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...