Holoholo Girl

My so-called super gooey purple cheese sticky sour kush life...

2012-01-26T19:07:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, while visiting my parents in Palm Springs, my mom and I decided to stop by a dispensary in the area. Being a loyal patient of Harborside Health Center (and more importantly, girlfriend of the GM/co-star of "Weed Wars," Andrew DeAngelo), I hadn't frequented many other dispensaries and was interested in seeing what was available to my parents and friends in the desert. I was careful to enter the small shop without preconceived notions, and instructed my mom to not "brag" about me and my illustrious connections. I very simply wanted to see what other patients see when they enter such an establishment. Plus, I love my parents very much but a medicated brownie was becoming necessary...

Once inside, reception was warm and welcoming, giving us cautious tips on compliant traveling and driving with medicine in tow. But once the owner caught sight of my Oakland address, things turned a little sour--and I don't mean of the "diesel" variety (a little dorky cannabis humor for you).

"Oh yeah, in Oakland you have Harborside and 'Weed Wars' so it's all mainstream there," said the owner, with more than a hint of derision. I kept my mouth shut, steeling myself for what soon became a tirade of disparaging remarks about Harborside's success. Trying to ascertain the source behind the bitterness, and trying to stop the flush from overcoming my face, I calmly replied that Harborside is where I like to go in my hometown, and the owner backed off--just a bit--vaguely acknowledging her onslaught of negativity with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Although the owner was quite helpful and generous with product recommendations after that, I couldn't shake the feeling of being misunderstood and attacked--even subversively. It's a feeling I've grown accustomed to as of late, what with the broadcast of "Weed Wars" and the many hours I've spent online since, scouring critical reviews, blog commentary and endless tweets about the show, about Harborside, and about my beloved boyfriend and his family.

Despite its legal, medical uprising in certain states, cannabis remains a hot-button topic. And because Harborside Health Center is the largest medical cannabis dispensary in the country, it already receives a lot of media attention and public scrutiny. I expect critical backlash from people who haven't been educated about cannabis' medical merits or those who simply choose to hang on to their conservative "all drugs are bad" stance. But what I didn't expect was that the majority of "haters" would come from within the medical cannabis industry itself.

When "Weed Wars" debuted, I obsessed with people's honest and immediate reaction to the show and mainstream perceptions of the industry. Naturally, I turned to Twitter. The majority of tweets were favorable and/or incredulous (mainly in non-medical cannabis regulated states and countries), but of course I fixated on the negative criticisms. And what struck me were the blatant hypocrisies...

"Let's Get High," aka @PokerStoned, who in his profile pic is wearing a green t-shirt with a smiley face smoking a joint, tweeted that "sometimes the people on weed wars don't help the image of a stereotypical pothead." Along the same lines, "Stoner Simpson," aka @PapersNoBlunts, who cites himself as a "verified weed smoker...modern day hippy...smoke something bitch..." tweeted that "this weed wars shit making potheads look bad."

I realize that public figures must regularly face this kind of critique, both good and bad--and none of it has to necessarily make any sense. And it has made me reassess how I judge celebrities in general. But Harborside is not the Kardashians. And it is especially difficult to accept this kind of blind badgering from people within the industry who realize all too well the political and social obstacles they face on a daily basis. Any success, done legally and with beneficent intent for the medical cannabis community at large, should be encouraged within that community. Open discussions, instead of one-sided attacks, will only propel that larger success.

This is somewhat strange for me, as I've never claimed to be a cannabis activist. But I guess I'm reacting to the pattern of social injustices that we often fall into because we're afraid of change, or we're quickly lacking control of our own lives, or we fail to see that someone else's success does not negate our own.

I'm hoping that through this process, I can keep my ears and eyes open, and not be too discouraged by humanity's great law of entropy. Maybe this wasn't my battle to fight, but it's definitely teaching me how to win with grace.

A Night Out...

2012-01-14T02:25:00.000-08:00

Tonight I broke free of the confines and rituals of my Oakland locale and left for an exotic night in San Francisco with Elan, with whom I had not hung out in quite some time. He'd wanted to start with dinner and drinks at Morac, a Moroccan restaurant and bar in the Mission, so I'd thought it appropriate to have a pre-night-out cocktail, solo, at the old dive bar Murio's Trophy Room--which had just undergone a Moroccan-influenced renovation--on upper Haight. While I sipped my Bulleit and soda, I was struck by the dramatic transformation Murio's had recently undertaken, and quietly contemplated the ghosts of the grungy, smelly, unpredictable dive bar I had once frequented. Meanwhile, a lovely young couple from Canada struck up a conversation with me about food and travel, culminating with her ultimate meal--on MAUI! At Spago's! (It turns out the couple run this awesome eatery on Vancouver Island.) Eventually Elan showed up shortly after another attractive couple--this time wearing Patagonia sportswear and ordering Pinot Grigio (with ice cubes)--tried to take over the empty stool next to me, and we sped off to the popular, trendy Moroccan restaurant where harried Russian cocktail waitresses took our order and stunningly beautiful, young Persian women at the table next to us lamented their success working at corporate jobs they weren't "passionate about." After Elan and I had our fill of tech-industry gossip, we hightailed it to Sasha's new bartending gig--at the Gold Star--and I marveled at the classroom-inspired cocktail menu, while Gabrielle horrified me with details on the Mission Rapist. I kept one eye on the clock in order to catch the last BART train back to the East Bay (at 12:20! Gimme a break!!) while Elan guilted me on not staying in San Francisco for the evening. After missing the last BART, and instead of taking the two-hour bus back to Oakland, I opted to take a $50 cab ride back to my car at Fruitvale, even though I can barely afford (nor do I know the exchange rate) to make sense. And although I really tried to get it right, not one person said I looked pretty tonight. Not that that's what it's all about but still.

Man at His Best

2012-01-10T17:20:00.000-08:00

Still catching up on my issues of Esquire. Just finished reading November's, which made me ride a roller coaster of emotions. The always amazing Tom Chiarella helped me to understand rage and "what a man and his anger are capable of," as well as the profound and dynamic relationship between an aging father and son in his touching personal essay, "Damages." I suffered through my own kind of anger reading yet another profile on yet another grossly wealthy, young, ego-maniacal, "God-loving" basketball player, and instructions on making a prank call. Oh, Esquire... Like all great men I've loved, you are not perfect. But uh... sorry, could you just turn that down a bit? Thanks.

"The Case Against Jogging" inspired me to try high-intensity interval training (at an outdoor swimming pool in 46-degree weather), which unfortunately led to my first cold of the season. I developed a crush on fashion designer Simon Spurr and am convinced that Thespian needs to wear his suits. I was enthralled with Stephen Marche's A Thousand Words didactic on "losing your faith" in the almighty dollar in "What is a Dollar Worth? Perhaps Nothing." He concludes by saying:

But losing your faith, while painful, can also be liberating. The attraction of dollar value, which Marx predicted as the transformation of all "personal worth into exchange value," wasn't the same as greed; it was really just laziness... Losing the dollar as the marker of all value might reveal new possibilities of worth, for people and for things, even for the world.

The article update on Ryan Adams (um, who?) prompted an initially interesting conversation--and ensuing jukebox selections--from a strange man at a bar. But the intellectually stimulating music lesson soon turned into a not-so-subtle boob-stare-a-thon (as they so often do) and I resolved to read the rest of my nude-Rihanna-covered issue alone.

Then I was enraged, aghast and depressed while reading "'There is No Truth,' He Said. The Future of the Written Word, and Liberation of James Frey. With Space Aliens." by the bold and inspiring writer, John H. Richardson. The interview Richardson conducted with the author of the infamous (and untrue) memoir A Million Little Pieces twisted and turned dramatically (and ultimately proved quite illuminating and a little sad) but in the interim revealed a horrific glimpse into a totally Hollywood-centric, multimedia publishing industry that hires factories of fresh-faced (sans actual credit or appropriate compensation other than "the exposure") writers to churn out marketable ideas for page-screen-videogame projects and blurs the lines between "art" and "commerce," "fiction" and "nonfiction," "working writer" and "slave labor," etc. My favorite excerpt:

Frey: I think you're getting hung up on the idea of fine art--I don't think there's any difference between writing fine art and producing genre fiction. I think of it all as part of a larger body of work.

Richardson: That's so funny because when I was a kid in college, we were all militantly trying to collapse the boundaries between high and low--"There's no difference between rock 'n' roll and Milton, so why can't I write my thesis on Elvis Costello?" And, of course, we were right. But somehow that seems to have led to Jersey Shore.

Ah, yes... And because I refuse to post a clip from that effing show that has produced another literary genius, Snooki--here instead is a sweet, sweet classic from a true talent:

'Freedom without limits is just a word.'

2012-01-04T18:38:00.000-08:00

Last night Thespian and I watched the early-2011 thriller, Limitless. The story revolves around a struggling writer with a severe case of writer's block whose life is spiraling into nothingness--his girlfriend dumps him, his editor is giving up on him, he's about to get kicked out of his apartment and he seriously needs a haircut and a shave. But then he gets turned on to an underground super-drug called NZT, which enables him to remember every single detail of information that he's observed or experienced throughout his life and he pumps out--literally, overnight--a novel which prompts his editor to leave breathless messages of exalted praise on his voicemail. The drug also acts like an instant makeover so dude was soon looking sharp, glossed, glazed and decked out in finery--which the ex-girlfriend enjoyed to the point of reconciliation. Oh, and he had raucous sex with the landlord's wife.

Laughingly (like, through the tears), I could relate to the guy's immobility at first. I enviously scoffed at the proffering of some mighty drug to ease his writing woes and I might've even drooled a little about those post-brilliant-novel-submission editorial phone calls. But then what does the best-selling, uber-dapper, incomparably smart, sexgod writer want to do with his new superpowers?

Become a senator, of course.

This plot twist left me more depressed than ever. Because what, really, would be the end result to some magic pill that enabled me to be the superhuman writer/devastatingly beatific woman I've always wanted to be? Would I, too, be caught in the maelstrom of ambition, ultimately leading to aggrandized notions of power? And when I finally figure it out, what will allow me to think that I've really "made it"--that I am, at long last, "successful"? Not that this scenario is even close to happening anytime soon, as I can't even seem to find a proper coffeehouse to do this so-called writing I like to flagellate myself with. Apparently, it's the non-writing that I'm preferring to write about these days. Sigh.

Ah, to be a writer~ ain't it grand? And so, I dedicate this song to... me:

Depeche Mode - Strangelove (1987) by clp23

2011: You Snooze, You Lose

2012-01-02T16:22:00.000-08:00

The week before Christmas, somebody stole my bitchin' Camaro cruiser. Or, I should say, that week I discovered that it was gone--in all fairness, the evil thieves could have stolen it weeks ago and I'd just been too busy to notice. Although beloved, it was a rusty old bike that I secured with a cheap chain lock since I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to steal it. So when I came upon its now empty space on the rack, I was surprised--and also, not.

Aside from the loss of a stylish yet not too valuable ride (and the obvious pain of having your stuff taken by greedy, hell-bound strangers), the theft struck me a bit deeper because of the realization that I hadn't actually ridden my bike in months. And that for weeks I'd stopped even looking at it on my way to and from my car, thinking that I should go somewhere with the thing that I once so enjoyed.

Naturally, it made me think about my relationship with something else that I had let lapse: the writing. Ever since I left my full-time reporter gig at Pacific Sun--and probably, if I'm being really honest with myself, since I left Maui Time Weekly and days of Holoholo Girl columning four-and-a-half years ago--my writing has waned.

The desire to write has always been there, as I continue to observe every moment with a writer's eye, contemplating the right descriptive words and narrative angle. But when it comes time to the regular documenting of said moments, I've distracted myself with other things I felt were more important. Like, laundry. And walking the dog. Also, shopping. And watching really bad movies recommended by friends. And online research--lots and lots of research--about men's shoelaces and proper blush application and new restaurants in New Orleans and how to poach an egg and the latest celebrity gossip and who is this Tim Tebow person anyway?

I chalked it up to a lack of self-discipline. I suffered endless dinner parties and cocktail hours with friends and family expressing genuine interest in my writerly pursuits, only to provide them with an embarrassed shrug and downcast eyes, some mumbling about being busy doing research...

I've had consoling writer friends suggest that perhaps this is part of the writing process, that sometimes it takes a period of non-writing (and the living of life!) before you can pump out prolific pages of prose yet again. I even went to a tarot card reader, who advised that instead of waiting I should "make room" everyday for "the muse"--that she isn't going come on her own--and that perhaps the topical matter I've written about previously (I didn't tell her I was a reporter! Ooh, damn!) is no longer serving me now. Thespian proposed that we instigate a new "pre-dinner cocktail writing hour" at home, which worked well a couple of times...until the onslaught of attention his own career demanded (and new TV show) took over most of our together time.

And so. Here I am, after 10 months of unemployed freedom. While other friends have written books, relocated for exciting career developments and had babies, I had a book deal that fell through shortly after the second chapter was completed. I had a handful of freelance writing assignments and copyediting work, and helped Harborside Health Center launch their company newsletter. And while it's been its own kind of sloth-like fun, I wasted a lot of time--mostly, a lot of good writing time.

Writing is the most satisfying, mind-opening, soul-expanding, creative thing I've done with my life. And I don't want to one day wake up and realize that, like my bike, it's gone forever.

Complacency is soooo 2011.

Cheering up Andrew on New Year's Eve

2011-12-31T18:13:00.000-08:00

A New Year's Eve video feat. Andrew, who is sick and sad, and to whom I convince that doing laundry is exactly how we should be spending NYE.

MoSex and the City

2011-12-24T18:39:00.000-08:00

When Thespian and I visited New York City earlier this month, I also finally got to check out the Museum of Sex on a solo adventure. It was late in the day and starting to drizzle; I was tired, hungry, thirsty and I had already spent too much time walking in circles and eating really good espresso stout chocolate in SoHo, took the subway to Brooklyn when I meant to head to Chelsea, marveled at the good nature of native New Yorkers all the while avoiding asking them for directions as they seemed to think I actually belonged there. Which I did. I just didn't actually know where there was.

So by the time I got to the Museum of Sex--or, MoSex--I had about an hour and a half before they closed. Considering the magnitude and scope of what was to, er, come, by way of exhibits, I decided a drink was imperative. And they just so happened to have a place in the basement called OralFix Aphrodisiac Bar, which was a modestly sexy if sparse sort of industrial dungeon--more Marquis de Sade than seductive. I ordered a "New Orleans Brothel" (whisky, brandy and bitters, with an absinthe rinse) from the two young men discussing the making of quiche (I love NY!) behind the counter. While two slightly inebriated women (I think it's fair to say "cougars" here--trust me on this one) loudly discussed what they hoped to find upstairs, I hurriedly downed my cocktail and ventured forth.

The museum is small but expansive, split between several rooms on three thematic floors (not including the basement bar). The first level seemed to cover the history of sex and the moving image, with many posted descriptions to read, photos to see and videos to gawk at. The second floor consisted of erotic comics and various sexual ephemera (mostly fetishistic, mixed media), which was a welcome respite after the interesting but didactic first floor. I really appreciated the layout and subject matter but it was actually a lot to, uh, take in. By the time I reached the top floor, I was exhausted again--and out of time. Which was a damn shame, because after "The Sex Lives of Animals" (blech!), I found the most fascinating exhibit of all: "Obscene Diary," a showcase of the meticulously self-documented sexual life of professor, erotic writer, pornographer, tattoo artist, mid-century gay-stud-about-town--and longtime Oakland resident! Holla!--Samuel Steward.

It was amazing to me the depth by which Steward recorded details of his erotic life (especially in that particular era), which became so beneficial to the sex research of Alfred Kinsey. Anyway, like I said, I ran out of time and the guard was kinda looking at me sideways so I had to go. But I'm definitely going to check out Samuel Steward a bit more by book and video...

Here's another snippet of this intriguing dude:

Empire State of Mind

2011-12-22T20:57:00.000-08:00

"All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead." - the ever-so happy-go-lucky Samuel Beckett

Thespian also took random videos on his FlipCam, like when he was walking down the street or when we were getting ready to go see a Peter Brook-directed series of Samuel Beckett one-acts at the Baryshnikov Arts Center. And when we ate breakfast one morning in Central Park and listened to some dude on the saxophone playing "Careless Whisper." And the night I decided we should skip the crowds and check out Obama's Lighting of the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center way after it was lit.

And, of course, our closing shot...

I'll take Manhattan...

2011-11-29T13:12:00.000-08:00

I'm dizzy. Not from the ubiquitous revolving doors in NYC but really, just the sublime existence of the city itself. So much of everything is here. It can be over-stimulating. And yet, it's also a place that oddly clarifies whatever is happening in your life, in the simple act of looking out the window at the hustle and bustle of perpetually honking cars and cabbies, or by walking down a rain-slicked Midtown avenue that houses a global composite of eateries and shops and people. A marvelous kind of kinetic, creative energy seemingly permeates every window display, street corner hot dog stand, and impromptu conversation. Lights sparkle a bit brighter than expected. People are more open and friendly than you'd imagine. It's a city draped in red velvet and asphalt, all mahogany and stained concrete, wrought iron and black rubber, steeping in an aroma of burnt coffee and freshly baked bread.

You'll have to excuse my overly romantic notions of Manhattan. There is ugly here, too, of course. And harshness, sadness, anger, corruption, decrepitude, blah blah blah. I prefer to focus on the profound beauty of this place. The tiny nooks of inspiration. I craved it for so long I forgot that it's all around me, whenever I really open my eyes and breathe...

Big Apple: The O'Reilly Factor UPDATE

2011-11-29T11:23:00.000-08:00

Watch Thespian (@Andrew_DeAngelo) and his big bro (@SteveDeAngelo) on "The O'Reilly Factor" 8pm or 11pm ET/PT Wednesday on FOXNEWS!

The Big Apple, redux

2011-11-27T22:16:00.000-08:00

The last time was just a little over five years ago. (And it was so great, I had to write about it not just once but twice!) And here I am, back at an airport bar (my favorite!)--this time, in a wine bar at SFO--contemplating my return trip to New York City.

It'll be yet another whirlwind adventure, for sure. I'm catching the red eye to meet Thespian and his bro (and his bro's assistant and publicity manager), who are conducting yet another media frenzy thingamabob for their upcoming TV series ("Weed Wars," premiering this Thursday at 10pm on Discovery Channel and Discovery Fitness & Health). They're doing a bunch of print and radio interviews, as well as a couple TV talk shows (including "The O'Reilly Factor"! Eek! Watch Monday night at 8pm and 11pm EST/PST!).

I'm going to provide moral support for Thespian. And, you know, check his wardrobe and hair. Give some final words of encouragement. Kinda like a fluffer! Well, not like... OK, yes, sorta like that.

Anyway, while he's doing his professional cannabiz media stuff, I'll be traipsing around NYC, gloriously consuming that city of cities while trying not to look too freaking happy about it lest my cover as tourista be blown.

Wish me--and Thespian, his bro, his bro's assistant and publicist--luck!

(I'll post pics for these, uh, posts, when I return.)

Sweet dream...or a beautiful nightmare?

2011-09-06T19:05:00.000-07:00

So it's been four years since I left Maui. It was a hard move but one I felt needed to be made, in order to pursue--or continue pursuing--my writing career. But, like, on a bigger scale than sweet, small-island Maui could afford...

I should probably explain something first. When I refer to "writing," I'm not saying that my ultimate goal is to publish a factory of bestselling novels, which I pen from the balcony of my delightfully luxurious Manhattan penthouse suite, from the luxuriously delightful desk of a strapping young man's taut and toned and creamy smooth backside.

Although, of course, that would be fine, too.

Writing, for me--at least the kind that I enjoy most--means that I get to deepen my experience of living. It means that whenever I enter a situation, meet a person, eat a meal, have an emotion, think a thought, travel somewhere, get a new job, talk shit about my co-workers (I mean, er, WITH my co-workers), go out on a date, visit the parents, have sex (um, not in their house or anything), I have this format through which I can process and examine and share, sometimes appreciate, sometimes laugh at, sometimes cry over, these experiences. And what's important to me, I've discovered, is the possibility and hopefully achievement of connection. Such a hokey word, I know. But I want people to read something I've written and either relate to what I'm expressing, or be inspired to look at their own lives or to go out in the world and discover that thing (or restaurant or person or sexual endeavor) for themselves.

And so anyway, for whatever reason, the simple act of returning to Maui has elicited yet another checkpoint for me--reminding me of why I left, what I had there on that magicaldysfunctionalbeautifullazy utopia, how far I've come (or not) and where I'm at now--as far as the writing dream is concerned.

To review, the past four years:
- I spent the first three months broke, unemployed, cold, haunted and perpetually in my ratty bathrobe.
- The subsequent three months I worked in a big, corporate daily newspaper by day; by night, vulnerable to the vagaries of living with my parents and/or running into ghosts of my past in the Southern California desert.
- A couple more months of voluntary unemployment, albeit happily back in San Francisco, before accepting a return to alternative newsweeklydom in Marin County, home of the rich and environmentally progressive-as-long-as-it-didn't-interfere-with-pilates-or-Botox-procedures.
- Eventual selling of writerly soul in order to accept a higher paying gig (AGIRLSGOTTAPAYTHEBILLSOK??) in the medical cannabis industry.
- Soon after, newfound freedom in the form of paid unemployment--this time, happily, with an understanding and supportive partner, slightly warmer (in the East Bay), unhaunted, more than occasional freelance writing and editing gigs, but still with that damn bathrobe...

Not necessarily the "bigger scale" I set out to achieve. But still, with its own simple, cyclical blessings.

...

OK wait a minute... Did I really just quote Beyonce up there in the title? See what the mainland is doing to me?? Either way, I don't wanna wake up. Ahem.

My So-Called Life as a Reality TV Schlump

2011-03-25T09:23:00.000-07:00

I am notoriously camera shy, to put it mildly. To be fair, it's mostly a vanity issue--and I am not very photogenic. It's not that I think I am unattractive, it's just that I don't think my special "charm" that makes me somewhat aesthetically pleasing gets captured in a two-dimensional frame taken from a split-second of time. Plus, it feels forced, shallow--unreal, really. And so I have developed this obnoxious phobia, whereby I see a lens and become horribly, painfully, sometimes angrily...um...anti.

And so, imagine my shock and horror when, because of Thespian and his family's prolific role in the medical cannabis industry, I find myself in the middle of ongoing filming for a documentary-style, reality television series.

Of course I watch some reality TV shows. The affliction started with The Real World and went on to Blind Date, Miami Ink, American Idol, LA Ink, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Project Runway, So You Think You Can Dance, Top Chef, What Not to Wear, and yeah, okay, even America's Next Top Model, Rock of Love, Millionaire Matchmaker and The Bachelor. But I refuse to watch any bobbleheaded Housewives of... and Laguna Beach derivations--I have my scruples--because most of these shows play up to, as CBS News so aptly points out, "a hunger to watch people with no discernible talent, no discernible insights, but who are willing, eager to be seen and heard doing... nothing."

I have always said, there is no good reason for me to be on TV. I am a writer; I am mostly in my head, my wit and propensity for verbosity rarely comes out in public speaking situations, unless I am in a dive bar, amidst the slatternly good-natured drunks and creatively minded misfits with whom I comfortably associate. But none of that translates well for television. Not in a way that's suitable for the kids anyhow.

But, here we are. Because I am involved with a man who is immersed in a fascinating subculture that stirs up controversy, I, too, am getting caught up in the marijuana maelstrom...and over the next few weeks, I imagine that I will want to share with you (as I am wont to do) the process of having our lives taped, to find out what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting, um, medicated.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Embalming, racecars and Cirque du Soleil: Viva Las Looking for Love, Bachelor-style!

2011-01-31T22:50:00.000-08:00

A texted conversation during tonight's episode of "The Bachelor"...

ME: "Shawntel: My kind of girl. Emily: *sniff*. Michelle: Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

FRIEND: "Yeah Michelle is nuts!! Chantel is my fave."

ME: "She's all drunk right now. But still cute."

FRIEND: "Yeah... A little. They need to stop drinking."

ME: "No doubt. Ohmigawd women are craaaaazy!!!"

FRIEND: "It's soooo annoying, honestly in all the seasons I've watched the women on this one are the most dramatic!"

ME: "They've got it down to a science!

"I wish I could write about strains of pot in relation to various reality show characters. That would be TOO awesome."

FRIEND: "Seriously! Michelle would be Hindu Skunk!"

ME: "Hahahahaha! Ha!"

FRIEND: "Is Ashley O. even old enough to be in Las Vegas?

ME: "Oooh, our two ladies on the bed together, talking 'bout...ladies."

FRIEND: "This is f-ing stupid."

ME: "Yep, it's gonna take a whole bottle tonight, I think. Fucking show."

FRIEND: "Haha... So true! I'm enjoying some sparkling red wine."

...[LONG PAUSE, WHILE BRAD CONSULTS WITH HIS SHOW-APPOINTED PSYCHOLOGIST]

ME: "I think I want to be like Brad's therapist when I grow up."

FRIEND: "I missed it... I was too busy ordering shoes online."

Dear Cashiers of the World,

2010-12-23T19:19:00.000-08:00

I know your job sucks--especially during the holidays--but trust me, it sucks for most of us on the other side of the counter, as well. And if one more of you snot-nosed brats gives me attitude when I am clearly being nice and respectful to you, then you will only have yourself to blame for the bloody, tinselled, 50%-off, you're-lucky-you-have-a-job carnage that follows.

Merry X-mas.

Love,
Me

The Writing Process

2010-12-21T15:43:00.000-08:00

Wake up in a panic about the writing workload ahead. Lay in bed thinking about how to proceed. Get up, wash face and brush teeth--deliberately forego shower. Slap on clean-ish clothes from pile, go get extra-strength coffee. Return, eat leftovers or errant cookie. Sit down at desk, check emails briefly. Put on Pandora, classical. Open research sites but don’t read them. Stare at hard-copy outline. Take deep breaths. Stretch. Go to bathroom. Pluck eyebrows. Sit back down at computer. Check phone. Open work in progress, read latest paragraph. Change an adjective, delete a transition. Write next sentence. Consider failure at writing, contemplate photography. Look up word in thesaurus. Write another sentence. Check notes. Get a glass of water. Scan Facebook and Twitter. Write rest of paragraph, think it’s pretty good. Change mind 15 minutes later. Look up another word in thesaurus. Check fact online. Delete last sentence. Write down cool words that will never be used. Look at photos of subject. Review outline. Rewrite last sentence. Wonder how much everyone will hate what’s written. Write outline for next paragraph. Masturbate. Eat a piece of fruit. Call boyfriend. Repeat.

The autumn of my discontent...

2010-10-06T19:22:00.000-07:00

It's a week like any other week following two life-altering bombs dropped by close friends--one involving birth; the other, parental death--and some fairly innocuous digestive problem after an unfortunate late-night excursion to a dubious North Beach eatery. Fast-forward past my subsequent 36-hour colonic and a day languishing in front of bad daytime TV and a traumatic viewing of "Letters to Juliet," and witness me, weak-brained but at work, zombie-walking from meeting to meeting with rooms full of idealistic go-getters.

By the time the last meeting turned words to mush in my head, I was feeling the crash. It's that feeling one imagines is like in the movies, when a car flies off a bridge in slow-motion, brutally barreling into the dark, tumultuous waters, where it drifts poetically and with certainty into a never-ending abyss.

Yeah, like that. Full of cliches.

And so it was today that I mumbled my goodbyes, decided to forsake all plans to attend luminous Litquake events in the city, went straight home and crawled into bed, where I: a) pulled the blankets over my head and sighed gratefully, then b) wept for about 15 minutes for no reason, wondering if I was sad because I was sick or if I was sick because I was sad, then c) realized that my weeping and all of life's events in the past week was forcing me to address the same old problem I'd faced--to be honest, my whole life but more specifically, ever since I thought it would be a good idea to ditch my low-paying but full-time writing gig in what everybody was saying was a "dying industry" to launch myself into a "growing industry" in which I could help create history--oh, but I can't write about it. See, 'cause, there's an NDA we'd like you to sign...

OK, fine. There are lots of other things to write about. So what's my problem? Apparently, for me, the freedom to write about anything I want with no deadlines whatsoever is absolutely inhibiting. And so I find myself in this tragic spiral of feeling invisible at work, like I have no identity at all, so I live in a bubble of complacency, which kills my drive, and I feel lost and worthless--so I don't express myself at work. And I don't write.

Not birth, not death. Just the murky gray matter in between.

Homme...

2010-05-23T19:02:00.000-07:00

It's hard to be a man in this culture. I get it. I have a subscription to Esquire--I understand the complexities of finding the right loafer for the appropriate dinner jacket or sportscoat while attempting to not look too much like a douche, at the same time adhering to the protocols of balancing social mores and romantic obligations as you get older and reach higher platitudes of career goals vs. creative pursuits, all the while maintaining your individuality, assured sexuality, manlihood and graceful, unassuming maturity and being the kind of guy that other lesser-minded dudes (ie, your friends) still enjoy hanging around.

I understand all this. And I admire the delicacy by which certain men seem to so effortlessly achieve this balance--which is what I was thinking about when I saw George Clooney in a preview for The American. I couldn't help but marvel at how Clooney was able to capture the stark metaphorical narrative of the film solely in his face--in a simple, world-weary look. No doubt, he is the epitome of an Esquire man.

But then, a few minutes later, as I buckled in for the silly-Sunday-fun ride of Iron Man 2, I was even further astounded by the depth and breadth of life--and subsequently, the epic battle of Being A Man--that I saw in Robert Downey, Jr.'s eyes.

Without giving anything away, much of the film is locked on the peepers of a man trapped inside a metal suit as he fights for his life, against his "opponents" (which, notably, include himself), and in an effort to "save the world" and, quite possibly, win The Girl. Does he do it? Doesn't matter. Because, along the way, he IS a man. It's all there in his eyes.

Obviously, there's a bit of a correlation between RDJ, the actor, and his character in the Iron Man series, Tony Stark. Both have been handed a legacy--and likewise, seem simultaneously able to handle, and not-so-much handle, the pressures and stamina of such expectations. You see in his eyes a lot of years--years spent living hard and years spent thinking about how and when it all went wrong. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate that he's not trying to cover it all up (as so many men, especially in Hollywood, are apt to do) with Botox and strippers and calculated indifference.

What Downey, Jr. is so aptly able to capture aside from this hard-earned experience (and subsequent wisdom) as well as vulnerability, is a certain ability to convey a deeper understanding of what's really at stake--his soul. Yes, he's prone to self-destruction. Of course, he's narcissistic. Absolutely, he's sensitive and unpredictable--he's an artist! But also, he's a man.

And yeah, those wrinkles are hot. They'll go with any loafer or sportsjacket, as far as I'm concerned.

Tonight's the night...

2009-11-05T22:28:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-11-04T19:48:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-11-02T17:13:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-10-30T15:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-16T16:06:00.000-07:00

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)...

2009-09-23T20:08:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-09-23T15:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-10T16:43:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-08-25T18:23:00.000-07:00

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

Dammit.

Where the beef is...

2009-07-10T15:17:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-06-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-04-22T14:31:00.000-07:00

Happy Earth Day!

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

Going...going...gone green

2009-04-16T17:02:00.000-07:00

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...

2009-03-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

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??

2009-03-17T16:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-02-05T21:35:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-02-05T17:42:00.000-08:00

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...

2009-01-20T10:03:00.000-08:00

Happy Inauguration Day, everyone! YAYYYYYY!!!

-xo

Last call 2008...

2008-12-24T15:01:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-12-12T13:14:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-12-09T21:28:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-11-25T14:43:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-11-08T19:43:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-10-31T13:52:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-28T12:53:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-24T22:19:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-02T17:25:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-09-06T17:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-09-05T16:16:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-29T23:59:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-24T18:10:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-21T15:51:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-14T17:22:00.001-07:00

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...

2008-08-13T23:23:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-04T23:10:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-07-23T22:49:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-07-13T16:06:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-06-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

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.

Up on Turtle Creek Ranch...

2008-06-20T19:13:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, Thespian, his faithful hound Mango, and I took a bit of a road trip--about three hours on 101 through Marin and Sonoma counties, passing the odd but quaint towns of Ukiah and Willits, then past Laytonville, up and down an unpaved road to acres of private land with signs demanding a 5 mph speed limit, to get to the homegrown entrance and beauteous invite-only hippie commune campgrounds of Turtle Creek Ranch.

I hadn't been camping in eons--and certainly not since leaving Maui--but the grounds were so awe-inspiring, inundated with Hindu shrines, an art gallery, a dance floor with gargantuan projection screens and DJ booth where DJ Cheb i Sabbah spun later that night, a lounge for tea, yoga and conversation, and lots o' lovely hippie-type folk.

After Thespian successfully built an impressive love den (he's such a Cancer) in our REI tent, we dined on communal Indian fare and later connected our kundalini shakras and reached ananda down by the river...

Uh, can I get a ommmm...?

X marks the spot...

2008-06-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

I get letters periodically from a talented young writer that I used to, uh, know and coincidentally, helped get published.

(read: we used to fuck, I got him to write for Maui Time Weekly, and his enormous cock-fueled ego has been the bane of my existence ever since.)

So every once in a while, he sends me his writings. For the most part, they involve his strange-man-in-a-strange-land perusals that generally revolve around his haphazard seduction of a hot local girl. But also, they're just fucking good.

Anyway, his latest story involved the revelation that he's currently in L.A. under the loving care and financial guardianship of a lovely, successful Mexican woman 10 years his senior, who believes in his literary ability so much that she has decided to support him--and that all day long he ponders his writerly pursuits while masturbating to visions of the portly neighbor girl or some random telemarketer... all of which translates into yet another tale to send to me (and, I'm sure, countless other of his past femmes du jour) to torture me with. And what my dearest friend Krista doesn't understand because I don't yet understand is... why does it mean so much to me at all?

It goes beyond ex-lover jealousy (I believe it was me who decreed first that we weren't a match made in heaven) and it's not just fellow-writer envy (yes, he's got skills but wasn't it me ultimately who helped create the monster?)... it's something altogether more strange and disturbing.

I just hope that someday I can make peace with it... er, him.

Pink tuxedoes and the hatted cat...

2008-06-18T23:29:00.000-07:00

The birthday party was quite the spectacle, what with the Extra Action (see below), as well as the fire dancers, medical marijuana luminaries like Ed Rosenthal, colossal blunts that could rival the world's largest joint, a slide show, DJ's, and Thespian--resplendent in pink satin tuxedo--hosting a most excellent Roast/Tribute to this brother, with many special guests, including our own Elan doing a rollicking cannabis-lingoed rendition of Seuss's "Cat in the Hat."

Extra! Extra! Read all about it...

2008-06-18T22:45:00.000-07:00

You might've noticed (or not) my absence this past week, despite all my planning to deter such inaction...

On the contrary, I have been in the throes of extra action, my friends-- as in, the Extra Action Marching Band-- a 25-piece sex-cacophony of sights, sounds and mayhem that dear, dear Elan hired for the monstrous to-do that was the 50th birthday of his medical cannabis activist boss (and Thespian's big bro), at the Oasis Nightclub in downtown Oakland last Thursday.

Extra Action is something everyone should experience at some point in their lives... more than just a marching band, though an excellent one at that, they are a boozy, crazy, dark carnival of symphonic delights, led with wild abandon by a team of hyper-gorgeous be-wigged dancing floozies (the photos above are NOT actually from that night but from their official website) who whip the crowd into an orgiastic frenzy.

It's all become a bit of a blur by now but suffice it to say that... I so totally want to be one of those hot spangled floozies when I grow up...

More yoga is definitely in order.

I scream for ice cream...

2008-06-11T23:58:00.000-07:00

Kind of a trying Wednesday... forgive me if I don't feel like elaborating right now as I seek to process and absorb it all but... it sorta seemed like an all-day Chinese Water Torture in learning how to take constructive criticism.

But really, I'm thankful for the lessons.

Doesn't mean I don't still need to console myself with some Honey Lavender Vanilla and Latin Jazz (chocolate with chiles) at Fairfax Scoop!

Mmm...

The pussies know...

2008-06-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

Trying to take a cue from my leisurely neighbors...

Sweet NINspiration...

2008-06-08T13:25:00.000-07:00

What I'm currently re-reading: The Diary of Anais Nin, volume one 1931-1934.

And here's why I feel like Nin, reincarnated (although she died way after I was born but whatever--details shmetails):

P. 65: "If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation."

P. 89: "I too am interested in evil, and I want my Dionysian life, drunkenness and passion and chaos; and yet here I am, sitting at a kitchen table and working with Henry on the portrait of June, while Fred is making a stew."

P. 92: "But why am I not satisfied with my achievements then? Because, originally, what I truly wanted was a life of pleasure, luxury, travel, adulation, adventures."

Word.

Sexual SAMantics...

2008-06-07T23:13:00.000-07:00

I hate the word "horny." And it's rather unfortunate because it's a state I find myself in quite often. But I just find the word so abhorrent; I just can't bear to utter it.

For me, "horny" conjurs Porky-esque frat-boy images and guffaws, or sleazy old men in trenchcoats at the video booth in the dirty city porn shop. The word feels decidedly unfeminine, and yet, the concept of being "horny" most definitely applies to the greater sex. I mean, hello.

But what other descriptives do we have to describe this highly desirous state? Excited? Hot? Mmm, yes, but a bit vague for when you do truly feel "horny"; sometimes a girl does not want to be unclear about this... Excited about what, honey? Oh, should I turn on the A/C? et al.

Okay, so what about "frisky"? Yeah... but it makes me wanna play with a ball of yarn or something--and it's just not very grown-up.

This leaves those of us with the particular "horny"-phobia to come up with more creative ways to express our lust. Or, to simply show it. And that's fine, I guess.

I just think we have a new gap to fill. Er...

You know what word I also detest? Masturbation. And again, no other word or term really quite does the trick. But I'll save this rant for another day, as all this sexual lingo is making me, uh...

??!

Peace, love and harmony...

2008-06-06T23:59:00.000-07:00

After work, I drove up north for the big, 3-day hippie convention known as The Harmony Festival at the Sonoma County Fairgrounds in Santa Rosa. Actually, the extravaganza was host to some cool world music, like from Lila Downs, Angelique Kidjo and Yungchen Lhamo, as well as Arrested Development, George Clinton and some other boheme peeps, tribal/trance DJs and didjeridoo players.

I went to check out the Eco Village, which was supposed to be the center for all the latest in earth-friendly technologies for potential Pacific Sun green story ideas. The generous PR folk gave me an all-weekend, all-access pass for it and everything, so I scoped out my pal Elan, whose medical marijuana dispensary, Harborside Health Center, had a booth in the Goddess Grove.

He gave me a tour of the immense site of hippie regalia, vendors and food--surprisingly, we had some of the best oysters ever, Elan rocked out some killer leather wear from an awesome German couple, I discovered a slew of fairly awesome lingerie, and then we bounced from backstage at the Mickey Hart Band stage (boring) over to the backstage of George Clinton and P-funk (krazy-ass tour buses!).

All in all, it was kinda fun. But I didn't wanna stay the weekend, so I passed off my pass to a cool chick and bailed.

It's not really my scene, you know.

A red hot plan of action, man...

2008-06-05T22:15:00.000-07:00

More blogging, less lagging, needs to happen here. I really want this space to be a more all-encompassing arena for sharing what I see, hear, do, read, think, feel, eat and drink...

Okay, so here's how it's gonna go down:

Freewheelin' Fridays: LOCAL CULTURE--this'll be whatever crazy/cool shit's happening around the Bay Area... hopefully some of which I'll actually do one of these days...
Freelove Saturdays: LOVE&SEX--yep, a chance for me to divulge all the hot and dirty details of, you know, somebody else's love life... okay, maybe sometimes my own... yeah right so it'll be all about me so what it's my blog...
Freepress Sundays: BOOKS/MAGS/WEBSITES--the stuff I've read recently or that's worth your perusal... not necessarily one and the same, of course...
Freezeframe Mondays: PHOTOS--random pics and archival footage of the people, places and things in my world...
Freetime Wednesdays: MUSIC/FOOD/FILM/TV--what's currently inspiring and/or distracting me from doing the more necessary, tedious chores of my happy-ass struggling writer-chick existence...
Freestyle Thursdays: Yes, that's right. That means this entry actually counts as the first... ha HA!

See you tomorrow!

Just stealin' hubcaps, as usual...

2008-06-02T22:39:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was lovely--a beautiful, sunshine and watermelon three-day Memorial Day weekend. Thespian even got Sunday off, which meant we were going to have a whole day together--the first since our fab stay at the Viceroy in Palm Springs back in November. At first, there was talk of us taking off with Mango (Thespian's adorable Visla, pictured top) to a cozy cabin with a hot tub in the redwoods up north... then it was all about finding a hotel room in the city and checking out the Power Exchange...

Anyway, we ended up staying close to home and having one of the best meals of our datedom at Oliveto Saturday night. Then the next day we (along with Mango) headed to Golden Gate Park and a nicely rockin' barbeque with an excellent sound system and DJ (pictured middle), and an ice luge with Acai liquor and organic vodka, and a keg of caffeinated microbrew of some sort.

Then some dude was trying to flirt with me only he was a pompous meathead and was trying to brag about being from Marin and living in Mill Valley all his life and how it's so affluent and nice that he doesn't have to worry about locking his doors. So then I piped up and said, "Oh, yeah? Well, I work in San Rafael and just had my hubcaps stolen" to which he replied, straightfaced and with much seriousness, "Well, that's because there are a lot of MEXICANS there."

Chicken soup for the hot, not-so-young, single, menstrual, crampy, writer-chick (who-doesn't-write-as-much-as-she-should)'s soul

2008-05-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took the ferry from Jack London Square to the SF Ferry Building then ended up walking 5 million miles to Zeitgeist (Duboce and Valencia) which I got confused with Toronado (lower Haight) which is where I was actually supposed to meet Elan who was at the time rear-ending a brand new Mercedes. In the process I got serious burns on my shoulders, neck and (big surprise) cleavage and am now in supreme discomfort which was complemented not so nicely by the severe cramps which led to today's major activity, as shown above: red table wine, stinky cheese, dark chocolate, fresh pear and one of my favorite books.

In bed.

Oh, my blooming passionflower...

2008-05-11T18:20:00.000-07:00

(Continued, from previous "blue" blog..)

Once I got outside my front door, I said hello to the orange tabby cat who often lounges on the stoop, and I was likewise inspired to do the same.

Although it had been a chilly, fog-ridden morning, as I sat on the first step and leaned my head against the wall next to my door, I noticed the sun had broken through and was now warming my cheeks. I closed my eyes and sighed, listening to the sounds of the 'hood...

Surprisingly, there were birds--loudly but sweetly singing on the telephone lines overhead. The faint sounds of laughter in the house next-door. And the distant train-squeal of BART, and a car alarm going off on the next street over. Still, blissful, for Oakland...

I opened one eye and noticed the huge lavender bush in front of me, how a bee drunkenly made its rounds from bloom to bloom. I pinched the top of one of the lavender blossoms and breathed in its soft, sultry fragrance...

The cat seemed to notice my floral appreciation, and took the moment to stretch out even more langorously, under the shade of two cactus plants in terra cotta planters. I swear he was smiling, Cheshire-like...

Suddenly, it dawned on me what I had been thinking about, a year ago on Maui, when I was contemplating the big move here. I remember thinking that I was becoming more and more interested in going someplace where I could discover the hidden beauty in the cracks of ugliness surrounding me, rather than what I perceived Maui to be, at the time the complete opposite.

And then I also remembered a quote, cheesy but true, that "Life's greatest journey is the one you take within yourself."

So yeah... while I sat there on my porch, with the sun warming my face, the lavender sprouting beside the concrete of my driveway, and the cat teaching me something about really relaxing, I guess I realized that I had not only found some of that beauty right outside my front door, but it also reminded me to keep looking for those places within myself, too.

Crazy for feeling so blue...

2008-05-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

I had one of those days today, where I had every intention of chilling at home, quiet-like, so that I could meditate and reflect and be at peace with myself...

Also, I wanted to serenely watch a series of Indie Sex docs I got off Netflix, eat all the veggies I scored from Berkeley Farmers Market (pictured, top) and Pagan Festival (pictured, below) yesterday, and maybe even indulge in a midday glass of Two-Buck Chuck.

But all that was thwarted--not by my pretty little neighbor's loud stereo playing, as I was so quickly wont to blame. No, rather my desire to enjoy a relaxing day at home was completely derailed by moi, and my incessant proclivity to overthink and spin myself into a frenzy about absolutely nothing.

I have been conflicted lately--about my position in the world, yes, and about how quickly (or not, as my hyper-self-critical voice often says) I'm achieving the goals I've set out for myself by coming back to California--but mostly about the current relationship (or not, as is the non-question with which I'm torturing myself) with Thespian.

And the fucked-up thing is, there's really no real conflict here: we have a terrific time together, with great sex and conversation and fun cultural activities, and while we each obviously have our own personal dysfunctions, we don't seem to employ games or bouts of jealousy or meanness or anything unhealthy with each other. It's a very adult-like, easy-going, lovely... uh, thing.

Which, I guess, is why I like to murk things up a bit, on my free-to-be-me day off.

So more specifically what's been sort of on my conscience is the fact that a dear friend of mine is soon coming to visit. He's the kind of friend with whom I've cultivated a crush on for a very long time, but had never the appropriate non-relationship status to investigate at length. And so, I believe, we both naturally assumed that this particular visit would be the time and place for this long-repressed consummation--which should be a good thing. Right?

But then there's Thespian. And I mean, look... we don't have any mutual exclusivity agreements yet. In fact, I'm fairly certain Thespian would be less than enthusiastic about defining parameters at the moment, which really isn't as bad as it sounds and I completely understand where he'd be coming from. I'm sort of there myself.

Oh, I know, I know... you're thinking one of those "talks" is in order, right? So that we're both clear about where we stand with each other and wouldn't that be the solution to end my hypothetical torments and such? Yeah, but uh, no. You see, we've really only been dating this round (read: obstacles related to various relocations and legalities we've both been dealing with on our own) for about six weeks. I hardly think now's the time to do all that "what are we doing" bullshit.

Ah, but the fact remains that I'm getting attached. This is an okay thing, really--I've already gotten over the fact that I am not a modern day Anais Nin, as much as I might like to think that sounds so very glamorous... I suppose it's okay that I don't care to complicate this thing with Thespian by having a week-long acrobatic-sexathon with my visiting friend. But do I really want to give that option up, this early in the game and knowing what Thespian's feelings on monogamy have been in the past, even despite what I feel is happening between us?

Elan, of course, thinks I should have the talk. And he has his points. But then he put that bug in my ear: "How do you know he's not seeing other people RIGHT NOW?"

And that's exactly what I was trying to avoid thinking about; it's really just what I don't what to know or have to imagine or wonder when he says come at 8, not 7, or look at the rumpled sheets on his bed and try to recall if they looked that way when I left this morning. Six weeks is not enough time for that, says my inner psycho.

So there I am, mentally working up my greedy-duplicitous-ambiguous-sensitive-loving Piscean frenzy with myself.

I made the girl-mergency call to Krista, who instructed me to take a walk. I made it as far as the front door...

(To be continued, in next blog "Oh, my blooming passionflower...")

Somethin' fishy this way comes...

2008-05-09T08:39:00.000-07:00

Went to see this fantastic gypsy-jazz-punk band, called Fishtank Ensemble, at this gorgeous little theatre in Mill Valley (a very affluent town in Marin that's chock full of white folk and feels a little Stepford Wives-ish). The band was killer, made up of all these young, hot musicians who play stand-up bass, accordian, Flamenco guitar, this tall crazy red-headed boy who rocked the Japanese Shamisen, this freaking mindblowing violinist dude, and a little chick who played the saw and sang her heart out in Romanian and English. She was rad.

So I will most likely be following them around for awhile, as they are (of course) a Bay Area band. Check out their MySpace page here.

It's all fun and games until...

2008-04-15T21:43:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I'm in a funk. It happens every once in awhile, you know. Okay, so usually it is hormonally related but still. That doesn't mean the alleged cause of it isn't relevant.

This time, I could blame its onset on my dear friend Elan. You see, the rat bastard went to Maui with his buddy Rick for a week, which is all fine and good... really. Just DON'T SEND THE PHOTOS (top, bottom). For fuck's sake.

ASshole.

But that's fine. I WANT him to have a good time. On Maui. In the sun. And the warm, crystal-clear blue water. Actually, I'm quite hoping he gets, um, lei'd (there's only so many instances you can use that gag, people, and I'm just bitter enough to do it). Meanwhile, I have been having a very good time with Thespian.

We have been spending quite a lot of time together lately, Thespian and I, even before Elan bailed for Heineken Island. And it's been quite lovely. There was the beautiful and amazing Afro-Peruvian Susana Baca show at the Brava Theatre, followed by a dimly lit, late-night supper at the stylishly haute Slow Club in SF. Mmm...

Then there was a fabulous steak-and-oysters dinner in Marin at the slightly stuffy-esque but very good Buckeye Roadhouse, which we were supposed to follow up with a cool "History of New Orleans Jazz" thing at the Boyer Theatre in Mill Valley, but we were so enjoying a 2003 bottle of Donati Meritage--and each other's company, I think (okay, don't puke now--I deserve to have these moments, fuckers), that we missed the show entirely. Ahh...

AND also, my first feature cover story for The Pacific Sun came out last week. "Yesterday's Papers" (or, "Life During Wartime," as it appears on the website photo) is a Q&A I had with media critic and political activist Norman Solomon. I found Norman to be engaging and inspiring, and I actually learned a lot from him. So I was happy--but anxious, as I always am before a big story comes out--to have written about him.

So yeah, life is good.

But...

Home, home on the räcka...

2008-04-12T12:18:00.000-07:00

And naturally, because he has money and needed to decorate his fabulous new pad, Elan needed to be introduced to the world of Ikea...

Ikea, for those of you who do not know, is an experience. It's sort of like the Disneyland of Swedish interior decorating and design. And it's cheap. Or, at least, each item is affordable-- the trick is to make it out of Ikea's two massive floors of bed, bath and beyond without a cartload of shit you didn't know you needed, and will have to assemble later.

Check out this Yelp-er dude Tony V.'s review (which, by the look on Elan's face at the end of our three-hour stint, is shared by many males):

"Have you ever had an ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend that you broke up with a long time ago, but continue to have the hate sex because you don't have anything better or you don't know any better? That's exactly what Ikea is to me. Shopping there is a tension headache inducing swift kick in the balls but I go there every couple of year anyway. Why? I guess I don't know any better. Or I think I can't do any better for the amount of effort and money I'm willing to invest. Just like hate sex with an ex-girlfriend."

Oh! And the CNB's...

2008-04-12T11:47:00.000-07:00

So... I don't know if I might've mentioned this before but Elan moved into a new apartment, shortly before I landed my studio a mere half-mile away. And his place is sort of like a male Melrose Place. He lives in a cozy gated compound with another apartment building housing four very cute, single, young dudes. Needless to say, they LOVE Elan (most people do) and come over to hang at his pad seemingly more than they hang at their own. But they are very nice. A little too young for me but still. And anyway, Elan and his Cute Neighbor Boys (i call them "the CNB's") share a big courtyard, where they've set up a firepit and a large screen projector for "movie nights." Here's our first of many...

... and the this and that...

2008-04-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

Yep. He's also been taking me to random bars (top, can't remember the name--there have been many) and this great--and I mean GREAT (believe me, I was skeptical, coming from Hawaii) neighborhood sushi joint called Koryo in North Oakland...

The settlin' in...

2008-04-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

Right. So living in the East Bay has been kinda rad. And Elan's been pretty awesome about showing me around. Like, to the flea markets... where I find hidden treasures, such as this vintage vibrator (top) and this handy female urinal (bottom)...

...Red hot addendum...

2008-04-05T08:50:00.001-07:00

By the way, I just found out that van belongs to our awesome art director, Beth Allen, who heads up this fantastic cool-van website called, Don't Come Knockin'. She let me check out her "Red Hot" shaggin' wagon's interior and it's all floor-to-ceiling black and red shag with a faux leopard fur dashboard and hanging dice. She's rad... the van, yes--but Beth, too. And, of course, she plays electric 'uke in a band called, Pineapple Princess (that's her on the right in the site's photo).

I feel so lame all of a sudden.

Red hot, baby...

2008-04-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

Sex on the brain is making work today very difficult...

My lovely friend Krista has a term she made up--"vagina eyes"--for when her eyes are all puffy after crying or not getting any sleep. However, I believe my own personal definition of "vagina eyes" is when, like today, I am so overcome by ambiguous sexual desires that I see everything lustfully...

Like this van--isn't it hot??

All or nothing...

2008-03-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

What up, homies?! This past week as been ker-azee, what with looking for a place to live (yeah, finding "affordable" digs in San Francisco--a whole 'nother story entirely!), getting reacquainted with Thespian, then the finding of a place to live (uh, in Oakland--a real cozy neighborhood in northern Oakland called "Temescal"), then the helping Elan outfit his apartment he just moved into, then my own moving and gathering all my junk from the four spots I had it all stashed, then the starting of the new job...

By the way, the new job kinda ROCKS!

They're being really nice to me and starting me off slow, so this week's issue has just a few things of mine in it: Newsgrams (blurbs about Marin-based stuff), Hero-Zero (real short shout-outs of good vs. evil), and Best Bets (calendar picks, basically).

You can check it here:

www.pacificsun.com

10. Oh, happy day!!!

2008-03-15T16:17:00.000-07:00

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Yeah. Ahh....

So, my hysteria happily cured, I reached Palm Springs and the comfort of my parents' welcoming open arms (and liquor cabinet), and nestled into the warmth of their hospitality and love... after a couple cocktails at Shame on the Moon, of course.

And in the morning, I got the call that I'd been waiting for.

"Samantha, this is Jason Walsh from The Pacific Sun. I'd like to formally offer you the job..."

Can I get a hallelujah?

Amen.

(The Pacific Sun is an over-40-year-old, award-winning alternative newsweekly based in San Rafael, with a focus on Marin County. The job I accepted is for their one and only staff writer position, which I believe entails general features reporting, and it starts March 20. Wish me luck!)

9. The crash and burn...

2008-03-15T16:10:00.000-07:00

And then Sasha returned and I was feeling a strange disconnect with our friendship, (but knew I'd be needing to stay a bit longer so that was making me feel guilty); I had a birthday that went largely unnoticed, I still wasn't having any luck finding a steady, PAYING, professional writing job (although I had a few lovely interviews that turned into more possible freelance gigs) and NOBODY was volunteering to give me a free pelvic massage. Not even at the Lucky 13. What's so "lucky" about that??

(I don't have a photo to go with this entry. I think it suits the stark nature of the content anyway, don't you?)

So... I decided it was a fine time to take an extended weekend trip down to Palm Springs, and along the way, I would stop over at the childhood home of an ol' DJ friend of mine from Hawaii who'd recently moved back to the mainland to care for his grandmother...

7. Vacation's all I ever wanted...

2008-03-15T15:45:00.000-07:00

And while Sasha was away for three weeks on her European adventure, I took a mini-vacation myself, along with trusty old dog lady companion Philly, on our many Alamo Square Park walks overlooking the city I was now calling home...

8. Strep throat, discrimination and a sad case of hysteria...

2008-03-15T15:44:00.000-07:00

I've been getting sick about once a month since I moved to the mainland six months ago, but then I got sick, really sick, twice in February--the last time being that I felt like I had broken marbles in my throat and couldn't swallow or breathe, really, while sleeping, which would mean I could choke and, like, DIE... so I went to SF General, which has an Urgent Care facility that treats uninsured and unemployed folk like myself... and, when I finally got in to see the doctor, she examined my throat and made concerned noises then said she had to go get an "abcess specialist," which kinda scared me but whatever and then the "specialist" came in and took a peek at my tonsils and made more concerned noises and then, without uttering a word to me, turned to the doctor and said, "Does she speak English?"

(Okay, this one-sentence summation thing is getting to be bullshit so I'm gonna go ahead and drop that now. Thanks)

Anyway, they ended up giving me another shot of Penicilin in my ass, and a prescription for Vicodin (yippee!) for the pain, and, I think, to numb me from the debilitating effects of being linguistically misread by a mere glance of my poor, tired, jobless Hispanic visage.

Oh, and also? Nobody wanted to have sex with me while I was coughing up custard so after six weeks or so, this resulted in a fairly serious bout of FEMALE HYSTERIA and I was in desperate need of some hysterical paroxysm. Or just paroxysm. I definitely needed an "ysm," in other words...

6. The eats is good, too.

2008-03-15T15:33:00.000-07:00

I've been eating at some awesome spots, too, doing the dining reviews for Gayot.com, and also hanging out with Elan, who likes all things Belgian, like this popular spot on Valencia called Frjtz, which has killer fries with dipping sauces such as white-truffle-artichoke-ketchup, strawberry mustard and ginger orange mayo.

5. The art is good...

2008-03-15T15:21:00.000-07:00

And I saw tons of great art all over the place, especially in unexpected places, like this random exhibit across from the Bottom of the Hill, which Sasha and I used to describe how we felt about some chaotic multi-instrumental (a fiddle, an accordian, an electric 'uke, a trombone, two guitars and a drummer) band we just saw.

4. The swilling and swooning...

2008-03-15T15:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, there was much drinking done at the ole Lucky 13 with longtime SF buds (and former Western Addition studio roommates of mine, circa 1998) Jeff and Bob (pictured, top), as well as a moderate deal of flirting on my part with the ever-so-charming bar regulars (also pictured, bottom).

3. And the beat goes on...

2008-03-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

Of course, I saw lots of other amazing live music that didn't involve Sasha's roommates, like this kickass old band from the '60s called Blue Cheer (some would consider them the pioneers of heavy metal and stoner rock) that put on one of the tightest, rockingest shows (at the Red Devil Lounge--also, a really cool venue) that I've seen in a long time (they completely blow 75% of modern rock bands out of the water); an impromptu rehearsal jam session by a young string sextet (coulda been septet, I forget now) at Mission's uber-hip and marijuana-laden Revolution Cafe; and then there was also this awesome blues guitarist at the Civic Center BART Station.

Because you're miiiine...

2008-03-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

Last night at Merchants while nursing Elan's recent heartbreak, we discovered our number three all-time songs (Elan's is Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher," mine is Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell on You"), met a dude from Chicago who comes out on Amtrak every two weeks for one night only, my phone died shortly after taking this photo inside the bar, some white hip-hop dude was all in my mix, and I am bold enough to declare Duran Duran's "Rio" as my #4.

Okay, now back to the catch-up countdown...

Uh-oh... see, this is exactly what happens...

2008-03-14T20:35:00.001-07:00

I'm gonna have to abort mission on the pictoral catching-up for now...

Fuck. Just when I thought I'd try to catch up on this shit and I get beckoned to Merchants dive bar in Oakland to join Elan, who is currently drowning his sorrows after breaking up with his really cute chick in Sacramento... Hmm... this could get scary... (I'll send a photo on this later, I swear).

2. Musical chairs...

2008-03-14T20:24:00.000-07:00

Went to many indie rock shows, usually performed by one of Sasha's talented musician roommates, Dan (a very cute drummer with a legion of groupies) and Jen (a very lovely vocalist and cellist who performs in something like 8 or 9 bands in the Bay Area, but yeah, like, not all at the same time).

1. Sharks on crack...

2008-03-14T19:57:00.000-07:00

Moved into Sasha's room and met her cute but boisterous friend Alix; tagged along on many drunken 20-something dive bar crawls featuring much air-guitar performed with skinny-jeaned legs, pool-humping with DJs, and bare-breasted photo booth action.

I've been naughty...

2008-03-14T19:48:00.001-07:00

Crazy that I can't keep my blog shit regular when I have all this time on my hands. Well, whatever--I figured the best thing I could do for you, my neglected reader friends (or whoever's left, at this point) is provide a pictoral summation, or, a one-sentence play-by-play of what the hell I've been doing in the past month or so... yeah, let's just make it since I moved back to San Francisco at the end of January.

Here we go...

Muck and roll...

2008-02-19T21:04:00.000-08:00

Alright, it's official: I'm certifiably restless. And it's in the worst way.

Today I resigned myself to hankering down and tending to my oft-neglected side-job, updating the East Bay/North Bay database for Gayot.com, of which I am paid very little but does give me a slight insight into the culinary aspect of my surroundings albeit by much Internet research (i.e. I am on my computer all day, not eating or actually seeing any said "surroundings"). Needless to say, by 3 o'clock, I was bored enough to attempt further investigation into this whole "napping" phenomenona all the successful business schmucks seem so high-and-mighty about.

Despite my 45 minute-alarm clock, I woke up at 5, ravenous and bad-tempered. The term "howling at the moon" comes to mind, but not in the trashy-sexy, Coyote Ugly kind of way. I'm thinking grittier, more primal, maybe more tragic-comedy like "American Werewolf in London" circa 1981.

And it was bad--helpless bad, as in, I didn't know where to go or what to do. But I knew before anything that I had to take the dog (Sasha's, "Philly) for a walk first. And as we crossed the street--me, head down and hellbent toward the park--a car came barrelling right at us, high-speed. My heart jumped out of my chest as I thrust myself between the menacing vehicle and my furry cohort, yelling.

The car screeched to a stop. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry," said the woman inside. "But it's dark, and you're wearing black."

Yes, I muttered and moved along to the other side. Figures, I thought to myself. Nobody can see me. Isn't that appropriate?

Back in the saddle, again...

2008-02-05T23:07:00.000-08:00

So anyhoo... I'm back in San Francisco now. And it sure feels good!!

Once again, I don't have an editorial-type job lined up--YET. But the difference is, I feel much more relaxed and confident that it's gonna happen... that it's meant to happen.

I'm less freaked out now being away from Maui than when I first set foot on the Mainland in August. (Can you believe it's been six months?? It feels like six years.) And getting the newsroom job in Palm Springs showed me that I am, indeed, hireable... despite my fears to the contrary after two-and-a-half months spent in my bathrobe walking around my freezing-ass, haunted, doomed apartment in SF's Inner Sunset waaaay back in September.

Oh, but I do have a couple freelance gigs--I've still got the restaurant reviews to do in the East Bay and Marin for Gayot.com, which is great in that I'll be dining out more, but the pay's not so great.

The second freelance gig I scored is for a BLOG at an exciting new website about shoes and the women who love them--it's called Shoetube.tv. If you click on the link for "BLOGS," then go to "Fun & Funky," I have two blogs: "Slippin' Into the Future, Part One" (1/25) and "Slippin' Into the Future, Part Two" (2/5).

I have posted the picture here that you'll see on the Shoetube site that's associated with me, so as not to confuse you too much. And um... it's a wig, by the way--not the effects of being in Southern California too long. However, one can only imagine the ravages that peroxided hell would've spurned on my psyche and hairline over time...

It should be noted that my Plan B, upon careful consideration by my Hispanic friends, is for me to ditch the writing thing and be a Telemundo chick. I argue that my inadequate language skills in that area may pose a problem. Their solution: Mexican porn. Hmph. How rude.

Ah, well. Consider it Plan C.

And then the very good stuff...

2008-02-05T21:59:00.000-08:00

Here's a list of the cool shit I did in my last two weeks of Palm Springs:

1. I wrote about and met this awesome chick, Audra Mae, who performed at another Upright Cabaret production, which I, of course, went to and they sat me at a table of fabulous gays from Austin, TX, so naturally I fell head over heels in love with the hot boy who sat next to me, who was there with his boyfriend. I also learned that gay men do sometimes have straight crushes so there's that. Anyway, all the performers were awesome. I laughed, I cried, I flirted mercilessly with unavailable men... just another night. Here's some photos somebody else took.

2. Went on a date with high school boyfriend #83. And it was... really cool. I think I might've actually shortchanged the man previously, because he ended up being rather great. Who knew old guys could be so much fun?

3. My mom and her friend took me to this AMAZING place in the high desert by Joshua Tree called Pioneertown (pictured above). It's basically this old movie set they used for Westerns in the late 1940's. I'm totally gonna go back and stay at the Motel (that's the "office" pictured above, next to the truck) and write a book, Hunter S. Thompson-style, while I'm drunk from time spent at Pappy & Harriet's (that's the women's restroom pictured there, too).

In memorandum...

2008-02-05T21:46:00.000-08:00

It wasn't all bad, of course!

The people I worked with were lovely, and the surrounding scenery was, well, scenic and stuff. I learned A LOT about how daily news conglomerates are run. I also met some very interesting people during the course of the job. And I learned how Gannett reporters are treated--very well, actually--in a small town...