For the love of Dirty Words...

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

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

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

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

Quote of the week...

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

Not missin' my school daze...

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

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

Looking California, feeling Minnesota...

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

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

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

Ball of confusion...

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

And we thought it was just dust. How pedestrian.

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

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

A woman of culture and taste...

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

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

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

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

Here's this week's batch of random:

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

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

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