Snow Flurries

1. I was home sick with some sort of flu like illness. Spring 1957? My parents had bought 2nd hand, an Admiral telly which we were only allowed to watch on the weekends after we had finished our home work. Of course if they went out, rules were meant to be broken...like turning on the tube, or letting the dog into the house to roam from room to room. Home alone and feeling crappy, I turned the telly on chugging through the 7 channel offerings and stumbling upon the 1944 movie,'Meet Me in St. Louis,' starring the great Judy Garland. Was this my first musical? No. But there was something magical about Garland's voice as she carried the film's story line from scene to scene. And then a strange unfamiliar thing happened to me. It was in the middle of, 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas', and it came from a place deep within me evoking feelings I'd never associated with movies or music or any sort of audio visual stimulation (yeah in the 60's we got a lot of help from our friends) and I was so overwhelmed by the emotional ping ponging of the lyrics and the music tugging at my heart (??), that I started to cry. It was a profound childhood moment. My first. Something other than disappointment, hurt or anger had moved me to tears. And it was stunning. Thank you Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane.

2. SNL. Jimmy Fallon hosting, scored on 2 skits...'Michael Buble Duets,' and the 'Tebow/Jesus'sketch. Instant classics.

3. Guns and riots over the release of the new retro Air Jordans yesterday. Come on, man. WTF?

4. Rooney Mara and Fincher. Fincher got a great performance from Mara in the American
version of 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.'It is darker, and edgier.Great sound track by NIN Trent Reznor.

5. According to noradsanta.org, next stop is Mount Everest, Nepal. Lumps of coal or not, warmest wishes and happy holidays to all.

Tebowed and other musings...

1. If you have been circling the earth in a space capsule or been shackled to the assembly line in the North Pole or just 'tuned out' and channel surf through the spectacle that is the NFL on Sunday, then you are missing one of the greatest stories
of the 2011 season. Tim Tebow. If the pointy ball is not your cup of tea, skip down to the second paragraph and have another cookie. The Tebow phenomenon, six straight wins, orchestrated as come back victories, most of them in the 4th quarter,is a combo of good luck and bad luck. A bad pass, a fumble, a missed field goal...could have derailed the train, but when you're streaking like Tebow is streaking, the bad breaks somehow deposit them at your cleats, and hot damn, you rally,strike the pose and rock the mother fracking free world. Tim Tebow in my league is not PC; the dude's notoriously pro life. Come on, man. But, for all the religion and issues that's he packing, I give him a nod for his exuberance and ferocity. He might not be able to pass like Aaron Rodgers, but he's uh, well a load to bring down and he can lead. This Sunday against the glam QB of the Eastern seaboard, Tom Brady, Tim T. might find himself 'in an unfamiliar position: 'Bradied.'

2. Waiting for Fincher's vision of 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.'
Have no doubt that it will be edgier, darker, and leave nothing to the imagination. Often times, double dipping the imagination is a spoiler. But, in a rare and impressive scene, the spectacular ending of Lars Van Trier's, 'Melancholia' iced the film...and sent it over the top. Sitting there just before the climatic ending, I thought naaaah not going to happen. Frack! So wrong.

3. Iraq. 8 years. Welcome home to the land of the 99%.

Sunday Slices

1. The Descendants. I learned a long time ago when a book is adapted to the screen, shit can happen. But I also came to understand that film translations are another person's canvas. I give you my recipe. You bake the cake. Where I used chocolate; you adopt vanilla. And so it goes. I went to Alexander Payne's film loaded for bear. On edge, I waited for some annoying haole slip. A faux reference; a cultural misstep; an egregious representation...white actors for Asians. Elvis' Hanauma Bay. Yup, I was laying in the weeds shamelessly. And well, when you're not mining for diamonds, but thinking of coal sometimes the cosmic joke is on you. The Descendants in a rather astonishing cultural homage moves seamlessly through the Hawaiian archipelago chain like the proverbial hot knife through butter. It doesn't miss a beat. Kamaaina's distilled through a malahini's lens accompanied by an outrageous soundtrack...nicely done, Mr. Payne. Shaka, bro.

2. Growing up, my canine hero was Rin Tin Tin. I preferred the handsome black and tan markings to the pointy nosed collie on the other telly channel. Milking the popularity of Rinty, H'wood churned out and filled the Saturday matinee screens: Rinty come home. Rinty in the wild. And Rinty at war. I'll never forget the first time that I saw a shell shocked dog in a war movie. The sweet lovable canine hero developed Cujo like instincts. Now, 50 years later, there are reports of dogs serving in Afghanistan and Iraq suffering from PTSD. Vets are treating dogs who have developed troubling changes in personality after increasing exposure to explosions and gunfire; some of the canines become hyper, and aggressive, while others become shy and timid. 'Man's' best friend...

3. More canine. Reports out of Salt Lake, Utah of a duck hunter shot in the pelvic region when his dog stepped on his 12 gauge shotgun laid across the bow of his boat.
27 pellets of bird shot were discharged. Think his safety was on? I'm just saying...

Butterball Tales

Rain on the horizon. Lots of wind leaking into the apt. Cold. Trying to make it into
December without lighting the furnace. But, I'm not holding myself to that pledge; flagellation not part of my religion. Yeah, 'that's me in the corner..' For the first time in 15 years, or is it 20, I am not making the annual sojourn up into the Sierra with my BFF, Jane and her family. The ecstatic birth of Jane's grandson, Luca, so close to thanksgiving precipitated an audible; everyone stays in the Bay Area. While walking in Mt. View the other day, I was tossing through my memories, and recalled that my T'day initiation as an adult was spent in San Francisco with the first girlfriend and the plastic wrapped butterball. We followed the printed directions. No fear. They had a hot line for rookies like us. I would have remembered burning the turkey. Or would I? I know that we had canned jellied cranberries. To this day, I still love the crimson ridged mass (some of us have our clandestine pleasures)... The 2nd significant T'day was spent with my sister at a small apartment we were sharing. We bought a butterball, was there anything else back then, and invited some friends over. I made a couple of pies. We named the turkey after a relative, and while the house filled up with delectable scents, spices, pan drippings, roasting bird, all the familiar chords, evoking past sentiments, we dropped Joni Mitchell's 'Blue'onto the turntable, fired up whatever was available and tucked in for the evening. Tomorrow, decades later, I'll be sitting down at a Thanksgiving table, for only the 2nd or 3rd time as an adult, with my sister; some things have changed. She's a vegetarian. Organic rules the roost. Ah, but, still some things remain the same. Love for the succulent dark. A private moment the following day with jellied cranberry mashed between 2 slices of bread and a mountain of left-overs. Stay warm. Good thoughts to you and yours.

'All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray....'

1. Jeeeeezuz. Last night I got Tebowed; I took the J-e-t-s to go gang green all over Denver. In the last 5 minutes, of one of the sorriest played NFL games, Tebow's passes were pitiful, and Sanchez, the J-e-t-s QB, regressing dramatically, (what do you expect he went to USC) the Denver Tebows drove 95 yards to win the game. Again. How is that possible? The legend continues.

2. The nation wide 'Occupy' movement finally got those apathetic Cal students up off their collective duffs and into Sproul. The UCPD slyly shadowing the inept political response to the 'Occupy Oakland' activists unleashed batons on students in a disturbing Bull Connorish assault. WTF? The image of the University took a nose dive, and only enraged and galvanized principles. This is....Berkeley. They do revolutions.

3. Pumpkins. Lucky devils. I baked 3 sugar pie candidates to use in breads and uh, well, pies. The affable orange squash is one of the great seasonal pleasures; in my own private idaho: Half Moon Bay, the land o'pumpkins, never gets old or storied. The magical fields run down to the ocean in slick digital orange profusions.

4. On the 30th Anniversary of Natalie Wood's death, she was the straw that stirred James Dean's drink in 'Rebel without a Cause,' the LAPD have re-opened the circumstances surrounding her death. I always thought there was something shady about her accidental drowning.

5. The 114th Big Game. Cal vs Stanford down on the Farm. Let this be swift and painless. Go Bears.

Say it ain't so...

Joe. There isn't enough institutional media spin in the known galactic world to hose, stem, or cap the stench of the colossal scandal that has settled over head football coach Joe Paterno, the former AD, and the former Vice President of Penn St. News sources this morning are now reporting that Jerry Sandusky the former Defensive coordinator of the football team, at one time considered the heir apparent to Paterno's head coaching position, who has been charged by the state Grand Jury with deviate sexual intercourse, corruption of minors, endangering the welfare of a child, and indecent assault could face further accusations; the number of known victims, currently 8, could climb as high as 20. The 2002 alleged assault of a 10 year old boy by Sandusky (already retired but who had access to the Penn St facilities) in the shower at the team's complex and the failure of then AD Tim Curley and Vice President Gary Schultz to report the incident to authorities as required by state law, reeks of the same disturbing amoral behavior repeatedly practiced by the Catholic church when confronted by priest pedophile accusations. There is nothing complex about these institutional cover-ups. It is egregious perpetuation: institution and reputation above all else; a blind eye turned, historically, to heinous acts against women and children. The adults who knowingly participated in the Penn St cover-up...talk is cheap. Remorse, just another word. And forgiveness? Not a fracking chance.

Russian Roulette...the Faultline

Last night as a joke, I emailed a friend, 'see you in 2012...Mayan.' My bad. The goddess doesn't like it when you screw around with ancient mythology. In retro, I should 'can' all doomsday references and take care of my own backyard S**t, the Hayward fault. The Hayward fault is the 'Bay Bridge' of fault lines; 2nd banana to the more powerful, publicity crazed San Andreas fault which shoots off a headline every decade or so. Everyone outside of Cali recognizes the glamorous San Andreas. The Hayward fault garners zero facial recognition. Nada. Except to the populations of Hayward, Oakland, and Berkeley, who reside smugly outside the San Fran glitz, basking in the shadow of the greatest University in the land (and I don't mean the one in Palo Alto), and harboring denial like it was a bogey man hiding under the bed until the Hayward goes off and rears. June 10, 1836, magnitude 6.7; the quake is felt as far away as Monterrey. Oct. 21, 1868, magnitude 7.0; this quake ripped fissures open and some city streets sank. For the past several weeks, the Hayward fault has been alleviating pressure, which, ok, is a good thing; several of the quakes have been centered in Berkeley close to the UC campus, and under the hills. When the epicenter is sitting beneath you, 3.9 feels damn big. And early this morning, 3.6, in the dark, felt like Godzilla was shaking the apt building. No joke. Why? Why do I continue to perpetuate my future demise by an act of nature which every single seismologist predicts is coming? The Hayward fault though, ripe for a monster shake, is not the stuff my nightmares are made of. In my dreams, it's always the same. On a beach or along the seashore. The water recedes and I'm running towards the sea wall. Sometimes I make it. And sometimes I don't. Get those earthquake kits up to date.

'There's a fog upon...'

1. In a strange retro mood last night. Almost but not quite channeling the 60's munchies, I craved something sweet and not wanting to bust into the hand packed pint of Fenton's pumpkin ice cream (wait for it, wait...) don't ask me why, even insane reasoning has it's moments, like some sort of Catholic school girl in purgatory, I circled the kitchen opening the freezer door, closing it, slamming cupboards, even checking the sorry popcorn, trail mix drawers, until my vision latched onto the 2 plump turkey figs (from the backyard tree planted by Lana) ripening on the window sill. Figs. Never crossed my palate until I was 30 something. But, I remember being with the 1st girl friend in the middle of the day on Polk St, sitting in a theater, watching probably one of the greatest cinematic fig scenes on celluloid; Alan Bates in DH Lawrence's 'Women in Love' comparing a split fig to female anatomical parts while devouring it. Uh, yeah. My favorite way to eat figs is to heat the oven at 425, placing all the figs on a tray and roasting in the oven until the juices start to render themselves from the flesh, and the fruit begins to split. Remove from oven. Serve over a pile of vanilla ice cream. I don't know what it was about the night, but not wanting to turn the oven on, I sliced the figs in quarters and threw a gigantic nob of unsalted butter into a pan. Placing the figs face down in the butter I let them caramelize. Turned them over once onto the skin side I let them cook some more. Dribbling brown sugar (a distant cousin of ice cream) on the soft syrupy goodness sent the plated dessert over the edge.

2. Spent an entire night watching Scorsese's, 'George Harrison, Living in the Material World.' HBO documentary. I teared up in unexpected places. The first time when the great Ravi Shankar played; the other moment came as a list of all of George's songs rolled up the credit screen. George Harrison. Gifted. The Enlightened one.

3. Bengal tigers. An endangered species. Population at approximately 2500. Yesterday in rural Ohio, after the owner of a County Animal Farm freed all the captive animals (lions, tigers, bears, wolves and monkeys) into the surrounding area and then killed himself, sheriff and deputies (safari fever) bagged almost all of the predators including 18 Bengals. Gdamn. Tranquillizing darts anyone?

...'Songs are like tattoos...'

1. Drawn away by personal matters, on the flight over to the islands, Talking Heads, The Commitments, Bob Wills and the Stones masking the turbo jet drone...damn, the food
was miserable. I have been known to frequent dives for a meal, but the sammie that was served wasn't fit for a dog kennel. On the other hand, this was the airline's 1st offense. Slacking my hunger with liquids, and sleep, I woke to spangled turquoise water and Diamond Head rising over the cluttered famed shoreline like an old familiar friend, a sentinel, hovering over 'the gathering place.' 89 degrees out. Wipe that smile off your face. Where are my slippas?

2. Leaves are turning. A slight snap in the air. Fall isn't just about the vaunted NFL or Division I NCAA conferences. They're chucking the ball all over the land. After school and under Friday night lights, it's happening now, baby. Telly ratings soar as football smaks baseball out of the prime time zone. This year the 'Ripley's Believe it or Not' story spiraled out of Pinckney Community High School in Michigan. Tradition dictates that at half time the students crown their homecoming queen. This year, the queen, Brianna Amat, #12 in shoulder pads and cleats, ran out of the Pinckney locker room and was crowned with a tiara. Brianna who tried out for the football team in the spring on the recommendation of her soccer coach made the squad as the field goal kicker. On 'Coronation' night, her team trailing 7-6, playing a rival ranked 7th in the state, with five minutes left in the game...uh, No fear. Brianna, 31 yards away, split the uprights. You think they tore down the goal posts at Pinckney, and hoisted the homecoming queen off the field?

3. Alabama. Sweet home not. WTF? In effect immediately after Judge Sharon Lovelace Blackburn ruled and upheld the strongest immigration law in the country. Thousands of Hispanics have begun mass exodus to border states.

4. A penny for your thoughts after listening to Mozart's 'Requiem' in flight.

Popcorn and Jujubes

1. Thus far, the new fall lineup on the telly is a resounding bust. Index finger cramping from hitting the delete button, I channel surfed into the 1966 film, 'The Group.' Whoa. Already 15 minutes into the movie, I sat mesmerized, not by the acting because the acting was marginal, but by the ensemble cast: Shirley Knight, Elizabeth Hartman, Joan Hackett, Hal Holbrook, Jessica Walter, a youthful Larry Hagman (cast as a shit of a husband)pre JR Dallas and the delicious Candace Bergman as Lakey, the role every respectable dyke is familiar with.
We loved CB so much that while living in a household populated by 70's anarchists we named a drink of oj mixed with tonic water and whatever, the CandyBergen. 'The Group' written by Mary McCarthy about the class of '33 at Vassar inadvertently slid into my glitterati hall of quotes when McCarthy said 'live' on the Dick Cavett show, "Every word written by Lillian Hellman is a lie including 'and' and 'the.' Hellman responded by filing a 2.5 million libel suit. They don't make them like those 2 broads anymore.

2. BBCA. Has produced the best shows of the year. If you missed these, stream them. 'The Hour' which I've previously mentioned in this space. One of the finest series to ever cross the Atlantic. Domenic West from The Wire. The absolutely brilliant Ben Whislaw. Romola Garai, a powerful central character, and a heady piece of eye candy.
'Zen' starring Rufus Sewell based on the Aurelio Zen detective series. Filmed in Italy, detailed, beautiful. And finally, the Idris Elba vehicle, 'Luther.' Violent and gritty. Elba reading the dictionary would make for compelling drama.

3. A shameless bit of pub for a book, 'Sound Business: Newpapers, Radio, and the Politics of New Media,' written by Michael Stamm who graduated from UCBerkeley, and worked with me as a student and a young man before he pursued his doctorate at the Univ of Chicago. Mick and I used to spend hours on the mezzanine of level B staring down onto
the gridiron, the Main stacks of the Library, plotting our playbook, hashing over the good, the bad, and the ineptitude while keeping our focus on the future. Well done. Uh, and that's Dr. Stamm, to you.

'Blowing smoke rings from the corner of my m,m,m,mouth'...

1. I flew to Baghdad last night. Well, alright, in a psychedelic sort of way. The Fox theater in Oakland circa 1928, originally named 'The Baghdad' for it's lavish mystical Middle Eastern/Indian designs, rich tapestries, 'trip the lights' fantastic domed ceiling, and carved gold inlays, was bought by William Fox, who, well, named the downtown palace after himself...The Fox. Whaaaat? The Fox had a run of 38 years and then was put down, a slow simmering death, in 1966 by the burgeoning popularity of the people's box, the telly. For 40 years, the great mecca lay dormant. Vandalized, fire bombed, and in shameful decay, the citizens of Oakland in 1996 got off their collective asses and set restoration plans in motion for the designated historical landmark. Originally taking 2 years to construct, the renovation like most contemporary projects staggered across the finish line in a tortoise paced ten years. The born again venue is so visually striking, half the audience last night took cell phone photos documenting the elaborate architecture. And as luck or karma would have it, the band, Thievery Corporation, had a sitar player who embodied the essence of the surroundings as the lights went down and people fired up.

2. Along that same sight line, I remembered the first artist I saw at another jaw dropping venue...the classic art deco Paramount, coincidentally in close proximity to the Fox, Laura Nyro. A grand piano, a single red rose on stage, long before Tori, Alicia, and the 2 other blondes, she 'stone souled' and immortalized the evening. In 1997 when I heard she died, I wept.

3. 'Circumstance.' A bold, albeit flawed, 1st film by a young Iranian woman, Maryam Keshavarz, shot the movie in Beirut for under a million with a supporting cast from as far away as France and Vancouver. The film set in Tehran, is cloaked in underground bars, a subtle (really?) westernized climate, morality police, and angst as 2 young girls play out their sexual feelings for each other. 'Circumstance' could have easily have fallen on it's face, by delivering a heavy handed political statement. It doesn't. However, Maryam Keshavarz originally from Tehran, after making this movie, can never go back. Gingger Shankar, great niece of Ravi, managed the Persian pop style music accentuating the pulse of the movie.

Saturday Slices

1. There's a country Western song with the opening line: "10 years ago on a cold dark night." 'Long Black Veil' written by Marijohn Wilkin has been covered by everyone from Johnny Cash to Joan Baez to Mick Jagger. I thought of the song and that line as the 10th anniversary approached. Except it wasn't night, it was early morning on the West coast. I was already at work and had no (really) idea what had taken place in NYC until a colleague came running into the office spewing the terrible news. I don't think I accomplished much that day. I surfed all the news sites, trolling for as much info as the networks could muster. The images were horrific. Students huddled together at the campus cafes. Numb and insulated, on the other side of the Rockies, I worried about a college mate who resided in Manhattan. In one of my classic base reactions, some of the 9/11 evisceration floated off when whatshisname got his in Pakistan on May 2nd. Izzy was 4 when all of this shit went down. Tomorrow she turns 14. It's always the brightest event, the beacon on a reflective somber day.

2. Kate Winslet. Joe, her 7 year old, announced that one day he might have either a girlfriend or a boyfriend and which would she prefer. Winslet quick on the draw, and one of the sharper pencils in the box, replied that it didn't matter to her, the decision was entirely his. This in stark contrast to Tracy Morgan's ignorant asinine remarks.

3. Last week a 21 foot saltwater croc was caught in the eastern region of Mindanao Island of the Philippines. It is now the largest reptile of it's kind in captivity. Hunted after villagers saw it dragging a water buffalo from the banks of a river and weighing more than a ton, the croc has been christened with the name 'Lolong' in honor of the person who captured it. Tick. Tock.

Friday Flings

1. Decided to feed my face this morning. Skipped the oatmeal and banana. And boogied as quickly as I could past the grumpy teens on their forced march to 'Tech High' (yeah, and I bet some of them dose their lunch breaks with assorted x-rated whatevers), past the speeding cars on their way across the bridge, past the embattled employees navigating towards the deep troubled waters along the banks of the blue and gold campus, past the apartment bldg where my ex once lived, the one with no elevator, and the neat stucco facade perched on the street that I drove down a hundred times cry cry crying those 96 tears (my therapist wanted to stand me up and slap me several times um I was horrified I could see it in her eyes as I played that song over and over again). Thousands of dollars later, with much better days ahead, there like a shining beacon (drop the e and it's a morsel of deliciousness)...my secret Friday hideaway. With the best donuts, oh yes, but with the all world, all Galaxy, morning bun. Flaky. Swirls of crunchy sugar crystals textured within buttery whorls of pastry, buffered by cinnamon and orange mist. Why, it makes the day all bright and chirpy.

2. Kinda along the same stream...Bill Clinton. Vegan? Does that seem right? This is the man who never met a burger he didn't like.

3. El Presidente. Taking several jabs on the chin this week. The collapse of the touted Solydra alternative energy plant filing chapter 11; this, the symbol of the economic recovery for the country, a bust. And the head scratching capitulation of the President to the Repubs...changing his address to Thursday evening so it wouldn't coincide with the 'phants debate. But uh, did any of the white house minions not know that the NFL goes live Thursday night? The 2011 season opens...the Packers vs the Saints? Hmm. Depressing economic news vs the funny pointed ball? I bet I know who crushes with the higher rating. The Man needs to field a better O line.

4. One of the best telly shows in it's 3rd episode on BBCA is 'The Hour.' Brilliant. With Domenic West, the great Jimmy McNulty of 'The Wire,' Ben Whishaw, an exceptional whip of an actor, and the beautiful Romola Garai (where has she been all my life)? It's a 6 episode series. Stream it if you can because the Brits know how to compose intelligent drama.

5. Monday. Honor Labor.

Shell shocked at the Summitt

Pat Summitt, the all everything, all world coach of the Tennessee Vols Women's basketball program went viral today and announced that she has been diagnosed with early onset of dementia, Alzheimer's type by physicians at the Mayo clinic. I was at lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant just on the outskirts of China town with my friend Jane, discussing the microcosm of our lives when Jane dropped the news of Coach Summitt's irreversible brain disease. I almost choked on my clay pot. WTF? Pat Summitt is 59 years old. She is the all time winning coach in NCAA history. Think about that fact for a second. She has coached and won more games than any man or woman at the college Division 1 level. Ever. After experiencing cognitive lapses of team practices and meeting times, lost keys, tardiness, and on several occasions inability to recollect schemes or set plays during games, Coach Summitt suspected something was wrong. Years ago, I remember watching a video of the Tennessee Vols filmed in a season after they had won the NCAA title. 96-97? The documentary was a ferocious profile of Summitt and her players battling through losses, injuries, adversity and inter squad conflicts. Summitt was relentless, jawing with players who screwed up, or cutting them down with her infamous'withering' stare, which was far worse than a stone cold tongue lashing and a slap upside the head. At the end of the season, suffering through ten excruciating losses to teams like ODU, FLA and LATech, the team dug deep, found a load of grit, and rose up to beat UConn and then ODU for another NCAA title. Back to back, baby. Slowly, the boys at Sports Illustrated woke up and took notice. In 1998 Pat Summitt, featured on the front cover of SI, is not holding a trophy or a basketball. Those who have seen her on the sidelines through the decades recognized the simplicity and the ferocity of the cover photograph. In a nod to the legend, the cover is vintage Summitt with the 'stare.' The one that launched a 1,000 wins, y'all. And something I'll always remember. Especially this season as she defies the odds and continues to coach.

Friday Fish Wrap

1. I have my own personal 'Idaho' of stockpiled phobias. One of those jewels is being trapped underground on a public trans system. Irrational? To each her own. Whenever I embark for a jaunt on the lovely BART rail network which connects a web of metropolitan destinations in the San Francisco bay area I never step onto the platform without a mini flashlight, a bottle of water, ipod, and a charged cell phone (I was caught in a 24 hour power outage in Honolulu with my wallet locked in the hotel room safe and my cell phone battery level hovering at 40%). Fool me once. Uh-huh. Fool me twice. No. No. So when BART snapped this week and halted all trains for 3 hours due to a phantom glitch, I loved that spin, I dialed up some croc tears and sobbed with relief that, thank the goddess, I had been spared. Then again, Mama didn't raise no fool.

2. Have to give that old warhorse, Diana Nyad props for attempting to swim the 103 miles between Cuba and the Florida keys without a shark cage. Nyad 61 and thwarted once in a previous attempt, succumbed to intense shoulder pain, asthma and choppy currents after 29 hours in the water at the half way point. Nyad an endurance swimmer, and record holder, who had trained 2 years for this 2nd attempt said it was unlikely she would try the swim again.

3. The Perseids are baaaack. Showering the summer night sky. Best times to check out the light show are on Friday and Saturday night. And lucky you, if you're somewhere outside of the city. Full moon flooded windows the last 48 hours; not really optimum for the display. The Perseids in their magnificence, however, cannot hold a candle to the Leonids. One of the most spectacular displays I've seen was in either 2001 or 2002. Backyard bundled up against the cold. Sitting in a lawn chair with my next door neighbor. Drinking tea and coffee (where were those cross hatched benes from my youth?), we waited. Mitchel smoked. I was tempted. And then around 2am the Leonids arrived. It was cool. Super cool...streaking across the night sky, hundreds of meteors, the trailing dust of the comet, Tempel-Tuttle, showered the horizon for several hours. Spectacular. Silent. For more than a nano second, I longed to be sprawled on the desert floor.

Covers

Today was the day for uploading some new tunes into the pod. An album which had been on my radar for quite awhile was the Byrds 'Sweetheart of the Rodeo'...a 1968 vinyl which didn't sit well with Nashville or the rock world when it arrived on the scene. And since I was going to be mining for some new musical notes relatively close to the genre, why not load up on those two good ol' boys, Bob Wills and Hank Williams too. But, what triggered all of this, sometimes it's a relatively small yearning, what I really coveted more than anything was the cover of Bob Dylan's song, 'You ain't going Nowhere,' the lead track on the 'Sweetheart' album. Then I got to thinking. Hmm. What makes a good cover great? Is it the singer(s) or the song?

Which dispatched me to a song perched close to the summit of my top ten list of covers: 'I only have eyes for you.' Composed in 1934 by Harry Warren and Al Dublin and floated off the silver screen by Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler, the song became an instant hit. Throughout the decades 'I only have eyes for you,' has been covered by Frank, Ella, Billie, The Temptations, Bette, Carly, and geezuz, even Doris Day. But the definitive cover is The Flamencos rendition which echoed hauntingly throughout the great 1973 film, American Graffiti. To this day, I can close my eyes and see the line of cruising cars along the boulevard and hear those beautiful melodic notes conveyed by the Flamencos. Sitting comfortably on a pedestal right next to the Flamencos is Art Garfunkel's 1975 cover which the Brits adored, showing Art the love, by making it #1 on their billboard charts. A smidge lower, but definitely hanging with the big boys is Peggy Lee's cover, a fabulous video catching a youthful Lee in a simple but lavish rendition of this quintessential song. Slow weekend? Killing time before lunch or dinner? You tube any one of these covers. And tuck into the passion.

...Some flowers in your hair...

1. The first GF had a thing for Austrians. So, in the summer of love, in the city of love, I went to see 'Fahrenheit 451' directed by the great Francois Truffaut with the iconic Julie Christie, and the great Austrian actor, Oscar Werner. I had not read the Bradbury book; I was a heady English major churning out volumes of papers, cutting classes to engage in clandestine sex with the GF, flunking Shakespeare, and inhaling the Height Ashbury rapture. Sci-Fi was Teflon. Nothing ever stuck to your brain. As the lights came up in the theater,I made a mental note to check out Ray Bradbury's novels.
Book burnings, listless societies, and rogue anti-establishment groups hunkered down in the forest literally pulping the words to memory, tweaked my internal chords. Today out and about whether it's in my 'hood,' or other environs, I can't help but notice the virtual disconnect of people around me: the population mesmerized, lost in their hand held devices. Eyes downcast, and squinting. Everyone seems only there, and not really here. The delicious art of cafe sipping and scanning (a serious art form best enjoyed behind a pair of dark reflective glasses) is fading away. In '451,' society is emotionless and complacent. A flat screen at home, the only source of entertainment. I confess I love my ear buds and would never fly without being hitched to my music. And I've got a 'droid. But, the next time you're out, my friends, count the number of people staring not at the magical surroundings, but at their electronic devices. Paper burns at Fahrenheit 451; at the end of Truffaut's film, if I could have chosen one book to memorize, it would have been T.H. White's 'The Once and Future King.' Tempered by the passing of years I'd also include, Marion Zimmer Bradley's, 'The Mists of Avalon.'

2. In the city the other day. Went to my favorite truck, Donna's Tamales. For a visit and a couple of tubs of tapioca which is so good it's criminal! Seriously. Vegan. Made with maple syrup, coconut milk and other killer ingredients. Can't get enough of that. But, alas, no Shirley and Donna. Lemme know when you're back.

3. Is it me? Or is this a lackluster summer blockbuster year. Super 8. Old school entertainment. Harry. A smashing wrap. Uh, but that's a long time between those 2 drinks.

4. Keith Richards, 'Life.' And George F Martin's, 'A Dance with Dragons.' Great summer reads.

Local Style 101

1. If Spam is the King of canned meats in Hawaii, Vienna sausage is the bastard prince. For all you haole's out there who look down your noses and can't quite digest the culinary love affair that the kama'aina have with their canned mystery meats, class is in session...long time ago in the 40's when the islands were the launching point and the r&r base for the military, Spam, unique, in it's compact size, sealed tin, and preservation qualities (the canned meat that would not die) became the ration of choice for the armed forces. Legend has it that Spam then moved it's way along the food chain to shelves of local grocery stores because fresh meat was hard to rustle up. Um, bologna! Truth is that the military boys on leave would trade locals Spam for fresh fruits and vegetables. And the locals especially the plantation workers discovered that Spam mixed with rice and packed in lunch pails did not spoil in the hot Hawaiian sun. Enter the bastard prince, Vienna sausages: different shape, round tin can, same amazing properties. Locals snapped up the tiny canned finger sausages and incorporated them in the Spam recipes. But my friends, Spam was never dethroned. Vienna sausages carved out a loyal following and found it's own niche but always sat a foot below the Spam banner. In my survival kit, I have among other canned items, the royal Spam and it's wannabe, Prince Vienna. Why? Because no need worry about expiration date.

2. Ah, Love's bakery. The tradition continues. Producing the wonder bread of the islands. First baked in 1851 on Nuuanu Street. A survivor of the health food onslaught which frowns on white bread. Long may you reign!

The Babe, and other gems...

1. On deck, The Babe. Not that Babe. But, THE Babe. June 26, 1911. Mildred Ella Didrikson born in Beaumont, Texas, a century ago, and I hear tell just a hop, skip and tall Texas spit away from that other city, Port Arthur, which would later hatch one of the greatest blues and rock legends of the 60's but that my friends is for another blog. A comet hurtling through the sports world, all alone, in an era when there wasn't any encouragement (nada, zippo, zero) for women to excel in sports; Mildred Ella shocked the world. Nicknamed by her mother, the Babe, Mildred grew up foul mouthed and brash, two uh, Texas sized attributes which would serve her well as chauvinistic writers and fans amped up dis on her athletic prowess. And what marvelous stats the Babe reaped: 2 time Olympic track and field gold medalist; all American basketball player; baseball pitcher for the Southern Assoc in 1934; and the winner of 82 golf tournaments, 14 of them trophied in a row. It is said the LPGA was founded because of the Babe. As a teen, I stumbled onto the Babe when my dad tossed me a book, and told me to read the story of one of the greatest athletes who ever lived. My head was spinning when I finished and I remember staring at her photo a long long time. Babe Didrikson Zaharias (George Zaharias was a wrestler she married), who saw no point in playing a game if you didn't win, died at 45 from colon cancer. Of her, the legendary sports writer, Grantland Rice, wrote: "She is beyond all belief until you see her perform...Then you finally understand that you are looking at the most flawless section of muscle harmony, of complete mental and physical coordination, the world of sport has ever seen."

2. MIA. Not. Called upon for an emergency tour of duty...family crisis. And, on flight as my mind wandered through the musical maze of Stones...Out of our Heads, December's Children, Let it Bleed; Beatles Revolver, and White; Cake; Johnny Cash; I savored an amazing moment. During my checkerboard 45 years of aviation flights, I have never had the pleasure of hearing a female voice over the aircraft intercom utter these seven golden words: "Welcome aboard, this is your flight captain," until the other day. It was a swell moment. Props galore. I enjoyed every sweet mile of my journey.

'Stuck a feather in...'

Uh, I wasn't born a 'fortunate son...' no sir, but at the right moments, in tumultuous times the John Fogerty lyrics have resonated. However, today while returning to the bay area, I thought of how the skies will be rearranged, pyro-technisized by dazzling showers, glittering displays of phantom artisans. Grandiose. Flamboyant. And renegade. In most cities fireworks are illegal. But, in every burg across the country today, people are loading up for nightfall. Got no pyro-T's? Locate local Chinatown and slowly do a drive-by. In an evil twist, and in the spirit of the former British landlords, the city of San Francisco has decided to tax it's residents today, not for tea, but for parking. No meter freebies. Lots of pissed citizens. The 1776 divorce perpetuated some of my favorite childhood memories. Fireworks. Legal in Hawaii. Asian holiday? Fire up those works...and chase bad luck down the street. Mother or Grandmother marching through the yard to the royal palm with 2 foot strings of firecrackers, nailing them to the trunk of the tree and lighting the staccato display. Some of the best 4th's in no particular order. 1. Highway 80, stuck in traffic. People standing by the side of their vehicles watching the Marina pyro-T's. 2. On a blanket in Davis. Flat on back, bursting chrysanthemum patterns overhead. 3. Hood of a car outside a stadium pyro-T show. 4. Every year on Manila St. with the kids as the profusion of lights flourish, soliciting their memories.

'Winter is Coming,' Indeed...

1. Game of Thrones is a sprawling sweeping epic that is hacked into 4 massive novels with a much anticipated long over-due, geezuz, soon to be released (the masses have been pissy and restless)5th novel titled, "A Dance with Dragons' in mid-July; the genre is not sci-fy but fantasy. Turned off already? Hang on a bit longer. Authored by George R.R. Martin, and picked up by HBO, fans were conflicted. On one hand, elation. On the other, paranoia. The series could either be an intriguing audacious back-stabbing landscape revolving around 4 major kingdoms or a monumental nose pinching goat fuck. Three positive transactions happened on the way to production. 1. the series location, Ireland. 2. George R. R. Martin's blessing and presence 3. The hiring of the brilliant David Benioff to script most of the installments. Benioff is the author of '25th Hour' which Spike Lee made into a movie starring Edward Northon. And Benioff has also written scripts:'X-Men Origins: Wolverine', and 'Troy.' Ok, those were pedestrian. But in 2009 Benioff wrote a novel, 'City of Thieves,' the best damn book that year. A gem. Locked and loaded, the cable series has been sensational. Why, it almost harkens back to yester-year...'Deadwood' days, or as some critics have written 'Soprano's.' The buzz really did deliver. Ratings were hot. And the finale sizzled. Literally. The characters proved fluid. So much so, a cautionary word. Attached to a particular personage? Don't be. Have a favorite? Could be whacked. The novels are filled with twists, chaos, and disintegration of order. One thing however is constant throughout the series. Love them or fear them. Woman seem to rule. A true telly-land fantasy.

2. Spring. 2012. 2nd season of 'Game of Thrones.' How dare HBO!

3. 'The Killing.' How can a finale suck as much as it did? It sucked donkey's. Wait till next season for the answer? Pleaaase. Up until the finale, this series was like watching a foreign film. Slow. Dark. Somber. The critics hated it. Not fast enough for them. But there were some of us out there who applauded the difference. Mireille Enos was great. John Kinnaman as her sidekick even better. It was a series crying out for a compelling moon trajectory finale. And it failed. The 13 episode concept (each episode=1 day) was clever. And we can thank the Danes (originally a Danish series) for that. But, god almighty, the last episode goes straight to the hall of shame.

'Nice guys finish last' Really?

1. The interpretation of losing is an art form. Think of sports as a multi-faceted gem. Team work. Discipline. Sacrifice. Self Esteem. Elation. And buried beneath the tips of those ice floes...adversity. Most athletes grasp the short term memory concept of losing: dropped to the canvas for the count. Get up and move on. Lose by a half a nano second in racing. There's always tomorrow. Give up 2 consecutive home runs. Bear down, throw a strike. And fuhgeddaboudit. Apparently in Vancouver the other night, when the Canucks lost the 7th game, the fans in a deja vu reenactment of the 2004 riot, took their frustration and anger out on the city streets. Fueled by alcohol? Likely. Embarrassed by the blow out at home? Ok. We get it. But, destruction and looting of downtown establishments, burning of automobiles, 150 people hospitalized. WTF? Rogue nation, back to the man cave, swill some more booze and swallow hard. The Canucks were dealt a bad hand. They got off the ice went to the showers,and looked in the mirror. Then they went home.

2. Sunday is Father's day. One of my earliest recollection of loss, was after a brutal game at Kezar when the YA Tittle SF 49ers choked up and gave the game away in the 4th quarter. There were many of those defeats that year, and as we waited for my dad to come out of the locker room, one by one the showered 9ers drifted out, signing autographs for the fans, greeting their wives and kids and leaving the parking lot. My dad eventually came out, and said the team took the loss hard; they had thrown stools and chairs around the locker room and destroyed a table. I turned to look back as we drove away. That day I had learned a little something about 'appearances.'

3. Truth or dare. The re-count shenanigans of 2000. My current gf (that's girl friend to you) and I were ebullient. At a gathering. Cigars. Booze. It was in the bag. After reality had smacked us all around, and the light switch had gone on or off, and Gore had been gored, the woman sitting next to me, stood up and shouted, 'where the F can we go to break some windows!' Oh so close...

4. Bill Cunningham New York. If there is one film you see this year. Make it this one.

5. To all the fathers out there, enjoy. And to all the other mothers who are fathers, you too...

XX Chroms...

1. It's all about the chicks today. Jill Costello is at the head of the parade. But first, a historical back track. Several decades ago, I partnered up with a member of the Cal Women's Crew. I who had grown up in a world populated by boxing, football, and basketball had no frame of reference for crew. What in the world? Once in Cambridge, Mass, I saw teams skimming the St. Charles. Lovely in their synchronization, a lapsing memory. Until, I became involved in the girl friend's world. Rapidly I learned that all crew members were tall. Got height? Studs. Muscular, with shoulders, and wing spans that whats-his-face, the German swimmer, the one they called the albatross would penis envy. And then I learned this. That the cog or the dawg that drove the boat was small of stature, sat facing the crew and barked the cadence. Revved the stroke. Navigated victory. At punishing blistering warp speed. Or not. Coxswains. That's cox to you. I've met only one. And years later I nick-named her the 'little general.' But, this is not about her, it's about Jill Costello. The cox of the Cal Women's crew team. 2010 Pac 10 champions. Her story is so powerful it should be a required pre-req for any young girl interested in sports: http://search.espn.go.com/jill-costello/

2. The 'Gay Girl in Damascus' blog. Legit? Or hoax? News sources are investigating.

3. Kristen Stewart. MTV movie awards...edgy mini red leather dress studded with safety pins and in true alternative fashion wearing slip-on Vans to stage hop hard-ware. KStew as Joan Jett in 'The Runaways.' Stream it.

4. Reese. Generational MTV award. Best film never seen by anyone: Freeway. A cult classic.

5. Game of Thrones. On HBO. British blond Emilia Clarke who plays Daenerys Targaryen. On deck to kick some serious Middle kingdom ass.

Pass the donuts, please

1. Friday is National donut day. Someone actually went through official channels to shove the uh, oft maligned little ball of dough, into the national spotlight declaring a cardiac holiday. I mean who doesn't really like fried food? Admit it. And drizzled with powdered sugar, or glazed? My history with donuts can be traced directly back to St. Bridget's parochial school. Pre-national obesity. After first Friday Mass, the nuns, god bless them, served up hot chocolate, and powdered sugar cake donuts in the cafeteria. We were in the 2nd and 3rd grade. Globs of sugar jacked our tiny brains, as we dunked and slurped our way to a sucrose high. Once I saw this kid, named Michael, eat 7 cake donuts before class. Back in the islands, my palate changed. Mysteriously refined and sophisticated (at 13), I discovered and became a culinary 'ho' to malasadas, a Portuguese tasty... round deep fried balls of dough rolled in granulated cane sugar and deposited on friendly shores in the late 1800's. Warm, golden and slightly crusty. I couldn't get enough. Oh yeah, come to mama! So my friends, with your best interests at heart, leap frog the bran muffin (are we doing penance here?). Bag the oatmeal, and start the car. Load up on lipitor and sidle up to the counter. Life's a carnival. Get with the program.

2. In Joplin, a pachyderm helped clear debris from the tornado ravaged area. Immediately after the media pub, someone from PETA or a PETA clone went ape about the defunct circus (past citations for animal transgressions)who graciously offered the elephant's services. Whoa. No whining during national emergencies.

3. Farmer's markets. I love all the purveyors that flock in with their produce or their food products which enrich my life as well as the surrounding communities. I relish buying sweet ears of corn from Brentwood, or Chandler strawberries from Sonoma, and fresh eggs from Turlock. Recently in an East Bay article, there were grumblings about the number of out of area sellers and the lack of inner city licenses. Food for thought. But, don't be singling out, my Donna's Tamales as interlopers from Marin. I know these women. They work hard; have always worked hard, and travel up and down the coast like the majority of these purveyors to provide us all with healthier, better food options.

'When Ruthie says come see her in her honky tonk...'

Bob Dylan turned 70 yesterday. No other recording artist, besides the great Joan Baez, more deeply affected me in my dysfunctional adolescence than Bob Dylan. I was 16 years old, land locked on an island, frustrated by conservative Catholic parents, disinterested in 80% of my high school education run by an incompetent order of French nuns and anti-social. My parents pressured me to join religious groups (OMG). I flunked Home Ec. and was sent to summer school every year to get a leg up on Math. The road between home, school and church was polluted with my jail break dreams. I started pilfering my father's liquor cabinet and taking whiskey to school. Smoking in the basement of my house became a routine. My only self discovery was I liked girls. That way. At the end of a stressful summer, circa 1962 (?) my parents sent me to visit an aunt in SF who carted me down to the Monterrey Fair grounds to hear Joan Baez. A fog settled in over the evening sky. Under-dressed, and shivering, I was mesmerized by the the folk ballads. At the end of the evening Joan Baez called out to a friend in the wings to join her. A skinny white boy, curly black hair, a harmonica slung around his neck walked on stage. It was Bob Dylan. Together, the only song they sang that night was, 'Blowing in the Wind.' The doors of my world blew open. I was a confused child on the flight over, and now on the return flight home, I was a confused adolescent with an agenda. When I got to college, I had friends who loved the same things that I did. The hall ways of the dorm echoed with songs from the iconic, 'Freewheelin Bob Dylan,' 'Bringing it all back Home,' and 'Highway 61 Revisited.' Somewhere compressed in all that music, Dylan went electric on us. I cared for a split nano second. Then rolled along with it. Years later, sitting with friends in a dyke bar, Dylan's 'Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again' lurched from the juke box. The place was smoky and crowded, but we all stopped what we were doing and sang along with Dylan 'neath his Pananmanian moon. Thanks and Happy Birthday, Bob.

Animal Style

1. Earth to Dominique Strauss-Kahn. In America, we prosecute rapists. And our media coverage is insatiable because each and everyone of us likes to watch. Welcome to weeks and months of sordid headlines from the jaded NY tabloids. The discreet French news agencies cannot save your sorry ass here.

2. Arnie. In your own house? There's that old saying...you never s**t where you eat. Dumb. And dumber. Chow time for T-Rex.

3. Lance Armstrong. A year ago, Floyd Landis' accusations of doping was dismissed by the Armstrong camp as 'money grubbing and sour grapes.' Last night on 60 minutes, Tyler Hamilton, an Olympic gold medal winner, a member of the vaunted US Postal team who consistently denied PED usage to federal investigations, subpoenaed by the Grand Jury and granted partial immunity for his testimony spilled it all. Hamilton emotional throughout the interview said that revealing his performance-enhancing drug usage to his family was brutal, and (clearly distraught) if he could go back and wipe out his entire memory he would. Hamilton said Armstrong and the team managers encouraged doping and that he witnessed Armstrong's EPO injections; using testosterone; and being given blood transfusions. The biggest revelation was that Armstrong failed a doping test, but was protected by team managers and the International cycling union in 2001. Tyler Hamilton was apologetic and the confessional grief laden. He was not only taking down a friend, but breaking the cycling code. Hamilton's profuse and careful use of the noun, 'we' reminded me of the famous Father Damien quote from the leper colony on Molokai when he said, 'we lepers.' The US Postal team. In solidarity. Guilty. Together.

4. Michelle Forbes. Tour de force as Mitch Larsen in 'The Killing. Forbes is one of the great supporting actors in film, and steals every scene she is in. 'The Killing,' a brilliant 13 episode series, an instant cult classic, is almost a wrap in telly land...

5. Had my own Rapture on Saturday when Shackleford won the Preakness.

Luck

1. Friday the 13th. Walked under any ladders? Black cat crossed your path? Change your bedding today? Cut your nails? Some people never leave their house on this numerically edgy day; for fiddy cent, and a couple of smokes left at the door the Dr is in...paraskevidekatriaphobia (I am not making this word up) is the clinical term for peeps who would prefer to shutter themselves up than venture out amidst the living or the walking dead. Your call. The Christians view Friday as the day Christ died. There were allegedly 12 apostles not 13. On Friday the 13th in 1307, the Knights Templar ate it; thousands of the order were seized, tortured and burned at the stake by Philip IV of France who deemed them a threat, owed them money, and repaid, oh how he repaid, in untimely medieval fashion. Piss off the Romans or the pagan Brits, count on your execution date as Friday. Got financial crashes? Black Friday will travel. However, illuminating thoughts revolved through my tiny brain as I walked the cemetery today. For what it's worth, there are others out there, who view Friday the 13th as a good, and lucky day. The word Friday is derived from the Norse goddess of marriage and fertility, Frigg or Freya. A witches coven numbers 13. Pre-Western civilizations gave rise to the lunar calendar, 13 full moons and menstrual cycles, goddess worshiping and femininity. The Patriarchs nervous and unsettled by the lunar calendar's matriarchal overtones, replaced it with the solar calendar. Unsavory drift. The number 12 supplanted the number 13. Surprised? Why should we be.

2. Porn in the compound at Abbottabad, Pakistan. Lots of it. A treasure trove for SNL.

3. Went looking for my favorite Donna's Tamale truck on Thursday for some of their killer tapioca. No such luck.

4. I have never walked under a ladder. I always eat black eye peas and mochi on the 1st day of the year. When having a bad run of luck, I have been known to consciously change my attire; on the other hand, I will always wear the same article of clothing that has lucky vibes until it shreds.

Pau or Pow!

1. The Texas Rangers, and the Canadian Royal Mounties share the slogan, 'we always get our man.' Of course you know where this is going. The Navy Seals and their elite strike team known as the mythical 'Seal Team 6,' knowledge of this combat unit is usually disavowed, took out the most wanted man in the world with exact precision, aggression, and flawless mechanics. Make no mistake about this, this was a kill mission. Why incarcerate and drag the nation through an agonizing trial? Who wanted that senseless option? Eyes on the target, two bullets put an end to 9 years of late night jokes. Media reports confirmed the Seals executing intense assault maneuvers on a mock compound at the beginning of April. Green light on hold, the clock ticking past the royal's headlines, the President finally unleashed hell. Somewhere, in a land far far away, Jack Bauer is raising a glass, and smiling because he knew damn well those Navy Seals didn't need the promise of 72 virgins to get the job done.

2. Lara Logan. The CBS News' chief foreign correspondent embedded in Afghanistan, and Iraq with military units, sexually assaulted and savagely beaten by a mob in Tahrir Square the night Mubarak fled the capitol, will be interviewed on 60 Minutes this Sunday. Her story details the heroism of those who saved her and her crew, but more importantly the piece reflects a courageous woman who is stepping forward to speak publicly, letting other victims know that they do not have to endure the burden alone.

Chef Hamilton and Proust

So I just finished reading one of the greatest contemporary memoirs ever written. Ok, a bold statement; quick second thought places Patti's Smith's,'Just Kids'in a virtual dead heat with this masterpiece. A couple of years ago, on Iron Chef America, I watched Bobby Flay duke it out with young chef, Gabrielle Hamilton. As I watched them battle the constraints of the 60 minute challenge, (the secret ingredient, zucchini) the challenger, Hamilton, very cool, and very gifted (you either perceived this or had fallen asleep on the couch) constructed and plated succulence extraordinaire dispatching Flay, hang-dog, back to his Iron Chef pedestal. Yowza. A word about Iron Chef America. It is a decent imitation of the original Iron Chef which was produced in Japan and had achieved insane cult status. If you never saw the Japanese version, which was special, and I don't mean the episodes with the sorry ass dubbed English voice overs, but the ones which were sub-titled and wildly entertaining, well my friends you missed the wedding. But, I digress. Chef Hamilton has written, a book, 'Blood Bones and Butter' which donkey kongs the rest of non-fiction nation, and hovers on top (yes woman on top) of all other culinary memoirs. Why? Because Chef Hamilton articulates like a knife through butter. Not only is the book on fire in NY (the most jaded place on earth), a March publication, it is already in it's 3rd printing. The book remarkable in it's voice, and holding nothing back, executes transitions which are rich and stunning in their revelations. At the beginning of the book, Gabrielle Hamilton references butter and sugar sandwiches which her French mother made as an after school treat in New Hope, PA. My own mother growing up, dirt poor, frequently ate butter and sugar sandwiches, a dietary staple in her household, and when I was in elementary school, sometimes she made me one too. With a little luck and timing if the avocados were ripe in the backyard, I'd find slices of the compact, slippery gems pressed between the butter and sugar. Today, in a nod to old school familiarity and soul, I made and ate one of those for lunch.

Shady Musings

1. In SF on an over nighter; heavy fog spritzing over head walking from the house to the car, fog horn in the distant like the good ol'college/hipster days. It piqued the senses for a newyawkminute and then it was gone. Proust's madeline poised eloquently, but in this twitchy, multi-tasking world I lost sight and dropped the night shade. There is something to be said for bedside reading material. Tucking in with a zrytec-wine combo to slay the dragon, I flipped, drooled, flipped, through a 2007 Saveur issue dedicated, my vegetarian friends, to the glories of beef, starting with the explorations of a Montana ranch and culminating in a gorgeous savory plated spread...broiled, roasted, skewered, and sauced of the aforementioned industry. Hung over from that 'zine, I woke up...a lumberjack craving carb stacks. It would have been lovely if I had walked to Tartine's and fallen face first into 4,000 calories, but I was early and they were closed. Frack! I had to wait an excruciating 10 minutes for the effing opening. Cruel and unusual punishment so early in the morning. Ye gods, I could smell the butter and the flour laced with chocolate wafting...should I buy one or should I buy two pain au chocolats? And after I eat that flaky piece of heaven where do I go from there? Back to earth? Not so fast. Sometimes indulging the dark side is good. Sometimes, stepping back into the shade enhances perspective. Somewhere out there today, is a butcher wrapped parcel with my name on it. The sound I just heard, was my sister, the enlightened one in England, hurling.

2. The 60 Minute expose of Greg Mortenson, author of '3 Cups of Tea.' Sensational headlines implying duplicity etc etc. I'm reminded of this quote from David Lean's 'Lawrence of Arabia...' Mr. Dryden: "If we've told lies, you've told half lies,and a man who tells lies like me, merely hides the truth, but a man who tells half lies has forgotten where he's put it."

Playing Hardball

This is my 100th post. In general, I'm feeling good with the effort to marshal writing skills under this particular guise. Short but not too short. Free form streaming. Lots of whining. No sucker punches. Probably not enough humor for my sister. But, hey, you can't please everybody. And to all of you regular, sometime, readers of this blog, sign up as followers, you sly, lazy, mothers...

When I was a child in grade school, in SF, I was shaken down for my milk money practically every day by a kid that said he was a friend, but needed my dime or nickel for his whatevers. The threat of being hit followed me like a dark cloud. After school at a day care center where I waited for my working parents to pick me up, there were tiny gangs of boys, aged 8-10, who beat the crap out of you when they didn't get what they wanted ie coins or food. The nuns that ran both institutions were clueless, and of course, the kiddie population was too scared to spill the beans. And then one day, my brother got beat up. His shoulder and arms were covered by bite wounds, deep teeth marks, and his nose was bloodied. My parents were horrified.

After a series of suicides nationwide, specifically linked to bullying in public schools,

gay, and lesbian youth have found 'friends' and strong backing in the White House, on Capitol Hill, and most importantly with the US Department of Educ. Bullying now described as a civil rights issue places the onus on the schools to work harder to protect victimized students. Imposed penalties include loss of federal aid and potential prosecution. Opponents of this legislation don't like the creation of protection for a specific class. A tired, weak and woeful refrain. Segue: Tara Sullivan, a New Jersey columnist who was barred from interviewing Rory McIlroy in the locker room after his monumental melt-down in the Masters, one of the largest sporting events in the country yesterday. Augusta officials later apologized. Too little. Too late. Stick it.

Jack Tone Road and other Dispatches

1. Don't you wonder when you're road tripping through the valley or mountains or meandering along the shore line who certain roads are named after? I do. Today, while passing through the arid and fertile San Joaquin valley on my way to a wake, I yearned to discover who exactly Jack Tone (having zoomed by it many times) was, for there is not a better sign in the state of California than Jack Tone Road. Hurtling down 99 with out a straw in my path, the road sign hit me square between the eyes. In one of those middle aged moments, I was startled by a little bit of nostalgia and a whole lot of happiness. Stars flew over my head, as my old friend, Jack Tone Road, came into view. I looked to the right and left and saw the magnitude of change and the persistence of sameness along the physical highway. History says Jack Tone was a rancher in the San Joaquin valley and that he developed his struggling farm land into a modern fertile ranch; working tirelessly he designed irrigation systems and instituted farming with modern equipment. Jack Tone was also an advocate for the valley farmers and fought for local water policy. It was also said Jack had the power of the 'laying of the hands,' and that he could heal both sick animals and people. Jack Tone Road...the longest straight road in the San Joaquin Valley.

2. Yale. WTF? And title IX. Apparently there is a long list of alleged sexual harassment and sexual assaults made by graduates and under grads which the Admin at Yale have not addressed or chosen to ignore out of contempt or stupidity. Some of the allegations stretch back as far as 2005. The Department of Educ. has finally stepped in to investigate the matter. One of my first jobs in high school was delivering documents for my father's law firm. Every day I grappled with emotional obstacles. The weather was steaming. It felt like 105 in panty hose and I was drenched in sweat as I slogged documents back and forth in mini pumps between the courts and various law offices. It was of course, made worse, because I didn't even have a place I could hide and cop a smoke. One unbearable day, I dropped a pile of papers off and handed them to a petite woman who was surrounded by a mountain of files. I thought she was the secretary until I returned a couple of weeks later to drop off more legal papers and learned through awkward introductions she was Patsy Takemoto, the resident attorney of the tiny office. Decades would pass before I learned that Patsy Takemoto had applied to more than 20 medical schools and been rejected by them all because she was a woman. In 1972, as a congressional member Patsy T. Mink, a believer in woman's rights, authored Title IX. She would serve Hawaii for 12 terms in the House of Representatives. I often reflect on that particular summer whenever violations or sordid incidents surface like the current allegations at Yale.

3. They say when a great man or woman dies, winds sweep down across the plains and settle into the valley. Albin Watson Crabtree. 1910-2011. I felt the wind brush up against my back today.

'Tell mama, tell mama all...'

Those five words were uttered by Elizabeth Taylor in George Stevens', 'A Place in the Sun.' It was a passionate scene; an anguished Montgomery Clift and Taylor on a balcony with the camera angled and hovering over Clift's shoulder peering in at Taylor as she spoke those lines...almost choking me on my popcorn as I sat in a theater watching retro classics. Elizabeth Taylor absolutely radiated beauty in that film. She was the stuff of manly dreams, and of mine too. Long before that, I fell in love with Elizabeth Taylor. It was 'Lassie come Home,' and 'National Velvet' on the black and white tele that did me in. Movie mags said she had violet eyes. How on earth does anyone get procreated with violet eyes? And there was something ethereal about her voice. She never lost that tone; if you saw her in movies made in the 40's and heard her voice late in the 80's, you know what I mean...there was a lilt that stayed profoundly the same. Creation or victim of the tinsel town industry, Elizabeth Taylor's personal life made for sensational media tabloid headlines. Petite, cursed with health issues, she became Hollywood's royal; and she collected jewels (and husbands) as if she were collecting marbles for a throw down. A dear friend to Roddy Mcdowall, Mongomery Clift and Rock Hudson, Taylor became the first actor/celebrity to publicly speak up and raise millions for Aids. In 1994, she won the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian award from the Academy of Motion picture Arts and Sciences. Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor...1932-2011.

March Madness

1. Had an unbelievably turbulent flight to the islands a couple of weeks ago. 3 of the 5 1/2 hours were spent huckabucking through the atmosphere as the plane was tossed around like a tin can being kicked down the street. Did I start moving my lips in prayer? No, but as the minutes turned to hours I began to mentally list all of the things I had put off and wished I had done before I f**king sat down in seat 27B. Stressed and craving a cigarette (passengers were tossing back mini bottles of booze like it was going to be their last drink on the face of the planet), I tried to watch the in-flight movie, 'Secretariat.' Which was good, but concentration was at a premium. When we landed in Honolulu, it was overcast and storm clouds filled the horizon. But who cared? It was a relief to be on land again, even if it was an island.

2. I arrived back in Cali, on the day of the 8.9 quake in Japan. I thought of all the Japanese tourists who love to visit Hawaii and who were now stranded indefinitely away from their loved ones. My flight was one of the last to leave the islands. While I was unpacking that night, my brother called to tell me they were on tsunami alert. A friend's son in Osaka is making an early exit back to state side; this is catastrophic devastation on many many levels.

3. California has 2 nuclear power plants: one in San Luis Obispo, and the other in San Onofre.
California is also the mother lode of fault lines. Deep food for thought.

4. Who in the USA is working today? How many workers across the nation called in 'sick?' Because of the added pressure of 4 play-in games (greedy bastards) which start Tuesday, everyone is scrambling to complete brackets without the luxury of 4 days to info surf. If you, bosshog, think that your employee is deep into the analytics of the state budget, think again. Seed numbers and match ups, yes! Sweet 16, and Final Four possibilities. Uh-huh. Under dogs and chokers (Pitt). When all the crying (there's a ton of crying in the tournament) stops, standing all alone at center court, ready to cut down the nets on April 4th...the Rock Chalk Jayhawks, Kansas, who can make amends for the Northern Iowa debacle last year. Big East? And Big 10? Over rated.

Hooray for Hollywood...

Tomorrow is donut day: an allowance of one weekly treat/ jail break/ wallowing in the dark side, whatever, Friday. All things fried are fair game. Sometimes I do not stray off the wholly foods path. Other times, I'm little 'Elvis' face first in bacon grease. Lately, I've been on the party carousel: pizzas, chocolate cake, Amy's orange cake, breakfast eggs ahoy, a jean dway (fried sesame ball filled with sweet black or yellow bean paste) here and a jean dway, slobber, there...it feels soooo good to be channeling Bourdain every now and then. Enough of the, uh, dribble. Onto the business of predictions. In gambling terms, they're known as 'futures.' On Sunday, the immediate future, the 83rd Academy Awards will be distributed. The following is for entertainment purposes only:

Best Picture...it's a toss up between The King, and the shallow boy genius. Age always trumps youth...long live the King.

Best Actor...King Colin Firth.

Best Actress...interesting category. Annette Bening should have won for 'Being Julia.' Natalie Portman is the lead in the 'sexy' pic this year. Jennifer Lawrence as Ree in Winter's Bone towered over everyone. When they crack the envelope it's Natalie Portman because Hollywood forgives Queen Amidala.

Best Supporting Actor...John Hawkes (Deadwood fame) was sensational in Winter's Bone. However, the King's man will win, Geoffrey Rush.

Best Supporting Actress...Hailee Steinfeld is only 13 years old. And gets my vote. But, Melissa Leo from the Fighter ko's everyone.

Best Director...second verse same as the first: King vs shallow boy genius.
The hardware goes to Tom Hopper, as the Brits sack Hollywood and fly gleefully off into the night. Pass the plate of donuts please, and will the lovely Helena Bonham Carter ever feel the sweepstakes love?

'Take a cha-cha-cha-chance...'

1. Thank the goddess! No rain on the horizon, at least for awhile. I scrambled out the door, hopped onto my trusty steed, Topper, and rode lickety split to my favorite cafe (a secret location) for a couple of homemade killer donut holes and a pumpkin spice donut. I ate both donut holes gleefully on the ride back to the apartment, sugar grains spilling all over the front of my clothes. I plated the donut on the festive 'Graceland' dish that my sister brought back from Memphis and dove into the sugar product the way, well, the King would have at it: face first. Mmmm. The server at the cafe said when she saw me approaching this morning, she nervously looked over her shoulder at the fry cook to make sure there was another batch of donuts behind the counter. Some people have neighborhood bars where everyone knows your name...I, on the other hand have...

2. Lara Logan. The CBS Chief Foreign Affairs and war correspondent. What happened to her was an outrage. This is not a Muslim or Middle Eastern problem; this is a gender issue which crosses all cultures, where violence and humiliation of women is learned and used to control and reinforce submission. Female journalists are always at risk in non-western countries, or even in male locker rooms. But they continue to strap on the gear because that's their job. Revolutions and war come and go. A correspondent on NPR talked about covering a protest over seas when she felt someone touching her inappropriately; when the correspondent turned around she discovered it was a 10 year old boy. When the 10 year old boys of the world are taught to respect women, not just their mothers or their sisters, then we can talk r-e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n.

3. February is a tough month. Rosie Kim Chang. Bett Garrison. Cliff Kirst. We bid you all adieu.

'Number 9, number 9, number 9...'

1. The White album. Beatles. They had a stunning revolution in Egypt while the whole world was watching. 18 tumultuous days amidst a sea of tanks, led by techno savvy civilian guerrillas exploiting the underground Internet and media, out maneuvering and out flanking Mubarack's men by planting false information, lifting their voices and their shoes in disgust (think: flipping the bird) over and over again until the longest reigning dictator in the Arab world capitulated. The will of the people rose up and took back their land sending shock waves throughout the Middle East. Exit stage left Mubarack. Enter stage right: the Military. While the dust settles, nervous coughs can be heard from Washington because with the military one never knows exactly what one will get.

2. Friday Night Lights bowed out on Wednesday. One of the best 5 year dramas to ever hit the tube. If you tuned in and watched you recognized how different or how familiar the life themes resonated. And you understood, in a poignant way, when two of the characters clinked beer bottles together and said towards the end of the last show, 'Texas forever.' But maybe not. For to understand that toast, is to have lived and belonged to a place that elicits a particular cultural pride that is only distinguishable to inhabitants, ie. the kamaaina (hawaiian word for child of the land)...'Texas forever,' rocked my world. You got it right, Peter Berg (creator, writer and producer of Friday Night Lights).

3. Natalie Portman. At the SAGS walking on the arm of my ex-girlfriends' bro (hello John) to receive her best actress award. Hmmm. Black Swan is most def the sexy film that everyone in H'wood is swooning over, but, I think the best acting was done by Jennifer Lawrence in Winter's Bone. Natalie Portman broke the mold in Luc Besson's, 'The Professional.' As Mathilda opposite the great Jean Reno she was spectacular and leaves the future Nina (Black Swan) in the dust.