Last call 2008...

PHOTOS BY JAMES HALL

Here's the result of all that imbibed research of the past couple weeks I shared with my friend/illustrious award-winning writer/co-worker Matt... "Here comes a regular, there stands the glass: The Pacific Sun's Marin bar roundup--reflections in our bloodshot eyes"

During the course of our research, whenever somebody, be it a friend or stranger, would find out about the subject of the article we were working on--namely, the summation of all dives, pubs and wine bars (sans restaurant or hotel-connections) in Marin--they would snicker or heartily chuckle (guffaw, even) and say, haughtily, "Wow, that's a tough assignment! What a hard job you have." At which point, it's polite writerly conduct to merely smile weakly and stare at your half-empty glass, continuing to fill your precariously perched pad-on-knee with more arbitrary notes about whatever drinkery you happen to be in, and searching the annals of your stressed cerebrum for yet another euphemism to describe this particular "dingy hole" and its weathered, weary and most decidedly inebriated inhabitants.

And while I recognize and am perpetually grateful for the sheer notion of having a full-time writer gig, and one that takes me to the most, er, interesting places...is it truly the non-stop party people suppose it to be?

Okay, sometimes it is.

High expectations...

Here's my medical marijuana story...(anybody recognize the "anonymous" person holding their I.D. card in the photo?)

It was one of those stories that I'd really wanted to do well, for obvious reasons--my dearest friends Thespian and Elan have been fighting the good fight in the East Bay med-cannabis movement for awhile now, and have included me in so much of their organization's events, introducing me to the prominent people involved, etc. And, knowing this, my kindly editor gave me plenty of time to work on the piece. So I approached it (I thought) methodically, accumulating pages of notes, stacks of reference material, hours of speeches and interviews, and several documentaries on the subject. But then, as it became closer to the time I should actually roll up my sleeves and get to the writing, I put it off and put it off, somewhat overwhelmed by the mass of info and the pressure of my, ultimately, ever-so-high (pun not intended but appreciated anyway) expectations.

But when it came down to the very LAST few days I could work on it, I got really sick--partially from sharing a vehicle with someone who didn't know he was ill, but more likely exacerbated by the stress of having to undertake such a project with little time and a whole lotta self-imposed pressure. And I did that whole writerly mental-sadomasochistic bit, torturing myself with doubt and worry. I seriously didn't think I could pull it off; wondered if I was even cut out for writing at all.

And how long have I been doing this? Six years is not that long in the big scheme of things, but certainly long enough to know that I will get it done, and it will be fine, and maybe a few people will read it, and then it will be quickly forgotten and it's on to the next deadline.

Walking through a winter wonderland... in Tahoe!

Gave a ride to a platonic writer friend last weekend over to South Lake Tahoe, right on the California/Nevada stateline. He, being of the moderately successful adult SF writer-type--and a committed bachelor--has a condo timeshare that he utilizes one week out of the year to recharge.

It'd just snowed the day before and the lifts had just opened--I found this out by listening to a couple of ski bums (snowboard bums just doesn't have quite the same ring, does it?) at the first bar we visited. "You're so observant," said Matt, as he perused the drink menu. I didn't tell him it was a skill I'd acquired over many, MANY diligent years of research on Maui. At this point, I was still hoping to impress with my piercing intellect and cultured sophistication.

"Ooo, hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps!" I exclaimed, clapping. He looked at me, with notsomuch reverence as bemusement.

I get that a lot.

Later we trekked around the casinos, checking out the glitz and the grits of gambling...Matt even placed a few bets on a roulette table, winning $70 before calling it quits. At one point, as I stood behind him watching, a slightly inebriated but attractive older fellow walked up to me, gesturing to a wad of cash. "Will you place this for me?" he asked, sheepishly. Confused, I looked at Matt. "Oh, you're with him--sorry," said the guy. And I walked away with Matt, wondering if I was just confused for Lady Luck...or possibly, a hooker.

I get that a little less.

(The bottom four photos are of these very cool lighting fixtures at the stylish Montbleu Resort Casino)

Be Bop a Yule-a! Kicking the holidays off on the perfect note...

It's our special "Holidays on stage, screen and in stereo" issue, which you really should download as a PDF doc for the gaudy-Xmas visuals!

And here's my story on what some Marin music dudes picked for holiday tunes: "Rockin' around the Christmas tree!"

Jingle your bells, y'all! -xo

Dear diary...

Tonight I sat in as part of a panel on gender in communications. I was so excited to be asked...it was like my tiny step-ladder to the kinds of things I've imagined the successful writers I admire partaking judiciously in--respect and recognition, intellectual discourse, free food and booze, et al.

It was hosted by a communicatons professor I had interviewed for my recent "Women in Media" story, which featured the prof's quotes prominently in the lede. The professor--an attractive woman who I figured to be about my age or a couple years younger--was an especially amenable interview subject, as she had done considerable political reporting just after college. Anyway, after that story came out, she graciously invited me to participate in the panel for one of her classes. The panel was to take place at the professor's house in Marin.

In preparation, I studied the list of questions she'd sent: How have you been aware (or become aware) of how gender differences can impact (both positive and negative) the work dynamic in a business/organization? Are skills individual to the person regardless of gender or does gender play a role in the kinds of skills and character strengths/weaknesses one has? What strides and setbacks have Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin made for women generally in the workplace? Etc.

All day, I scoured websites and thought about my career path and how being female has affected my work and what sort of larger role gender plays in society, media, politics and communications. I ruminated about how to present an alternative angle, should the other women on the panel say the same sorts of things I was thinking about--it was important to me that I presented a balanced, well-thought and fresh perspective on the subject.

But then I arrived at the professor's house, after a winding road up a hill overlooking a lush valley with several typical Marin mansions. From what I could tell, the professor's pad was the largest of them all--a beautiful, sprawling Mediterranean-style villa. I waved at the professor's handsome youngish German husband and their darling two-year-old playing in the driveway on the way in.

Once inside, I met the other panel members--hugely successful mid-age women who work as heads of communications in companies like Disney and Autocad, or the one older guy who was a television documentary and crime writer for the Discovery channel--in a sort of waiting room lounge, drinking wine and comparing second home locales.

That's when I first started to doubt myself. While a couple of the women talked about a colleague who was involved in some business-related drama that was being reported in the NY Times, I kept thinking, "What the hell am I doing here? Why am I on a panel with these semi-major players?"

And I clammed up. We were all seated in front of a group of about a dozen university students with notepads, in a spacious room with several plates of food on a nearby table, in the upstairs right wing of the house. The professor introduced us all formally with brief bios... and I started to shake. Questions were asked, I always waited to answer last after the other panelists, and when I had to speak, I felt my face burn, my heart was in my throat, my ears were pounding and I don't know what I was saying. Everything I had studied and thought about during the day was gone.

I know I let myself get intimidated by my surroundings, by the amazing women (and the one guy) on the panel, by stage fright, and by the knowledge that impressionable students were taking notes on whatever garble was coming out of my mouth. And I'm more than a little disappointed in myself for that. I know I'm probably being hard on myself, and that I quite likely said some halfway intelligle things. I honestly can't remember. But I just don't think I did it well. I definitely didn't embrace the experience...

I recently came upon an old journal (I'd been looking for my birth certificate, which I'd needed to get my California driver's license, only I didn't actually need it because they had on file my original driver's license--and proceeded to have a good hearty chuckle about my 1987 hair) from when I was 10. In it, I'd written that I wanted to be an actress or a rock star when I grew up. I had drawn myself as a glamazon in sparkling dress on stage with a microphone and a crowd of adoring fans.

...And yet, present day, here I was in a room with maybe not so much a sparkling dress or a crowd of adoring fans but at least an audience and a figurative microphone, and I was frozen. Where was that bold 10-year-old who'd yearned for the spotlight? And really, although on another level, how is that different from what I do for work now? Or how I interact casually, in social situations, and from all the holoholo-ing on Maui??

I can't quite wrap my head around how I'm feeling but it's definitely conflicted and strange and anxious and inspired and... hopeful.

It's a dead man's party...

Here's my latest in the Pacific Sun's special "death" issue released today...

"Salt of the earth": A R.I.P.-roaring glance at the world's second-oldest profession--graveyard caretaker...(see photo below)

"She's Goth-a have it": Nothing transcends beauty like a youthful obsession with death...

There's other cool stuff in this issue, too, like art director and punk goddess Beth Allen's piece on taxidermy--"Life on the roadkill" and Maureen Dixon's "Dead Letter Offices" about where mail goes when it doesn't have a clear destination. Again, it's always better to download the PDF document of the issue so you can see the photos but anyway...Check 'em out!

And Happy Halloween all!

F@#king cool photo of the week...

PHOTO BY JAMES HALL

Just did an interview with this dude John Kelley who manages a cemetery in Marin. The article comes out later this week in the Pac Sun (along with another piece about Goth subculture--yeah, it's still in me) but this photo (which we'll likely not be using) is so cool I just had to post it right away...

I wanna go baack...to my cit-ay by the baayeaaay!

I forgot to mention that Sasha and I went to see Journey, Heart and Cheap Trick last month (9/26/08) with a couple of her co-workers-- we ended up road-tripping four hours for a normally two-hour tour to just outside of Sacramento at this hell-hole called Sleep Train Pavilion in the dust-filled middle of nowhere. Sash and I thought it appropos to guzzle cans of beer on the way there, only to discover, to our horror, that traffic on a late Friday afternoon to Sac-Town is not only hellacious and po-dunk scary, but there is nary a restroom or gas station en route.

Well, anyway... Heart rocked serious womynly ass (we completely missed Cheap Trick) but their set was way too short, and Journey's new Filipino front singer was such a vocal deadringer for Steve Perry, it was ridiculous (but in a really good way). Unfortunately, after the novelty of an Asian Steve Perry (but better) wore off, and the mulletted mayhem back with us in the nosebleed-seats grew to frightening proportions, and our thumbs grew calloused with burns of our lit waving lighters (Journey has a fuck-load of ballads, eh??!), we were kinda over it.

Whoa-ohoh-ohwhoaohohhhh...

Bringing home the bacon...

Here's my latest feature in the Pacific Sun about some local women who work in the media: "Women on women: With media coverage of women in the national spotlight, we put the microphone to six of Marin's XX-chromosomed media mavens."

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday/The regular crowd shuffles in/There's an old man sitting next to me/Makin' love to his tonic and gin...

These photos are from a couple months ago--okay, it could've been May--so my memory might be a bit hazy. But any time spent at The Alley in the hippish Grand Lake 'hood of Oakland is sure to leave an impression.

Elan broke me in for my first experience there; we got to the bar early so as to score a seat at the piano before the regulars--known locally as the "Alleycats"--shuffled in for the keys master himself, THE piano man: Rod.

Rod has been a fixture at The Alley since 1965 and is said to know something like 10,000 songs. We were told this by one of the oldest Alleycats there that night, who'd been frequenting the legendary bar for 37 years.

It wasn't long before "Jeffrey"--a 30-year regular--sat down next to me. Jeffrey was a large, bespectacled man who walked with a cane and was preparing for a serious operation the next day. I think it was some sort of testicular surgery or something equally as major--I remember Elan and I grimacing and making cooing noises when he told us. But of course now (and several hundred vodka-sodas later), it's difficult to recollect the specifics. Anywho, Jeffrey and I became fast friends when he discovered that I actually knew who H.G. Wells was. Oh, and he did a charming spoken word performance of "The Smoke-Off"--Shel Silverstein's tale about a marijuana rolling (and smoking) contest in San Rafael of all places--a poem that first appeared in Playboy magazine in 1978.

The place--and especially the area surrounding the piano--filled up quickly and the drinks were flowing and the mic made its way around the bar, accompanied gracefully by Rod, and soon there was a rollicking (as if there wouldn't be) crowd-participatory rendition of "Life is a Cabaret." It was awesome. I can't wait to go back.

I love a cabaret.

It's not just an excuse, it's a lifestyle...

Yeah, yeah--the blog's been severely neglected yet again. The reason: been doing a lot of writing and research lately, and it's been awfully fun.

I interviewed an artist, Isabella Kirkland, who was once the only licensed female taxidermist in New York City. Now she does elaborate, life-sized and to scale paintings of large groups of species, sort of like an exhibition in biodiversity. So I met her at her studio which was actually on a houseboat in Sausalito (some of those houseboats are fantastic--like quirky-cool, floating mini-mansions), and was charmed by her clear-eyed intellect and warm humility. The resultant article in the Pacific Sun "Green" issue is in preview of the upcoming Bioneers Conference in San Rafael, which I'll be attending in October--as soon as I can figure out how to be in two places at the same time (the NORML Conference in Berkeley is the same weekend, naturally).

I also did an article in the same issue about enviro-friendly sex, called "Make love, not global warming..."

And I did some stuff for our Fall Arts Preview issue, focusing on performing arts and film, which meant I got to go to this sorta cool press thing/film screening/continental breakfast for the Mill Valley Film Festival at the high-tech Dolby Labs in SF.

But also, for the past couple weeks, I've been interviewing a group of women for an upcoming story, which took me to the San Francisco City Hall--a beautific and surreal structure--amidst a large group of protestors outside, and some happy hetero- and homosexual couples inside getting hitched (the camera crew and group of onlookers are much larger for the same-sex marriages--the hetero couples are largely ignored these days, in SF anyway).

Romance by the sea dot com...

Last weekend, Thespian, his faithful hound Mango, and I drove to Mendocino for our friend's surprise 40th birthday shindig. Our friend's wife set the whole thing up, reserving rooms in a quaint inn overlooking the bay called Mendocino Seaside Cottage. The website made the place look a little, um, cheesy--like a Danielle Steele novel on Viagra. But we were stoked once we arrived and got the tour of the place, noting that our room had the best views and just a short walk into town. It was awesome.

Thespian and I took in the surrounding natural splendor, joined later by friends, and discovered the many wonderful surprises of Mendo at jaunts to the coffee shops--Moody's rocks!--illustrious pubs and taverns, like Patterson's, and a pretty kick-ass French dinner at Cafe Beaujolais.

The last night of our weekend featured a seven-course meal prepared by a personal chef, and supplemented by wine and cannabis pairings, at the gorgeous cliff-side house of a Mendo-friend (an attorney for medical marijuana cases). I'm no stoner but these sophisticated medical marijuana folks are dope.

The sensual beauty of... mmm... meat.

Last Friday, I went to an art opening at a surprisingly cool gallery called Sam the Butcher in the affluent, pristine (read: Stepford Wives-snooty) Marin town of Mill Valley. The opening was for an exhibit called "Abattoir: an exploration of meat through painting" featuring a series of acrylics by local artist Sergio A. Lobato.

The pictures here don't do the paintings justice. But up close and personal, I found the art to be sublimely beautiful--a textural and, indeed, sensual delight. They made me look at, er, beef, in a whole new way, by simultaneously elevating its most basic food-source status to that of abstract art, and transcending the visceral to the almost ethereal, in Lobato's use of light and a rich, multi-hued palette that cast a silken glow over the hanging cow parts and dangling organs and bits of flesh.

It's a play on the beauty of ugliness, or the sublimation of the secular, creating art of matter we deem inconsequential at best or repugnant and unwholesme at worst.

Lobato told me during the opening that he'd received many a stank-eye and tsk-tsk from passersby in Mill Valley, even one perturbed woman who declared the paintings "Disgusting!" as he worked to hang them in the gallery. I wasn't too surprised by the poor reaction he received from "progressive, liberal" Marinites, who most likely drove off in their Lexus SUVs with righteous indignation.

In that, I thought the exhibit captured the not-so-subtle dichotomies of life in Marin and its opulent inhabitants perfectly.

For the love of Dirty Words...

Before I head off to Mendocino for the weekend, I thought I'd leave you with these pics of my favorite book event this year so far...

"Dirty Words: An evening of Smut" on Aug. 3 at CellSpace in San Francisco, an erotic literary event (you know how I love those!) presented by Litquake and hosted by the fabulous, carefree and totally-adorable-in-a-vinyl-corset Kirk Read.

I'm gonna use severe brevity in this posting 'cuz I gotta dash but I will just sum it up this way for now: James Joyce wrote fantastically dirty love letters to his wife Nora that can really only be appreciated when read aloud with a thick Scottish brogue by the dramatic, naughty, manly Alan Black...Stormy Leather has amazing leather wear and thank gooness for SF burlesque!--especially when done by Twilight Vixen Revue, an all-queer showgirl and production company...I have a mad, mad crush on Stephen Elliott...yes, there really are swingers in Marin, as told by the lovely British Helena Echlin...and now I fully understand how important math truly is, thanks to Ellen Sussman's reading of her experience of "69" from her book, which I very much need to get immediately...

If you want, I'll fill you in on other details later. Gotta go now! XOXOXXX

Quote of the week...

In last week's New York Times Book Review, Kate Bolick's "Chick-Lit Pioneer" is a review of Looking for Anne of Green Gables by Irene Gammel, in which the celebrated "Anne" pre-teen series author Lucy Maud Montgomery is described as "...an often lonely and frustrated person driven by bottomless needs and insatiable longings. (Or to put it another way: a writer.)"

Not missin' my school daze...

Here's a story I did in last week's Pacific Sun "Back to School" issue, in which I give really bad advice to high school freshman...

At least the illustrations are cool (all done by Amane Kaneko--better if you download the PDF version)...

Looking California, feeling Minnesota...

Also in last week's issue, I wrote about why I'm, like, so California. Fer sure.

You can read that here, too, if you like. You don't have to though. Really.

[Pictured above: me, age 5? About three years before my first Black Sabbath/Van Halen concert and backstage pass. Oh, it's in the story.]

Ball of confusion...

In case you missed it, I wrote about the wacky and wonderful world of ORBS in last week's Pacific Sun. It was a fun story to do (better to see it with the photos if you download it as a PDF), as I got to talk to Hope and Randy Mead, who are the filmmakers behind Orbs: The Veil is Lifting, which was distributed through the people who produced What the Bleep. Orbs, for the apparent few of you who haven't been enlightened with the phenom, are balls of energy (or consciousness) that some believe can actually be seen in digital photos, like the above shot we took at the recycling center in Marin.

And we thought it was just dust. How pedestrian.

On a personal note, I found the Meads' concepts of identifying another dimension to be compelling and, at the very least, something to think about. They were very nice people, and quite intelligent--not the crazies some would assume to be a part of this New Age movement (I'm used to these sorts of people from Maui, of course). But still, I wasn't convinced that every unexpected round object they were seeing in photos were actually orbs, and told them so. Nonetheless, they were nice people.

My friend Jeff informs me there is also a very good metal band in SF called Orb of Confusion. Of course there is.

A woman of culture and taste...

This is where I'm supposed to pontificate on what I believe to be the most exemplory of the various exemplum in today's pop culture, i.e., what's keeping me busy by way of music, food, film and TV.

And it's kind of difficult at the moment because lately I've been revisiting my first Ekova CD, Heaven's Dust (1998), and I just took a bite of a yummy, slightly disorienting chocolate chip cookie, having just read about Tropic Thunder--a movie I haven't yet seen but now very much want to, if only to marvel how Robert Downey Jr. pulls it all off--and flipping channels between the Greatest American Dog (good ole Bill and Star choke me up every time; I want to smack that perma-bitch face off judge Wendy Diamond), Criminal Minds and the Pussycat Dolls Present: the Search for the Next Doll... and um, that's only because this season's So You Think You Can Dance is over. Sigh.

Otherwise I would totally tell you what's relevant and worthwhile...

Every picture tells a story, don't it...

Here's this week's batch of random:

TOP: Yeah, so I went with my friend/co-worker/great-writer-whose-brain-I'm-trying-to-pick-for-pointers who was doing a dining review on this East Bay restaurant. It was a seafood joint, with the requisite marine life decor as screamingly luminous as a mermaid's tail throughout the dining room--you know, blue everything, shell-frame mirrors, a central three-tiered fountain with a stream flowing out of a very phallic fish mouth. But for some inconceivable reason, there was this display case in the back, filled to the rim with various Barbie-esque dolls and all sorts of trolls. You know, cuz they're basically the same.

MIDDLE: When I was wee, I had a Hispanic godmother--Luz Rangel. I can't remember if she was Cuban or Puerto Rican--that's cuz I'm a horrible, horrible Latina ("Mexican by convenience"--shameful!)--but anyway, I loved her. We spent a lot of time in the cucina together, and I'd watch as she ground the mesa for tortillas in one of those little stone grounder thingeys. But yeah... mostly I just ate and didn't pay attention. Obviously. One of the best things she made that my mother and I have been searching high and low for are these papas rellenos--I found the frozen version in that cool Latin market on San Pablo Ave. in Berkeley--which are like yummy balls of meat stuffed into a bigger baked ball of mashed potato. Wow, clearly I really need to go on more dining reviews with my writer friend.

BOTTOM: Elan, Lucas and Jake. Does anything really need to be said here?...

Skip to the loo, my darlings...

Last week, Thespian and I had dinner at Pizzaiolo with a bunch of peeps from the Dispensary... followed by drinks at The Avenue down the street-- a very cool bar that took some warming up to after adamant dimming of the lights and frequent trips to the bathroom (no, not for THAT-- for the Grecian pornographic graphics on the wallpaper, baby... aw, yeah...)...

We (an awed Autumn and I) determined that last position to be the most impressive. Yeah, go ahead-- we looked at it for a long time, too...

WALL-E world...

A couple weeks ago, I took a tour of the recycling plant in Marin. It was interesting to see how everything works--what happens to all my bottles of Two-Buck Chuck and my endless boxes of organic golden flax cereal. But it was also so very depressing.

A lot of work goes into "recycling" our recyclables. And it's a business, really; whatever there's a market for, is what gets recycled.

Oh, and also--Marin County is the biggest waste producer on the planet. Basically, each resident contributes 10 pounds of trash a day. Yeah...

Anyway, I wrote about it in this week's Pacific Sun cover story.

The pig, the turkey and the peacock (sounds like a Burl Ives' ditty) all live across the street from the recycling center, and feed off expired produce from nearby grocers.

Kinda cool, eh?

Feng shui recipe for love disaster? Oh, damn...

My "love" feng shui is fucked.

I've been reading up on it and discussing with single friends the idea of feng shui-ing our homes to create a space that is conducive to attracting a healthy romantic life. Some of the tips include implementing photos and wall art that depict happy couples, or that display the kind of relationship you hope to manifest, or just images of anything in pairs.

Hmm... So looking around the studio at my artwork, I see: a grotesque female with one boob clutching a cocktail; an old pulp novel cover screaming, "Why Get Married?"; a black & white photo of my deceased cat and dog; another black & white photo of a woman's legs; and a painting an ex gave me of a long line of mermen.

I shudder to think what feng shui experts would say this all means for my lovelife.

Yikes.

Well, maybe it's not a recipe for disaster, but just a blueprint for unconventional romance.

I never did do normal very well.