MyAdultLand

Warning: this is bound to be the lamest blog post I’ll ever write — or that you’ll ever read. And I know there to be some fierce competition for that title out there. But I’m having far too glorious a time of late to be bothered with things like reflecting or writing (except for assignments, of course). But it’s been a while, and my conscience is nagging at me. So I’m giving it a go. Proceed at your own risk…

Call it Summer School in Myadultland. The little lessons I’ve learned this past season. I may never draw upon this newfound wisdom, or perhaps I will. Either way, the learning was fun. And I am happy to share with you, gentle reader.

Have you seen my sunnies?

1. DO NOT: DRINK AND DIVE. Let me explain. Beach town of Westerly, RI with my cousin, her daughters (roughly my age), their young sons, etc. The beach is peppered with hairy men who look like the cast of the Sopranos, some of whom are looking at me, the only natural blonde in sight (in a bikini yet), with those porkchop eyes. I go into the ocean — some wine in me, but what the hell, I’m just rinsing off here — with my nephew-once-removed or however that works, who is 7. He demonstrates his expertise at jumping UP just as the waves break. So I’m going broaden the kid’s horizons and introduce him to diving UNDER the wave as it breaks. Of course I’m in my prescription Ray Ban Wayfarers, as I hadn’t planned on full immersion. With those Soprano guys on the shore, my one and only priority was to emerge from my wave diving with my top (and its contents) in place. Which I did magnificently the first two dives. The third one… well, the wave came rather fast and it was a biggie. I pulled off my Wayfarers rather hastily, thus didn’t have a very good grip. And when I went to do the mandatory bikini top adjustment before standing up and turning to face the shore… gone (the sunglasses that is, not the bikini top). The saddest part of this story is that it’s extremely unlikely anyone’s gonna benefit from my loss (a/k/a my stupidity). For though they were classic frames, the lenses are for someone who is ridiculously nearsighted. Oh well. Those glasses and I had a good 12 year run together. I always wanted aviators anyhow.

Tourists: Almost always in a good mood.

2. DO: SOMETHING UBER GEEKY-TOURISTY WHEREVER YOU LIVE: I myself visited — for the first time in my many years here in Frisco (yes, I said “Frisco”; deal) — THE CABLE CAR MUSEUM). Do it on a day whe there are lots of tourists there. Bask in their sense of privilege in being there at that place, at that time. Your city or town.

Flame & Citron: I hear it's good.

3. DO NOT: WASTE YOUR TIME OR MONEY GOING TO SEE A DANISH FILM ABOUT NAZIS WITH A SEXY UKRANIAN* WHO HAS  A TENDENCY TO REST HIS HAND BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS. First of all, Danish movies about Nazis require an insane amount of steely focus and determination to sit through in the first place. But under the conditions I described, it’s impossible. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoyed the experience; I just can’t tell you the first thing about the movie.

…for that matter…

4. DO NOT: SEE A DANISH DOCUMENTARY ABOUT A TURN OF THE (20TH) CENTURY PAINTER. Unless you’re out of Tylenol PM. I shouldn’t even mention this one, but the above-mentioned Danish flick reminded me. It was at the Rhode Island International Film Festival, and my cousin was kind enough to let me do the choosing. The flick had a good description in the program guide — like this guy was the rock star in his artist colony of bohemians (I was expecting a time capsule of turn of the century debauchery). But no. This was straight-to-PBS fodder. THE GOOD NEWS is that the 9 minute doc on ANNIE LEIBOWITZ that followed was strong and tight and made me buy her book. Good editing is priceless.

5. DO: EAT SEA SALT + CHOCOLATE,  SEA SALT + CARAMEL, SEA SALT+ CARAMEL + VANILLA ICE CREAM  (I COULD GO ON  — just get some sea salt and DIY) = MOTHER OF GOD MY MOUTH IS THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH!

5. DO: CUT YOUR HAIR. Seriously, nothing feels more like summer than a new short & sassy & maintenance-free  coif. Whatever nevermind.

Eye on the prize, eye on the prize.

6. DO: CLIMB THE FACE OF A MOUNTAIN. Honestly, it’s hard and can be annoying, especially if you like your thrills fast and furious, like I do. Because there can be moments of great, frustrating stillness when climbing. But getting to the top is awesome! Even better: the after-party! Talk about a well-earned cocktail!

*DO NOT: let a sexy Ukranian — who happens to be a photographer — photograph you while you’re making breakfast. That’s how breakfast gets burned. (Photograph not suitable for publication here).

I told you it was lame.

Just say “no”.

DKCV_2010

Michael Jackson died 3 days ago, and I suspect I’m the only person in the universe, IN THE UNIVERSE, who had no emotional reaction whatsoever. No urge to turn on the TV or radio, no urge to tweet about it Google it or comment or reflect or say something snarky or anything else.  Really,  I just didn’t think or feel anything.

Until now.

I woke up at 5:47am (rather early for me) with I’ll Be There in my head. And suddenly, it hits me, hard. I’ll Be There is one of those songs that gets to me every goddamn time I hear it. I lose it. I don’t know if it’ the melody or the sentiment of the lyrics or the bit when Jermaine chimes in on the chorus (God, now there’s a voice). But I know it’s one of the first songs I ever heard on the radio. Maybe that’s it.

Radio, back in the day. AM radio. Pop music. When pop music was songs like I’ll Be There and Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together and  the Raspberries Go All The Way (man, why couldn’t I have lost my virginity to that one?), and any song on any soundtrack to any Quentin Tarentino film.  But I digress. Back to Michael…

I realized: the Michael that sang I’ll Be There, and the Michael who brought us the album Off The Wall (superior to Thriller, in my opinion); that Michael died long ago. Replaced by someone who — for reasons I’ll never understand — had such a hard time looking at the Man In The Mirror that he actually erased him, replacing him with someone who bore little resemblance to other human beings. I’m grateful I’ll never understand what it must be like, to abhor where you came from or something deep inside you so much you can no longer face it. But I sympathize. My demons got nothing on Michael’s.

So now I can’t get I’ll Be There out of my head. And finally, my heart breaks for Michael Jackson. I wish I could thank him for giving me the first recording, the first voice, that talked about love and made me get it, feel it, pine for it: what love could be.

RIP, Michael. In your honor, I will now dance.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kM3hgLRq8_0[/youtube]

I’m tired — in a good kind of way!

This spring has brought a few new people, places, and things into my life, so I thought I’d write my first “Guide to San Francisco” post. Since it all ties in together so nicely.

First, a little backstory: a fictional icon of the past, Mrs. Robinson, contacted a fictional icon of the future, Vulva Fervor, on Facebook, and invited her to join the illustrious Mrs. Robinson’s Society (MRS). How could I — or rather, Vulva —  resist? Besides, I saw the group’s members as one big qualified list of people to recruit as fans of my project, The Adventures of Vulva Fervor.

But this is fast becoming The Adventures of Diane in Frisco; for a result of  befriending members of this illustrious society, I’ve been getting out a bit more lately. And in doing so, have discovered new places and rediscovered some old friends.

Since my best friend recently moved to the Tenderloin, I’m spending lots of time in an  old neighborhood known as the  Tendernob (Tenderloin + Nob Hill = Tendernob). San Francisco LOVES its nicknames. Except Frisco. People still get so rankled over that one, which makes it so much fun to say! A good blog about this up & comer on the list of hot ‘hoods is www.tenderblog.com.

My favorite spot is Rye (where, it just so happens, I first met the MRS); an effortlessly cool bar: Great bartenders. Great vibe. Great locals. It definitely becomes more of a scene the later it gets (I’m glad the kids are keeping nightlife alive), usually when it’s time for me to go. But I like keeping the bartender company until he/she gets busy.

Another great Tendernob spot with a good happy hour and a good bar menu is Olive. It’s a block away from a bar called The Gangway. Few things in life frighten me, but the sight of the Gangway does. The name alone, in any of its interpretations, makes me… don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe! It’s just what I imagine that goes on inside that scares the shit out of me. And that’s just it, you can’t see inside. It’s one of those place. I’ve never been inside the Gangway. I never plan to. I’m not sure why I’m even writing this, except that I can’t think of Olive without thinking of the Gangway. But I digress…

If you need a pick-me-up in the morning or afternoon (we’re still in the Tendernob here), the best coffee and little nibblie-bibblies are to be found at Kate & Shannon’s Farm; Table. They come from a Blue Bottle Background. So you know they know coffee.

Last but definitely not least: For breakfast or lunch, Brenda’s Soul Food. Don’t let the location put you off. Don’t let the line of people waiting to get in put you off. Two words: Just go!

Time to move on...

MY ‘HOOD, RUSSIAN HILL: For more on why I adore my shotgun flat on a 1-block sidestreet atop the Broadway Tunnel, check out my Love Letter in 7 X 7 Magazine. I believe mine is the 6th one down.

For lunch one Saturday afternoon, one of the MRS figureheads took me to SPQR, which was divine. Even more divine: seeing the lovely owner, Shelly Lindgren. Shelly and I go back, way back. 14 years ago, we worked at restaurants across the street from one another. We became friends, until I went overseas for several years, and life took over. But it was wonderful to see her again — and so successful. She also owns A-16, which is next on my list. By-the-by, Shelly’s business partner and chef of both A-16 and SPQR, Nate Appleman, was named one of Food & Wine’s Best New Chefs of 2009!

Berretta (disclaimer about this Michael-Bauer-top-100-list of Bay Area eateries: If you don’t like being the oldest person in the room, stay away from this bustling joint in the oh-so-cool Mission. The median age looks to me to be… young. But…) If you just want a casual yet professional approach to a casual yet stylish and affordable great eatery, get thee to Beretta. 4 stars all around on the staff. Hostess, bartenders, server… 1 little complaint: the ever-present busser(s). This is common in lots of restaurants, and is likely an issue of either over-staffing or unclear lines when establishing busser’s stations. I hate when I have to literally hover over my appetizer plate, with it’s two remaining bites on it. “No, I’m not done yet. Please remind the other 4 bussers so I can stop shushing them away from the plate like flies”.

NORTH BEACH: Look, I love North Beach. It’s my hood, it’s my heart — during the day. Maybe Sunday – Wednesday nights. The rest of the time, fuggeddaboutit. Pure bridge & tunnel crowd meets gangstaland. Seriously, I can’t stand the place at night. There are still a few good hole in the wall joints. But it’s charm is much easier to find during the day. Grab a sandwich at Molinari’s, sit in Washington Square Park, and watch the Chinese do Tai Chi and old Italian men in their caps chat on the benches. When the sun comes out you can watch youth’s beauty sunbathe and dogs chase frisbees and little ones take their first steps. Yeah, North Beach in the daytime, definitely.

Okay, one place checking out at night (there are a few, but I’m listing places that are new to me; otherwise this post would go on for days) is 15 Romolo. It’s sort of pub-meets-dive-meets-hipsterhotspot. And the bar food… mother of god. The mini pork slider sandwiches, the fries, the mini jambalya-ini thingies… mmmmmmmmmmmmm! It’s near a hostel, so you get a good mix of people as well.

Only After Dark

PORCHLIGHT STORYTELLING SERIES: I love this series. And not just because they selected me to be one of the featured storytellers in April’s “Kitchen Confidential” evening. I love it because it’s about sharing stories. Not performance, not entertainment. Because if you have a good story to tell, the rest takes care of itself. The monthly happening takes place at the Verdi Club, an old-school banquet/dance hall in Potrero Hill. One of my fellow storytellers that evening was Craig Stoll, chef/owner of Delfina. In attendance was his wife, Annie. Annie and I worked together at a restaurant in 1993 — and I hadn’t seen her since @ 1996. So I was wonderful seeing her impossibly infectious smile again.

Learning is HOT at NightLife on Thursday nights at California Academy of Sciences. Everything, all exhibits are open. And there are DJs! Bars! Dancing! No one under 21!

That’s my list for now. It’s a start, anyhow.

What's not to like, Mike?

I was stretching atop a perfect picture-postcard hill, post “urban hike” when I overheard two women talk recipes. One was describing her hummus, which she makes with white beans rather than garbanzos. I gotta admit, her recipe sounded pretty tasty — and I’m very particular about my Mediterranean food. Then she added, “But Mike doesn’t like hummus.” And… I lost it.

It’s the sweetness of when you’re married to someone, and you know dumb little things about them, like whether or not they like hummus, that hit me. Because as of two days ago, the wheels of my divorce are in motion. It’s about time, since we haven’t lived together for two years. Sometimes I wish we could just go back and order pizza and drink wine like we used to and everything would be perfect – which it never was. Memories are perfect. No, you can’t. Go back.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65dZN5TDrJU[/youtube]

I can’t decide who I find more fun to watch: the rappers or the woman who looks like she’d rather be getting a root canal. I don’t think she was pleased that I encouraged them. But of course, her reaction was half the reason that I did encourage them.

I just wanted to take their picture… they thought I wanted to videotape them, so… why not? I’d never used my camera’s video camera feature before — I’ve always been fond of the still myself. But now I see some shots mean so much more if you can see their context. Because context can be everything.

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY POV

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY NEPHEW'S POV

VEGAS -- NIGHT -- MY BROTHER'S POV

Chapter 1: Childhood & Secrets.

I sent my nephew a text message. I simply wanted to tell him that the only reason I was driving to Las Vegas was to see him…

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Maybe”

“Need 2 know i can trust u”

“I wont keep secrets from my parents”

What the…? I was bereft. Few things can render me speechless for 30 minutes. His declaration was one of them. I wanted to tell him that that’s why secrets were invented  — to keep information from your parents. But of course, I couldn’t. I thought long and hard about how to approach this best; without stepping on parental toes, yet still encouraging him to question authority. C’mon, he’s 12 and long overdue. I came up with this:

“Ask ur dad if its ok 2 share a secret with me”

“Ya as long as its not bad”

What does my brother actually think, that I’m going to tell him where I hide the bodies? Or where to score the purest coke?

“1. Would never ask u  a bad secret, 2. Ur the only reason Im coming to vegas.”

“O ok cool”

But I got there and we shared some secrets. Good secrets. And it was cool.

Just us gals.

Speaking of secrets & kids: On my last night in Vegas, I went to visit my friend (who I know from SF) and his wife. Their daughter is 8, and reminds me so much of myself at her age. My dad, like hers, was a bar man, and she is more comfortable in a bar than in a toy store. Game recognize game, as they say. Anyhow, she and I were sitting with our feet in the pool while the grownups were still at the dinner table. After spelling out for me the pros & cons of being an only child, she — completely unprovoked — told me about a really scary dream she’d recently had. And it gave me so much comfort! Because I’d had a near-identical dream at her age that has haunted me to this day. And when she told me her dream, I just felt all that fear and anxiety melt away as I told her (realizing it for the first time myself): “Sweetie, we all have that exact same dream. It’s only a dream.” And then she gave me a friendship ring with a coral-colored heart, to match my toenails. Because it is the perfect shade for summer.

Chapter 2: The upside of big brothers? Some really awesome toys!

My brother. Yes, that is a Confederate Flag. Don't look at me.

This is what desert living is all about! One of my brothers (clearly not the father of my nephew) lives @ 25 miles west of Las Vegas, heading toward Pahrump. It’s a great drive. And most conveniently, he lives — literally — right next to a very popular biker bar. Fortunately for me (and him), they adore him there. So it’s nice to have a place to go, a stark alternative to the Vegas we all know and love and/or loathe.

But it’s all about the drive. The desert. The mountains. THE QUADS! Quadding: Lord is that fun. I got nothing to say, you just have to try it. It’s like motorcycling for dummies.

Chapter 3: Operation Nephew Corruption

My Little Rockstar.

I believe I’m making some progress here. Tiny steps. Even if not, I’m having a ball trying. Think he is too. Got him to put down the ping pong paddle, flip that table, and shoot some pool. Because let’s face it, billiards has the potential to open doors in life. Later that night, I convinced him that real rock stars don’t sing sitting on the sofa — you need to get up and feel the music (look at pic at left: eyes closed!). And he did! Of course we were just playing the American Idol video game, but it’s a start. (note to self: never, under any circumstance, attempt to sing The Spice Girls “Wannabe” ever again).

My little hustler.

The next day, after tracking me down (I’d locked myself in the upstairs room to get away from the sound of All Sports All The Time on the 65″ screen to get some work done), he asked what I was working on. I told him about the blockbuster franchise movie treatment I’m writing & hope to get produced (a girl can dream, n’est-ce pas?). Trust me, it’s in the very early stages and a mess right now. He asked to read it… and he said he liked it! So he promised to be my date on the red carpet at the Oscars when the time comes, which I cannot wait for now. The kid’s on the fast track to handsome, and it’s gonna be so much fun to see all the little starlets throw themselves at his feet.

Chapter 4: Talking To Ghosts.

where I get my good looks

Not “ghost” in the spooky haunting or “I see dead people” senses. Just people, alive and dead, who affected me profoundly and are always with me, or at lease very close. That’s a ghost to me and I have a few, many in Vegas. My mom outranks all of them combined.

This is just a sign to me, but I'm sure he's a ghost to someone, somewhere.

*God no, of course not really!

I heard you could actually die from that. Yet I can think of no other way to describe how this priceless gem of a memory feels in hindsight…

"Klute", anyone?

Two of my favorite things in life: 1. executing a good ruse; and 2. helping out a friend in need. Combine the two in one — and an opportunity to wear my favorite dress — and I am in heaven. Sheer heaven.

The ruse: my dear friend “Doug” (not his real name) needed a date to a wedding. Not just any wedding, not just any date. In attendance at this wedding would be his ex, and the man for whom she left Doug. That sort of thing happens. But this is one of those “they were cheating for a while and even after Doug confronted them (for he was friends with the fellow), they still lied about it. Double whammy. So my job was to be 1. The hot date; 2. The date who would keep him from opening a can of whoop-ass on this other guy; 3. The date who would have his back should he no longer be able to suppress the urge to open a can of whoop-ass on this other guy.

How fun does that sound! My response: “Honey, I am gonna make your property value soar.”

The bride - a faerie in Middle Earth!

The ceremony itself was short and sweet, and outdoors, surrounded by redwoods, I guess, what the hell do I know? Northern California really big trees. The couples’personal vows,  and comments by the bride’s uncle (who officiated) choked me up. The food was the best ever, as were the THREE cakes (lemon, red velvet, chocolate/hazelnut). Which nearly made up for the fact that there was NO BOOZE! That was probably a blessing in disguise, for otherwise maybe  things wouldn’t have gone so smoothly with Doug and his anger management. But seriously, what the… is this a new trend? This is Northern California, wine capital of the USA. Must I start packing my own?

My one challenge was when the bride did the traditional bouquet-toss. Doug leaned over and said “Do not let her catch it.” To which I said “Watch this.”

I got your bouquet, lady.

Taking my place among my fellow eligible gals, I extended one arm (my right, and I’m a southpaw) just as the bouquet of lilies or iris’ (I don’t know flowers — see photo to right) was coming down in front of her face, caught it, held it up triumphantly, and walked off. Mission #*$&@*% Accomplished!

But actually, the real excitement was the night before, in Carmel, CA. Where I’d have least expected to find it…

Don't let the calm facade deceive you....

We arrived at Doug’s sister’s house @9pm in Carmel. Sleepy, idyllic Carmel, where one’s olfactories are overwhelmed with the fragrance of the ocean and orange and some flower the second you get out of the car. Ahhhhhhhhhhh….

Doug’s sister is not there, as she’s a doctor on call that night. But the brother-in-law, “Joe” (not his real name) is upstairs, with the younger of 2 sons — the autistic one. The seven-year-old son (the one with asberger syndrome), is in the living room watching tv with his adorable three-year-old sister. And now two houseguests. As if Joe doesn’t have enough on his hands on a Saturday night…

Also there is 14-year-old girl, on the phone, who ignores us upon entry. We later learn she’s the neighbor’s daughter. The family immigrated to the US six years ago. She was there to avoid her mother and unemployed father. Apparently, tensions run high next door. Mom threatened to smash a ceramic vase over the daughter’s head. Daughter hid her passport because “my mom is going to deport me.” Mom hid her passport because “she’s going to run away”. I’m not even going to deny you the fun of trying to guess what country they emigrated from. Besides, then someone would ultimately say I’m stereotyping, and far be it for me…

What upsets me most: the shitty copyediting!!!

So Joe lets the girl hang out for a while to cool off. He offers her some advice, and convinces her to go home. He walks her there — and they both return 10 minutes later. With the police. Apparently, mom had called the cops and said she’d runaway. I thought someone had to be missing 24 hours for a response from police, but if you read the police blotter in Carmel (see photo at right), you’d understand that this is the equivelent of a bomb scare there. Eventually all was smoothed out and we were left to our our original plan of raiding their impossibly full pantry and eating every snack food item known to Trader Joe shoppers.

And I suddenly have a new appreciation of the fact that I have nothing but freedom and choices in my life. Freedom and choices aren’t everything, but they’re definitely not to be taken for granted.