Dude, where's my tsar?

PHOTOS BY JAMES HALL

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you plant it, they will come...

Happy Earth Day!

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

Going...going...gone green

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

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

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

Love and chocolate...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and this:

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

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

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

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

And the darkness, so delicious...

My God! What have I done??

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

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

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

Forgive me?

Vive vacaciones!

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

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

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

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

Of mycelia and men...

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

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