also has his own version of the phrase he likes to use," she said.

They both giggled. I paused, with due trepidation.

"Okay," I finally said. "What's the phrase?"

"I may be too old to cut the mustard," he said, grinning. "But I ain't too old to lick the jar."

Weird to see Magic Mountain at night, lit up by raging fires on the surrounding hillsides...

As I am often wont to do, I ate bad food (In 'N Out, though it could be worse) and listened to bad radio (all the hits of the '70s, '80s and '90s) and it was sooo good. I landed at the ole HSF's house in Riverside around midnight. The next morning, I found my way through the smoke and debris (seriously) to my folks' house in Rancho Mirage, then the pre-employment drug screening in Palm Desert.

It's so odd to be back in the desert. For real, this time.

The Long Road Home...

Begrudgingly, I packed up most of my stuff, said goodbye to the roommate and my cool little SF 'hood, and made the I-5 trek down to Southern California, despite breaking news reports of the world going up in flames.

I promise I will post pictures soon...

My Girl...

Knowing that I would be needing to leave SF in a few short days, I started making the calls to people I wanted to see before I left. And I hadn't seen my good pal Sash, surprisingly, in a few weeks.

I guess my timing couldn't be better. Sash was in the beginning throes of the many phases of Breakup affliction, brought on by that neurological disorder called Love. I was only too glad to impart my bitter wisdom and good spinsterly support.

We ended up going to the sophisticated and hip Mission District spot, Range, where her roommate, Justin, was bartending.

We copped prime real estate at the bar, and became the official judges in a bar-off. Or was a cock-fight? Anyway, we drank some good shit.

Range is known for imaginative cocktails, and Justin and Mike at the bar created liquefied masterpieces on the spot for us, with ingredients like freshly mottled chile water, elderflower, huckleberries and molasses... and yeah, gin, tequila, vodka, campari and wine, as well.

We feasted on the most melt-in-your-mouthingest hamachi, and chicory lettuce with barhi dates, hazelnuts and grated parmesan, mushroom-stuffed pasta with brown butter and toasted walnuts, brown rice and shiitake mushroom stuffed chard with sunchoke puree and roasted scallions, and an apple-pear tart with cardamom ice cream.

Oh, to be broke, young-ish and living like a rockstar...

Engorged and wholly Sash-iated, i went home and had some wicked crazy dreams. And, of course, a monster hangover the next day. Again.

Time for More...

As for this current career conundrum: The biggest thing, I think, is to just keep open to the experiences I've been offered and flow with whatever happens along the way... even if for the next couple months it means revisiting the desert of my youth, So Cal's strange plastic surgery-addled lifestyle and the syncopated rhythms of rich old white conservatives/working-class Hispanic democrats/and transient retired Canadians of the Coachella Valley, generally speaking.

Yeah, I've decided to take The Desert Sun key features reporter job in Palm Springs--albeit on a 6-8 week trial basis. In the meantime, I'm gonna sublet the pad in SF, and continue scoping out opportunities there.

It was an agonizing decision to make but I feel comfortable with my inconclusive conclusion. It's kind of my way.

So with that dirty deed done, and one day of recuperation under my belt, I was ready to party it up with my Energizer Bunny buddy, Elan, and his merry mates, Andrew and Beth, at Annie's Social Club, where a triple-header of Montana pop-punk bands would be performing.

We stopped and had beers at Zeitgeist along the way, so we missed the first band. And I was too busy flirting with Andrew to pay too much attention to the second band, but apparently Elan had taken it upon himself to announce to the third band, The Hermans (some kids he knew from his hometown, Missoula), that I was some bigtime local music journalist.

After I punched my dear friend in the gut, I thought perhaps the least I could do was show a little cleavage on the frontlines, and maybe even ask an interview-ish question or two at halftime. Petting Andrew and getting trashed would have to wait.

But as it turned out, The Hermans were really quite good, and they gave me a cool on-the-road journal that they were actually doing a book tour for. As a band, they were tight, and very energetic without being gimmicky. It was full-on rock, with integrity. And you could tell they were having fun, although the crowd was severely lacking, save for my bosoms, Beth's appreciative head-nodding and Elan's erratic jumping around.

All in all, it was a fun night.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, my roommate (also another rockstar drummer/unemployed/ex-deli worker) has decided to move back to Jersey.

!

Decisions, Decisions...

Hungover or not, I did still have a big decision to make:
Take the dream job but live in the desert (literally and figuratively) of my adolescence? Or stick it out in the city and hustle my wares on the street corner until somebody hires me as a real bonafide literary artiste?

I think they only do that if you're the phony gay son of a prostitute. Bummer.

But so I consulted with everyone and anyone I could, to try to gain some insight and come to some kind of conclusion that wouldn't leave me nauseous about the prospects.

Of course, the lingering taste of Jamesons didn't really help with that much.

So This Is What It's Like...

That night at the Amber with Jeff was immensely therapeutic and spiritually uplifting. We're old pals--and Jeff is a true San Franciscan rockstar/artist/deli worker--so we talked at length about our goals, dreams and desires (yes, they are different things). We debated with our good friend Bob--also a fellow SF rockstar (check out his band, Blood Panda) and deli worker--about the history of rock 'n roll and Nirvana's place in it, as we both interpret it, oh-so-differently. And really, we just got shit-faced drunk. A good time was had by all.

But the boys also introduced me to Shady, a cool and classy bartender chick who, in her spare time, takes to interviewing local and visiting musicians and posts the podcasts online, along with a team of fellow journalists at Piratepods.com.

She was a very cool chick, indeed. And she seemed receptive to me taking the load off of her--the constant pressure of needing to attend endless concerts and such is straining the wee lass, and she is in need of assistance.

Networking. Ain't it grand? Especially if you can do it over PBRs and whiskey shots. Now this is the kind of reporting I'm gonna like...

Oh, but yeah... had to take the next day off due to one hellacious hangover. Pooh.

Back in SF...

Once I got back to my city by the bay, I was back in love. Suddenly, it didn't seem nearly as cold as when I'd left just two weeks prior. And everything was beautiful again: the crowds, the pretense, the grime. It was awesome.

I met with the website people in Oakland, who were all very genuine and nice and excited to have me help them launch their site. The publisher also offered me double the pay he had previously, which still wasn't great but would at least allow me to pay my rent. But I would definitely need to get a second job... perhaps in leather fetish wear? Yeah...

Oh, and then I got a call from PS. The Desert Sun wanted to offer me a full-time position in their newsroom. I would write for their food and dining sections, arts and entertainment, and various other general assignments, as well as a blog and online video segments. And it paid more than twice that of the website gig. It was the kind of job I'd been hoping for on the mainland--I was just kind of hoping it was going to be in San Francisco.

I mean, yes, it was my goal to come over here to write--to get more exposure and experience... and pay. But it was also my goal to live in San Francisco--a city with resources and endless inspiration. Then again, it's a city that has proven to be much harder than I imagined to get started in. But now, with my newfound "faith," perhaps I simply need to give it more time? But does that mean I should pass up an opportunity just because it's not in SF?

I was stumped. I told the editor I needed to think about it.

And then I promptly met with my buddy Jeff and we talked it out, over PBRs and shots of Jamesons at the Amber...

The Desert Sun is a Gannett-run daily that also publishes a weekly and three glossy mags in the Coachella Valley alone. It's in an immense building with a bustling, impressive, real-life newsroom they like to call, "The Information Center."

The whole interview took about three hours and I met with no less than five editors. For the most part, they seemed to like me, except for one who made me exceptionally nervous. He was very deadpanned and serious, and asked me questions like, "How do you come up with stories?" and "What makes you a good writer?" and "I see you write a lot about food--can you write about anything else?" and I just blabbed about nothing and squirmed and giggled nervously and acted like a complete idiot. When I finally did get him to crack a smile, I didn't know if it was for good or evil.

Well, whatever. It was good experience anyway. And pretty darn good overall for reinvigorating my self-esteem.

I was ready to return to San Francisco.

What Happens When You Let Go

It's amazing, really. The very next day after I decided to adopt this new philosophy of letting the good shit just happen, it did.

A website start-up in Oakland offered me a contract to help them develop content for online shopping sites. It sounded like fun, but the pay would not even cover my rent. Still, it was something. Then a publishing company in SF wanted to meet with me--but it was to run their new retail bookstore in Union Square. Ugh, retail. But again, at least it was something, and in the book realm. I also got some interest from a leather fetish shop in the Castro. Yeah... now we're talking!

And then I saw an ad on one of the many journalism job sites I've been scoping on a daily basis, for a key features reporter--in Palm Springs. Hmm. Palm Springs. Where my parents live. The desert that has held so many memories for me, land of my high school and abandoned nudist colony parties. The place that I drove so speedily away from after junior college. And also the place, upon visiting as an adult, that is making me feel so cozy again when I need it most.

What the hell, I thought. I'll send in my resume, like I've done a million times before in SF. Except this time, they called me within a couple hours.

On Being My Own Worst Enemy

Okay, so I've been in a funk; I believe I've established this point repeatedly, and for that drivel I apologize.

But for the past two and a half months, I've been unemployed, save for a couple of temp jobs--working the information desk at the Dreamforce Expo, where George Lucas was the guest speaker and INXS performed to a riotous crowd of global techies and online marketers, and working the registration desk at the American Dental Association conference where, out of 45,000 dentists, hygienists, trophy wives and the hygienists who are the trophy wives of their dentists, the very first person I registered was a very nice dentist from Wailuku.

(Also, my supervisor was this chick from Kihei who's been in the Bay Area for something like 20 years, and says she still misses Maui and plans to go back eventually. She has a side business selling leis, and fell easily back into the aloha-pidgin once she discovered I had recently moved from Maui.)

The point is that my self-esteem has been knocked down quite a bit from the sending out of seemingly 100's of resumes and cover letters and getting absolutely no response. I've had to borrow lots of money from family and friends just to survive and have therefore not allowed myself to enjoy any extracurricular activities. My apartment in the sunset district is a good 20 degrees colder than it actually is outside, which is another good 20 degrees colder than the rest of the city. So then I got a two-week cold, which then turned into strep throat, which led me to seek out a free clinic, where they gave me a shot in the ass and, although I felt much better the next day, the result from the antibiotics was that I had a three-week long period.

OB is just not the way I want to be for the better part of a month.

So just about into the beginning of October, I was in a dark and scary place. I felt like I had no steam left and that I should just give up. So I took off.

Getting in my little zoom and driving somewhere gave me the tiniest sense of purpose, even if just for a few hours. Driving down I-5 always makes me feel free really--and I love stopping in Bakersfield, just to scoff and giggle at the poh-dunk place of my birth. I love checking out the people in the gas stations and wonder what kind of road trip they're on, and I love scoping the random necessities and snacks of the attached mini-marts, and I love love love scanning radio stations and trying to get a feel for a place that has approximately three country music stations, along with two Mexican, a techno disco and a gospel channel.

And at the end of my short journey, of course, my parents welcomed me with open arms. They listened to my frustrated and dying ambitions, they provided support and encouragement and (like I might have already mentioned) lots of free booze and food. So I decided to stay on another week.

I even got to visit my old high school fling (HSF, for short). He used to be a somewhat crazed, mohawked ladykiller but is now the father of two and sober for about 20 years. He read me a passage from his AA bible that basically told me to stop trying to "control the show" and just have faith that things are going to work out the way they should. For some reason, this really (finally) struck a chord with me, and I decided to give that a go. Faith.

Maybe I was trying too hard. I knew that I needed to relax. It's just that I wanted wanted WANTED so badly to get my life going in the direction I've been dreaming about for so long. But I think what I've been missing is that it already is. And I should be grateful for that, and just let it happen.

Okay.