Tonight's the night...

It's 10:13 at Thespian's. We've just finished a lovely dinner of roast pork and beans with sauteed kale and bacon-wrapped, chorizo-and-chevre-stuffed dates. Two bottles of wine. Oh, and his mom was there. Have I ever mentioned that his mom is a Pisces--like me--and also, a former reporter? Like me. Or rather, I am suspiciously like her in these ways...and also busom-ly speaking. Coincidence or...?

Anywho, the point is it's 10:17 and his mom has left and he's snoring on the couch, curled up with Mango, and I'm feeling dangerous--restless, mostly--and like I have a lock on my heart or throat or something. Kerf would call it "the third leg of the potato sack." But that's another story. What I'm trying to say is that I'm feeling strangely wild and mild, you know, simultaneously.

And as I'm feeling this duplicity, I just so happen to click upon Rob Brezsny's horoscopes--which I admire but also sometimes have to curse for being too fucking esoteric--and this time it was eerily relevant. And completely clear:

"The planets are aligned in such a way that suggest you may be able to experience an orgasm solely by meditating."

OMG. This is so true.

"This rare cosmic alignment also means that it's conceivable you could generate money or attract new resources by following your holy bliss, or that you might stumble upon the tricky treasure you've been looking for in all the wrong places. But I can't say for sure that you will actually be able to capitalize on any of these remarkable opportunities. It will depend on whether you can more fully express one of the skills that is your birthright as a Pisces: being wild and disciplined at the same time."

Hallefuckinglujah.

The relationship and the game--like peanut butter and chocolate...

A curious thing happened to me while reading NY Magazine's "The Sex Diaries: A Critical (But Highly Sympathetic) Reading of New Yorkers’ Sexual Habits and Anxieties"--in which writer Wesley Yang reviews a 132-week run of mostly naughty, dysfunctional and totally real confessionals from strangers dating, hooking-up or in relationships. Some of it was torrid, others kind of nauseating, none of it was really glamorizing the joys of singlehood without talking about the messy, lonely, heartbreaking bits. And yet, I was jealous. Which is totally dumb--I am in a relationship that is, for the most part, pretty darn good.

The great thing about my relationship with Thespian is that we don't play games. It's just that sometimes I miss the game, as stupid as that is. And I've been thinking it's a this one or the other kind of thing. Which is wholly depressing. Makes me feel old, like I lost my sexuality and heat. But what if the secret is to combine the two--put the game back in the relationship? 'Cause we all know you can't put the relationship in the game. So there you have it.

Perhaps I should start calling Thespian, Mr. Thespian, from now on...(you know, like the famous French actress-writer couple, Arielle Dombasle and Bernard-Henri Levy?)

"All theoreticians of eroticism know when there's no distance, there's no border, when there's no border, there's no taboo, when there's no taboo, there's no transgression, and when there's no transgression, there's no desire" --Bernard-Henri Levy

Dia de los Drinkos!

Today is the Day of the Dead (or, El Dia de los Muertos) but I'm uncertain as to how you announce the celebration of this life-affirming/death-respecting holiday. Happy Day of the Dead? Merry Day of the Dead?? Sorry-for-your-loss-happy-it-wasn't-me-yet Day of the Dead???

Yeah, awful. But if you get a chance, check out your local Mexi-brations and be safe out there--it's a full moon, you know...

Holy Day of... P.S.

And just in case you haven't fully realized how charming and cool Beth and her man, Kevin, are (see post below)--here are photos of the day AFTER Halloween, when, just for shits and giggles, Beth and her man donned Kid Rock (that's Beth) & Pamela Anderson (Kevin) apparel for their own (and now your) enjoyment...

No word on the subsequent video.

Holy Day of the Fantastic-Boyfriends-Who-Bake Dead cakes!

Beth, the art director for the Pacific Sun, is a super cool chick who used to be in a bunch of SF punk bands (including the Loudmouths) and did an indie movie (that got a lot of attention at the time) with Thespian in the '90s called, "Mary Jane's Not a Virgin Anymore." She also used to be the art director for SF Bay Guardian but now she's designing our little Marin paper while gigging with the Meat Sluts and playing electric 'ukulele with Pineapple Princess, runs this really rockin' van website (no, really, that's what it's called) and does taxidermy on the side--you know, just for fun. Other people think she's cool, too but yeah... she makes me feel like I really don't do much. Well, mostly because that's true.

And, OK, because she's so cool, she also has a cool boyfriend who tattoos and is going to school to be an EMT. AND he bakes cool cakes for Day of the Dead to give to his class--the big one he sent with Beth for our office. What a guy, hunh??

Yeah, I know. These people make me sick, too. -xo

'Have you ever noticed that their stuff is shit and your shit is stuff?' - George Carlin

Ah, Carlin... of course, he also said, "The planet is fine. The people are fucked."

Speaking of which, I interviewed eco-activist Annie Leonard this week--you've heard of her, right? She's the lady who did this very cool, short film on YouTube called, "The Story of Stuff." (If you haven't seen it, you really ought to. Seriously. It's only 20 minutes and she also breaks it up into even shorter segments and it's very easy to understand and comes with really cute animation and it's very important, uh, stuff so don't be a pansy about it--just WATCH IT! That is all.)

Anyway, I met her in Berkeley and she was very nice--we bonded (for a half-second) because she's from Seattle and I had just flown in from a wedding there a couple hours before (more about that later...if you're lucky). She's also going to be speaking at this weekend's Bioneers conference, along with Michael Pollan, Andrew Weil and others. I'm thinking about going on Sunday, if I'm not too book-and-booze hungover from the previous night's LitCrawl--last year's was so very inspirational (OK so I'm talking about both events now).

Here's the rather lengthy Q&A that resulted: "The Story of Annie Leonard--All the 'stuff' and more..."

[PHOTOS: PS cover w/Annie Leonard by James Hall; Bioneers earthy by Tim Porter]

It's the ultimate...(rock-rockin' it)...

Tonight after Wednesday's usual print-deadline chaos, I decided to take advantage of Pacific Sun's event-sponsorship of A Taste of Downtown San Rafael...

There were 32 businesses (retail shops, art galleries and restaurants) participating in the event, offering samplings of either wine or food, so I decided to narrow it down to only restaurants, and only the restaurants offering food AND wine tastings and only the restaurants offering food and wine AND that I had not yet frequented and had a genuine interest in. So I stopped by Vin Antico for a meatball and chianti, then Joe's for caprese, smoked salmon and pinot noir, Il Davide for a mushroom bruschetta and an Italian red, and the West End Cafe for tabouleh, hummus-on-cucumber and cabernet sauvignon...until I hit the expected pinnacle of pretension at Sabor of Spain--which actually had a particularly awesome bacon-wrapped, almond-stuffed date (and from what I heard--cuz I don't do fowl in strange places--a spectacular leg of quail), but whose servers and denizens were oddly and snobbily tense, so I ran out of that haughty hotbox down to a hidden treasure trove of cool, amicable Zen and unexpectedly fresh, flavorful spring rolls with mango salad at Citrus & Spice.

Then I floated over to friendly, fun & funkily artsy Whipper Snapper for a very tasty fried plantain with black bean laced with sour cream, and sangria. At that point--and because more random Marin people had talked to me this evening than the year-and-a-half I've been working in Marin--I was feeling bold enough to hightail it around the corner (5 minutes before my bus) to Cafe Arrivederci for my final tasting, which proved to be the most generous and professional offering: table service with a sommelier explaining each sampling pour, and a full bowl of piping-hot, fresh ravioli stuffed with sausage and heaven in a creamy bed of clouds. (Everything's a bit hazy as I was experiencing mild food-orgasm.)

OK, so an attractive older businessman flirted with me, some cougars pushed me out of their way, some foodie newbies asked me for a lesson on Mediterranean cuisine, a yuppie family poo-pooed me (and I promise, this time I was wearing a non-cleavage baring, dignified-length, very loose--albeit, yeah, somewhat slinky--red dress) and a wayward lesbian hit on me.

All in all, it was pretty cool skipping down the street, trying out a handful of restaurants I'd never been to before, with my pinkie finger firmly wrapped around the stem of the wine glass, catching the shuttle to my (temporary) San Anselmo cute, art-filled cottage in time to write my blog and watch "So You Think You Can Dance." Had I been able to fit in a pilates class and a tryst with my personal trainer, it would've been the ultimate Marin experience.

The mean green machine...

Last week for our "Going Green: Endangered Marin" issue, I wrote about some nearby sea creatures in trouble and I did a Q&A with Hunter Lovins, a woman whose company, Natural Capitalism Solutions, helps big businesses authentically "go green." I enjoyed talking with her about the marketing side of "environmentalism," how green technology can save our economy, and what consumers, corporations and the government needs to be doing--and surprisingly, what Wal-mart is already doing--to take a more proactive approach to sustainability.

It was a solid interview, I thought. However, my editor was disappointed I didn't ask Hunter how she got such a cool porn name.

[PHOTOS: Steller sea lions c/o The Marine Mammal Center; Leatherback sea turtle c/o Turtle Island Restoration Network]

Book-woofs

Serious journalists sometimes have to sacrifice life and limb in the pursuit of a story. And that's how I found myself in the middle of the children's section in the San Anselmo Library a couple Fridays ago, surrounded by a pack of bloodthirsty canines and their teeth-baring, pint-sized, vicious cohorts...

Yeah, OK...not really.

My latest story is about a program for children's literacy run by the Marin Humane Society, in which kids practice their skills by reading out loud to adorable pups who're trained for this sort of thing. My editor fully intended it to be a mere "fluff" piece, with the goal of me embarrassing myself by giving the concept a go--except that, instead of the usual happy-doggie children's books, he wanted me to read Old Yeller or Where the Red Fern Grows. He's a nice man--a family man, even--but he can be a rather twisted so-and-so when he wants to be.

When it came time for my turn--and believe me, hordes of cute kids had to be mowed down for the chance--I opted for Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum. I figured the dog would appreciate a little over-wrought intellectualism and mind-twisting philosophizing. As it turns out, she did not. Her trainer had to ply the poor pooch with treats to make her--politely--feign interest.

[PICTURED: Top--"Mitzy"; the rest--"Tigger"]

In blogs we trust...

If I spent half as much time here as I do on @#$*! Twitter, we might actually be getting somewhere.

Dammit.

Where the beef is...

Here's my latest story about mmm...the meat industry. For it, I was instructed to watch a screener of this year's limited release documentary about the industrialization of food, Food, Inc. And then I was to read Righteous Porkchop: Finding a good life and good food beyond factory farms by Nicolette Hahn Niman. Surprisingly, after experiencing both the film and book, I was still hungry... but my options for WHAT to eat--with my conscience, appetite and health intact--had significantly dwindled.

I went to interview Nicolette at her home in Bolinas. Nicolette, a badass environmental attorney who worked for Bobby Kennedy, Jr. on his Waterkeeper Alliance organization in Manhattan, ended up marrying Bill Niman, founder of Niman Ranch (a natural meat company collective of over 600 farmers and ranchers) and now lives on their 1,000-acre, seaside BN Niman Ranch.

The property, needless to say, was awesome. And Nicolette--who, just 5 weeks prior (and at the age of 41--or 42?), had popped out a beautiful baby boy named Miles--was totally cool and at ease in her ranch-y surroundings. While we talked about her book and subsequent articles (here's one) in the New York Times and the column she shares with her husband in the Huffington Post, she happily led me around to the turkeys and cows and gi-normous farmhounds...

I was envious. But yeah, she was very inspiring on many levels.

At the very least, I'm a bit more enthusiastic about eating meat (and food, in general) that's been tended to properly--healthfully, ecologically and as humanely as possible. So... no more late-night, drunken ventures to Jack-in-the-Box. Oh, yes, it has come to this, my friends!

And if you live in the Bay Area, here's a list of where to find local, organic meats.

Dude, where's my tsar?

PHOTOS BY JAMES HALL

A couple weeks ago, I drove out to Gallery Route One in Pt. Reyes for an interview. I love making that drive--it's basically a winding one-laner through Marin countryside out past quirky little towns with various random coffeehouses, vintage shops and saloon-ish bars I always mean to stop at some other time when I'm able to be more leisurely--with oceanside Pt. Reyes, the quirkiest and coolest of all, as my endpoint. It kinda reminds me of the road to Hana or driving around Upcountry Maui trying to get lost before you realize that eventually you WILL come full circle. Yes, that's meant to be profound.

But so...I had never been to Gallery Route One but was enthralled immediately, especially by their mission statement: "We believe that art is an intellectual and spiritual necessity that belongs in every community." It's a small space but they managed to utilize it well, with a few very interesting exhibits going on: "Six New Paintings" by Will Thoms, Mardi Burnham's "Nature's Pharmacopia" and "Usual and Unusual Sightings" by Pauline Greenfield and Andrew Romanoff--the subject of my Q&A.

I was also immediately captivated and charmed by Andrew, who makes his art using Shrinky Dinks and, as it turns out, is a direct descendant of the Romanov royal family in Russia (before they were overthrown by the Bolsheviks), thereby making him officially "His Serene Highness Andrew Romanoff." And really, he was rather princely. I mean, check out that ascot! He was quite stylish and smiley--and very sweet--with a lovely British/Russian accent that I could've listened to for hours.

He has this awesome book, too, called The Boy Who Would Be Tsar, that features some of his artwork and history. It's pretty great, actually.

Plus, he had this slightly mischievous or playful twinkle in his eye... and I do believe he patted my ass when we hugged goodbye. Well, whatever...He was so cute and charming I totally didn't mind it.

Anyway, here's the article I wrote about him. I'm pretty sure my editor wanted this story written partly because of the plethora of headline possibilities. Among them, "Shrinky Dinky Little Tsar," "Tsar Trek" and yes, "Dude, where's my Tsar?!" We inevitably went with "A Tsar is Born." Thank goodness.

If you plant it, they will come...

Happy Earth Day!

More photos of Jack Gescheidt's TreeSpirit Project (see link to article below) are here...

Going...going...gone green

Just finished putting the Pacific Sun's latest special "Green Issue" up--meaning, spreading it out over the Website, e-newsletter, Twitter and Facebook pages. Which means, also, that I'm now totally sick of it. But it is a good issue, seriously. You should check it out...

I did two-and-a-half stories in it this time: one's about this photographer, Jack Gescheidt, who is doing a series of photos of, well, basically, naked people in trees. I interviewed him at his big house down a long and windy road in the middle of some lush, yummy-smelling woods. He was really cool, and I totally got his whole vibe--which, of course, heightens the pressure for me of trying to express what he's trying to do... and I made the mistake of reading too many other articles on him so that kinda fucked me all up, too. But what're you gonna do?? I got it done.

I also interviewed (by phone) this 90-year-old reporter/book author named Harold Gilliam. After doing some initial research on the guy, I sort of intimidated myself with all of his great accomplishments. I mean, he was reporting on the environment waaaay before it was this pervasive movement it is today. And he has this cool writing style--I read a couple of his columns (like "Sleepless in Seattle" for example) in the SF Chronicle, where he worked for over 30 years--that was personal and informative and and relevant, and just a great read. But during the research, I got a little bummed because...here's this guy who was a pioneer in environmental journalism in the late-'50s-thru-'90s, somebody who paved the way for all the green reporters today, but because he was doing it pre-Internet, most of his columns, articles and books are not as easily accessible as those of his successors. So hardly anybody knows about him. And they should, you know, out of respect. Anyway, I was honored to talk to him, he was very nice, surprisingly modest and a bit... I dunno...disarmingly old. But inspiring, for sure.

Love and chocolate...

This weekend was frustrating. It wasn't solely for one reason or another--it never is--but more about the accumulation of tiny gnat-like irritants that turned into the beehive swarm of malaise I am currently feeling.

I think it all started with the chocolate festival. For all intents and purposes, the SF Chocolate Salon should have been a blast for me: a wall-to-wall symposium for all things cacao-derived, artisanal and hand-crafted. But it was just way too super-crowded to really get a grasp of choco-heaven, much less to sample enough for the choco-coma I was hoping to self-induce. And they ran out of wine by the time I arrived so...

But I figured it was fine--it just meant I had a few hours to kill so maybe I'd catch up with old friends over a couple drinks before Thespian was to meet me for dinner at swanky, old-school steakhouse, Alfred's. Well, anyway, in spite of old friends' flaking, the dinner was swell and a lot of fun--although we might've gotten a bit wasted on those martinis. And that bottle of wine. Didn't we have an aperitif, too? Yeah...

Anywho, the next day we were quite hung, which meant no SEX for me and you know how bratty I can be about that, and Thespian kept trying to bond with his dog, which I totally understand but um...then we had a dinner party to attend and it was nice, but some friends arrived late and Thespian gave them a hard time but was generally hilarious so it went unnoticed, except for the friend who called me the next day--while I was working on more tedious drivel, and a fuckuvalot of it--and had to complain about the ribbing he got from My Man. Henceforth, the subsequent phone call to my man, who was sympathetic and apologetic and cool, until the fucking raucous barking in the background commenced by the fucking little dogs that belonged to the girl who occasionally cleans and does errands for Thespian, who--uh, yeah--used to sleep with her. Although I do know it was a very long time ago and that there is absolutely nothing going on between them now (this I know, trust me) and that he is a wonderful, brilliant man, he does need help doing mundane domestic things, and he enjoys helping out people he's known for a long time--I just wish it wasn't her.

And so I'm at work and it's tedious and I am grateful to have the job, truly, but then I read this fucking NY Times story about this fabulous group of beautiful young talented screenwriting women who have a "Fempire" and Hollywood in the palm of their hands (along with iPhones and each other's purses), and it's actually very inspiring and great but leaves me a bit wistful and wanting and wondering what the hell I'm gonna do next to, you know, get me there.

And I know I have to call the friend back and try to smooth things out but I also think he's being kind of a hypocrit and it pisses me off but I don't want to be petty (out loud, anyway). And the creditors keep calling until I finally turn off the phone. And so then I went straight home and turned up the gay-disco radio station LOUD and cleaned my bathroom and then I lit some candles, shut the curtains, turned off the radio, grabbed The Diary of Anais Nin (always my comfort-lit pick) and opened to this passage:

"I want to live only for ecstasy. Small doses, moderate loves, all half-shades, leave me cold. I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers..."

and this:

"Whether because I am a Latin, or because I am a neurotic, I have a need of gestures. I am myself expressive, demonstrative; every feeling I have takes on expression: words, gestures, signs, letters, articulateness or action. I need this in others.

But Allendy says the need of gestures, of proofs of friendship, love, devotion, comes from lack of confidence. I should not need them. I should be able to dispense with them.

Proofs of love and friendship are what I give to others all the time. And everyone seems to need them."

**
Sigh. I really want to be evolved, enlightened and compassionate... but sometimes it's just so exhausting.

And the darkness, so delicious...

My God! What have I done??

Okay, so I've been a little busy... but at least I have something to show for it:

"Our Founding Farmers" March 6--New exhibit harvests Marin's past--and sows seeds of our agricultural future... and this sidebar about why dating farmers is so cool...

"Guided by Voices" March 13--In troubled times, it never hurts to seek advice through a variety of channels...

Forgive me?

Vive vacaciones!

Just before Christmas, Thespian told me that his big bro was renting a house in Mexico basically for the month of January and that we would be going for a week. I was elated, of course, but also a little freaked out. I'd been harboring some childhood fears about Mexico nearly my whole life--mostly having to do with my father and some irrational fear I had that maybe I'd be held back at the gate once we were south of the border. Some of that had to do with my insecurities about not being able to speak Spanish even though I look Hispanic so I made pathetic attempts at practicing (jumbling it up with French words every now and then) at the corner taqueria in San Rafael but it did little to quell those old fears. A little swimsuit shopping on eBay, though, was enough to distract me the rest of the way.

I tried to do a little preparatory research on where we were going--Sayulita , a small fishing village about 45 minutes north of Puerto Vallarta--but I also didn't want to completely squash the element of surprise.

Well, so, in no time at all, Thespian and I had our passports expressed, our bags packed, and we were on our way. [P.S. The international terminal at SFO is sooo much nicer than domestic! Point off for no bars being open at 7 a.m. though. I mean, c'mon.]

When we arrived in Puerto Vallarta, a driver sent by Thespian's brother picked us up, handing us each a can of Tecate, and turning up the radio to the strangest assortment of '80s tunes sung in English by unknown but really good cover bands, while driving us through lush jungle past Punta Mita. Eventually we were deposited at Villa PCaso, a curvaceous, imaginative, three-story, sky-blue casa influenced by Pablo Picasso in the coolest and weirdest little details. It was beautiful...

Of mycelia and men...

Here's the latest: my Pacific Sun story on mushrooms, and how they may or may not actually save the world...

"A 'Shroom at the Top"
Mycology--about as hip as a fungus science is gonna get...

Stepping forward, into the light...

Happy Inauguration Day, everyone! YAYYYYYY!!!

-xo