MyAdultLand

So. Many. Choices.

1. Because lamb tastes really good. Like, suck-the-marrow good.
2. As does really rare (cooked rare, that is) hamburger. And steak.
3. And have you never known the joy that is a Monte Cristo (ham, turkey, & swiss — served warm inside FRENCH TOAST)! I like mine with maple syrup. If I’m ever posed with the “last meal” question: Monte Cristo. And I have to make it myself. I ain’t taking chances with my last fucking meal. I’d also like a side of  fries w/ aoli, and a vanilla malt.
4. Bacon, extra crispy. Why, the smell alone could make me turn in my own nephew, if it came to that.

Okay, seriously…

I know there are many religious and moral and philosophical and political and ideological and health and ethical and bubblebrain reasons to be a vegetarian. Just as there are such reasons to eat meat. All I’m asking is we respect each others’ choices and reasons. The information is out there, should one seek it. And the time to have the conversation is NEVER over ANY dinner table. Especially when alcohol is part of the meal. Yeah, don’t think there won’t be a future post about booze at the dinner table…

I like meat. That said, I hardly ever eat it. I feel better when I don’t. I’m a fruit & vegetable gal. But occasionally, my body craves meat. Or fish. Or something else with eyeballs.

Endorphin OD fast approaching.

And I do mean crave, on a primal level. And that’s when I dig in, without apology. I rarely (no pun intended, though I do like it extra bloody) get the craving. But when I do… do not try to stop me. When tearing into that filet mignon or lamb chop (@ thrice a year), I imagine I look like a cheetah at the gazelle carcass, blood dripping down the corners of my mouth. And yes, it feels like the most natural thing on Earth. No denying. Satisfaction and pleasure on a primal level. Wait, am I still talking about eating meat here…

I understand not wanting to allow other living beings to suffer cruelty, and with that I cannot argue. But here we start getting into degrees.

That lamb did not die in vain.

If a life of suffering is the issue, then can we not eat the cows who lived a life as cushy as Paris Hilton? Why not, if no cruelty suffered?

If it comes down to taking a life: Aren’t carrots alive? That is, before we violently rip them from the Earth, the only home they’ve known, the dirt. Poor, innocent carrots that have done no wrong: they don’t even have a mouth with which to scream. They must internalize all feelings. At some point, these arguments come down to splitting hairs: it has eyeballs, it has a mouth, It’s still growing. Where does life begin…

Oh, and the argument that we simply are not intended to consume animal products. Two words: Mother’s Milk.

I don’t want to change anyone. Let’s just live and let live. There’s the argument that all life is connected, we were cows in a past lifetime and suffered a tortuous slaughter and we’ve come back to right the wrongs of our slaughterers. There’s also the argument that God put us here, and devised this miraculous food chain, where cheetahs eat gazelles and we eat Spam and it’s all part of His Plan — of which we are a part. Take your pick. What the hell do I know?

Nothing beats a barbecue with friends.

All I know is Greek Easter is this Sunday. I got 2 legs of lamb, Rob’s cooking them on Jim’s big ol’ barbecue next door, and if that sounds alright to you, then just follow your nose. I’ll be in the kitchen making an orgasm-in-your-mouth Greek eggplant vegetarian entrée (please contact me in advance if you’re vegan).

Efcharisto! Christos anesti!

Jasper's smile always makes me happy.

This is Jasper. He sells Streetsheets around the corner from my flat. If I ever need a bodyguard, I’m hiring Jasper. Because he could disarm anyone with that smile.

… then come hear me tell one live! I’m on the roster of Porchlight Storytellers Series this month, when  the theme is “Kitchen Confidential.”

If you’ve ever worked in a restaurant or bar, you probably have way too many stories of your own to stomach watching the reality shows on the subject. However, what’s so cool about Porchlight’s Series is that it’s live. It’s real. It’s old school and even though they have a theme, you’re guaranteed to be blown away by the humor/heartbreak/surprise that you only get with live storytelling.

It’s on Monday, April 20 at the Verdi Club in Potrero Hill. Great old-school venue. Doors open at 7pm, stories start at 8, $12 admission.

This tunnel is our tunnel...

Wait for it...

I’ll be the first to admit that a lot of folks in San Francisco enjoy talking talk, but not are not inclined to leave their enviable cafe seat (the one in the window) and latte to walk the walk.

But the good news is there are a lot of folks who do ride the ride. Critical Mass, that is: the monthly movement — of bicycles in the street — that promotes bicycling and bicyclists’ right to share the road.  I couldn’t find an actual site for Critical Mass, so your best bet is to search “critical mass” and the name of the city you’re interested in to see if there’s a movement near you. In San Francisco, also check out the San Francisco Bicycle Coalition.

Look, rockstars!

Our work is done here.

Okay, I’ve had just a few too many of those weird coincidence moments — 3  in so many weeks — to make me think it’s beyond coincidence. Maybe it’s a sign… or at the very least a really big coincidence. Whatever it is, it sure got my attention.

The most recent event was tonight. I was in yoga class, led by the incredible Mark Morford. I could write a whole column on the many reasons his class is unrivaled, but I’ll save that for another post.

So I’m in this balmy room with the most amazing, glistening, candlelit bodies in San Francisco, just flowing with it. And out of nowhere I get coldcocked by a flashback:

A foggy afternoon in November 2007. My friend Kai’s birthday. I took him to lunch. I’d just returned from my “Feather In The Wind Tour: 20 Beds in 10 Weeks” (where I rented a car & zig-zagged from San Francisco to Los Angeles To San Diego to Las Vegas, NV to Livingston, MT to Park City, UT, and a few stops in between). So Kai & I had a lot of catching up to do. After lunch we were just walking and talking, when we saw a crap storefront sign for a fortuneteller. Why not?! It was his birthday, right? Plus, like so many things in life, I love the idea of fortunetellers, and astrology, and all that. I want to believe in it all. I believe in a certain… magic if you will. But no particular school of thought, you know? Like religion. I believe what I believe and I don’t like talking about it much because it sort-of makes it seem trivial. And it’s not trivial. But I digress.

So we go into the fortuneteller (who is named after a certain Heavenly Body). I sit first, while Kai waits in her parlor (living room) with the fortuneteller’s 8 year old daughter. My reading was as lame as possible. Right off the bat, she gives me some bad news (I don’t even remember now, it was super vague; like “there is darkness”). BUT “for $90 more I can help you move away from the darkness”. Every sentence was followed by “for $90 more…”, so my eagerness to believe was fast dwindling. After making it clear that there was not going to be $90 more, she continued.

“2 children! You have 2 children.”

No, I don’t.

“There are 2 children.”

No, there aren’t.

“You wanted 2 children.”

I swear to you, I never even thought about the children.

“You were meant to have 2 children!”

Oh, so that’s it! Nice save, lady. Then she mentioned someone very important in my life. She gave me one trait of this person. I won’t name that trait here, so as to not disappoint the many of you who hope to be that someone important. But I assure you, there was NO ONE in my life at that time or prior who posessed this singular trait. And man, I racked my brain trying to think of someone. I don’t know if she was so sure about this “vision” or just didn’t want to be wrong again, but she would not move on until I identified the person. But nope, no one. So you can see, the whole reading was a complete strike out. I really really wanted to believe, but she might as well have been talking to anybody but me in terms of telling me my life.

Back to the present: Thank god at the time of this flashback assault in Mark’s class I was in a seated position (or I might have been hurt). It hit me over the head like an anvil — but I know who this person is now. I know who it is! I want to go back to her and say “Tell me more! Tell me more!” But I really need the $90 for other things right now, so I’ll have to ride it out.

The other 2 recent coincidences: My friend Evan mentioning “Tasty Greek food” in Pittsburgh, PA. My dad was Greek. He said “Tasty” a lot. You can read the rest of that one here.

The third one, I’m gonna keep to myself. It’s sorta personal. I got a secret…

Namaste.

Mother and Child

He brought his mother into the city to see “Wicked”. They assured me that the matching gowns were pure coincidence, though I didn’t buy it.

Everywhere a sign.

Wait for it...

Yeah!

This is yet another reason I love living in San Francisco. It’s got its lovers, it’s got its fighters… and they have each other’s back. Does it get any simpler than that, people. No, it doesn’t.

Why I always carry my camera: You just never know when you’re going to stumble upon a major march on Market Street, during the 1 hour that week the rain actually let up. This one was on March 4: The eve of the Prop 8 hearing. If you don’t know, Prop 8 was an amendment that passed in November to

The Band Played On.

My Tribe.

the state Constitution that bans marriages of two men or two women. You can read more at SFGate online.

Little story: Last May, @ a year after my dad died, I went to a friends house and opened a bottle of Petite Syrah I’d picked up at a winery on the way (she lives way out in the sticks outside Sacramento). My friend enjoys good wine, but she’s not a foodie and doesn’t have that silly wine vocabulary. So she took a sip and said “tasty”. And I lost it.

My dad always said “tasty” when he liked something. He was a food & beverage / bar man all his life. Very smart & wise, but not educated. He didn’t have that food/wine vocabulary either. But he’d light up whenever he’d say it, so you knew he liked it, whatever he was tasting. When she said it, it was the first time I’d heard it since his death.

I was stunned at the emotional power of such a simple word, “tasty”. I no longer lose it when I hear it now; I just smile & think of him.

Drunk photography mishap #1: capturing texture & shadow.

I did something really stupid the other night. I blogged! UNDER THE INFLUENCE! Fortunately I don’t get so inebriated anymore, and had the wherewithal to hit “save” rather than “publish”. But I was far enough under the influence to actually think I had something to say at that moment that was worth reading. To others, yet. I just re-read it. It’s quite embarrassing in its banality. Here’s an excerpt:

It’s nearly 2am and I just got in after a long night of a meeting with my screenwriting coach, no food, an unnecessarily long wait at a BART station for a train, and walking home at an ungodly late hour because MUNI was nowhere to be seen. So I met my pal Rob for a drink. No, 3. We had a lot to catch up on and it ws fun watching the Mardi Gras hoo ha going on.

So now I’m home & hungry & of course there’s virtually no food. So mama gets creative. Did you know roasted soy nuts & shelled sunflower seeds are @ 1/10 the price of

Yup, that’s it. No secrets revealed. No solutions to world hunger. Just thoughts so lame they’re not even worth writing a complete sentence about or spellchecking. Even when drunk.

Drunk photography mishap #2: the badass facebook profile self-portrait.

Drunk-blogging. It’s like drunk-dialing, only the call goes out to the entire goddamn world. Fortunately, most the world doesn’t answer my calls (or rather, read my blog); so I think it would have been okay. But for the lovely people who do read, I would have either tarnished forever my reputation as a writer, or a person with good judgment — or at the very least given them a good snicker at the expense of my dignity.

Other activities where performance is compromised (and judgement impaired) by the bottle:

Photography: Ah, the things you deem worthy of photographing. I’ve identified a few categories of drunk photography, evidence provided. Note: these are re-enactments. Yes, they are. And then there’s the quality of the photo. Trust me, my camera is a lot smarter than me after I’ve had a few. That auto / manual feature really fucks with my head.

Drunk photography mishap #3: XCU and lack of context. So creative.

Snacking: I think the problem here has more to do with the lack of groceries in my refrigerator. I tend to only shop when I cook for friends, about once a week. So there are usually leftovers for a day or so. After that, just the usual stash of fruits & vegetables (I’m a healthy girl), and an array of Greek stuff (fig jam, figs, olives, olive spread, feta, walnuts… you get the picture). We dazzling urbanites eat out a lot. Which sounds great. Until you come home hungry and drunk and really have a craving for a burrito. Or carrot cake. Or a vanilla malt. Or leftover Chinese. Or anything but what’s in my fridge. But that’s all you got. So… it’s homemade trail mix at 3am. I have… raisins and roasted soy nuts. mmmmmmm! Oh well, I guess the good news is at least I’m eating something healthful at 3am, even if it is for all the wrong reasons.

I think I’ll deliberately do a drunk blog draft — any sacrifice for my art. For one month, I’ll see what inane crap I write in the wee hours and actually save it (hidden bonus: this gives me a great excuse to not cut back on drinking!). But the real danger here is: I’LL BE DRUNK. This could be a costly mission I’ve set before myself, for I might easily hit the “publish” button, rather than “save”. And not realize it, because I’ll be drunk (this post breaks the world record for # of times the word “drunk” appears in a blog entry — just a non-drunk observation), I could forget I wrote the entire post in the first place. Wow, a blog blackout. A blogout.

Drunk photography mishap #4: Feet photos give navel-gazing a good name. Especially when you barely get your feet in the shot.

I haven’t had an anything blackout since high school, and that was just the once. Who even remembers what the winning substance combination was on that night? (Though my money’s on Canadian Mist & Lowenbrau). Nevertheless, I woke up, alone and safe in my bed. In my pajamas. Everything where it should be. AND I HAD NO IDEA HOW I GOT THERE. At the time we were living in a condominium complex, with a shared parking lot. I had been driving the collective “kid’s” car the night before. Did the car make it home in one piece? I had no idea. So I walked to the parking lot. Looked around for a while… oh, there it is. The aging yet still sassy ’74 Mercury Comet. Looks okay from here. Then the slow walk-around, to make sure there was no major damage or roadkill in sight. All clear.

That’s my only blackout. Uh, that I know of. That’s why they’re called blackouts.

Just followoing up on the “Misery Loves” post a few weeks back.

The Museum Of Broken Relationships had its opening on Valentine’s Day here in San Francisco. It was pissing rain that night and the opening was PACKED. Apparently a lot of people thought this was the perfect way to spend a romantic holiday. They were right.

The exhibit is INCREDIBLE – and I’m not just saying that because I’ve got a piece on display. The objects themselves were interesting, but the stories – THE STORIES – behind all those objects! I live for stories, and I want to meet each and every person behind those stories behind those objects, so I can hear the long version. They were heartbreaking and hilarious and innocent and cruel, but all painfully honest. I’m going again (when the place isn’t packed wall to wall) so I can read all the stories and weep without witnesses. I’m honored to have my own story be included in this collection.

The collection is up in SF until February 28 at Root Division; from there it goes to Stockholm, Sweden. From there, I guess it’s going home to Croatia. I wish it was doing a US tour, because so many people I know would love this exhibit.

But, I have an idea: Because mama loves a good ceremony, I’m going to start a new tradition: from now on, every Valentine’s Day I’m going to host a Party of Broken Relationships! Bring a bottle of champagne and an object — preferably one whose clutches you need to break free of (darts, lighter fluid, and carving utensils optional) — along with the story behind it. We’ll come up with a nice exorcising ritual for each. God, I can’t wait.