It's a wrap!

Deep into the embers of winter, knocked out of the saddle again, by some pesky bug. Damn! Under siege, and feeding the beast. Turkey stock. Pho. Antibiotics. I'm old, just fork them over, doc so I can re-group. Binge watching MI5, and football. The NFL and Bowl games. Oh, the comforts of the couch on an unseasonable winter day; no snow in the high country. Reservoirs drooping. Let's do something fun! Med fueled and sugar propelled:

The Shaka awards to the best Telly of 2013. I said it last year, and I'll say it again, the best series still at the top of the list, reigning supreme, Borgen, a Danish export which just completed it's run of three seasons. The rest of the list had wannabe glimmers: Broadchurch, The Fall, Orange is the new Black, Top of the Lake, The Returned, SOA (under-rated), Justified (Elmore and Timothy Olyphant) The Good Wife (the worst title on the face of the planet), and the Killing, the show, which like a flat bodied species would not die, surprised and will rise again under the Netflix banner.

The early Shaka movie awards, in no particular order: Alfonso Cuaron's,
Gravity. American Hustle. And Blue is the Warmest Color.

Best book read this year: Richard Ford's, 'Canada.'

Be safe tonight. Waiting in the wings: The year of The Horse.

Schmaltz is good sometimes...

1. Just ran one last errand. It's crazy out on the streets. Cars hunting for parking; kids in tow behind fatigued parents. Some men looking rather dazed and confused, unfortunately not from mugs of ye olde merry ale. It's all rather, um, traditional. Appalling, by foot. Mail order on the other hand, is da shizzle. Packages via drone? Bring it on.  Life imitating 'The Hunger Games' culture.

2. Billie Jean is going to Putinville. Can't wait for the pictures at 11.
Sochi could be pink by the time the powder settles on the alpine. Billie Jean getting down with the Pussy Riot girls. Yow! Stay tuned. Check out SNL's BJK skit on last week's Christmas show hosted by Jimmy Fallon. Instant classic.

3. My favorite Christmas movie. It's not 'A Wonderful Life. Or 'A Christmas Carol.' Nope. Not 'Miracle on 34th St.' The movie I love, steeped in drama, nuclear family, fake snow, and hetro boy/girl next door desires (schmaltzy as hell) filmed on a back lot in Culver City is 'Meet me in St. Louis' with the great Judy Garland, who at the time was 21, and a major star in the MGM stable. I first saw the film in black and white ( we did not own a color set) on an Admiral telly when I was 12? The music, the melodic Garland voice burrowed deep into my gelatinous psyche and I have never forgotten. To this day, when I hear Hugh Martin's song, 'Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas' sung only by the great Garland, I am emotionally rendered. It is one of those beautiful mysteries of life.

4. Mele Kalikimaka, all.

Jack Frost nippin...

1. Feeble thoughts while I freeze my azzz off in the apartment. As a kid, I experimented er, childishly: I once placed a pan of water on our back steps in SF when we were living there, and thought it would freeze overnight. Not. Or, I often entertained the thought of an egg frying on the sidewalk under a blazing hot day. Now that I'm grown, all I can think of when the temperature drops into the 30's is my residency stupidity. Picture this: palm trees, sloshing waves along the shoreline, flip flops strewn next to a towel, Maui Jim dark glasses surveying mobile deliciousness, yeah, baby, the only frosty I'll ever see is my red bean, fluorescent snow cone which I'll be sucking down! 'Snap back to reality...'(thanks Eminem). Instead, the only sound I hear is the cha-chinging gas and electric bill as it rockets into the stratosphere; and the grunting inability of cardio/weight lifting barely cracking a sweat in the frigid gym.

2. So, there was this guy that fell asleep during a United Express flight. And when he woke up the plane was dark, cold, and he was locked on board in Houston. There is a happy ending to the story,
but how does this even happen? The Airline would not refund (!) his ticket, instead giving him a hotel voucher. Dueling attorney's probably lit up his cell phone like a Christmas tree.

3. Paul Walker. Ok, I confess, I'm a 'Fast and Furious' ho. The man was too young; too charismatic, too kind...forever young.

4. Nelson Mandela. January 18, 1918-December 5, 2013. A blazing light in the dark.

Drove my Chevy to the...

Fifty years ago in the summer of 1963, John Kennedy, visited Hawaii to address a conference of mayors. Thousands, 6 deep, thronged the streets as his motorcade moved through downtown Honolulu. I don't exactly remember why, but I found myself embedded at the airport, eschewing the chaotic city streets for a glimpse of the President as he caught his return flight back to the mainland. I was perched far enough behind the surging mass to have an unobstructed view of Jack Kennedy as he turned at the top of the boarding platform waving...his hair, shockingly more auburn than any photo had ever depicted.

Months later my senior class picnic was held at Bellows Field Beach, a wild, beautiful stretch of sand and surf near the town of Waimanalo.  I was driving my blue convertible Chevy Nova; the car packed with girls, towels, and illicit cigarettes. Tunes were blaring from the radio; an excursion from the mundane rigor of high school was always an excuse for hi jinks. We were the top dogs, the alphas and we were going to enjoy every second of the day. It was 9:00 when we left the campus. Somewhere between the school and Bellows Field, with the radio cutting in and out and the breaking news marred by heavy static, we learned Jack Kennedy had died in Dallas. Every person in the car began to cry. I was emotionally paralyzed behind the wheel. To this day, I have no idea how the car did not lurch off the road. When we returned to the school, the nuns led us in the rosary via an intercom. I drove my Chevy not to the levee, but home; retrieved my cigarettes and retreated to the park behind my house. There after lighting the first smoke, I balled my eyes out; my adolescence crushed, like so many others, fluttered hopelessly under the Hawaiian sun.

True Blue

1. Joni Mitchell. The greatest songwriter, recording artist of her generation turned 70 on Thursday. Her songs have been covered through the decades by Judy Collins, Crosby, Still, Nash and Young, Tori Amos, Hole, Annie Lennox, Prince, etc. etc. Her album, Blue, is the crown jewel in her long and storied career which has spanned 4 decades often weaving in and out of musical genres...from acoustic to jazz, to pop.  Never afraid to cross over and experiment, her music spurred collaborations (the list is long) with Mingus, Jaco Pastorius, Peter Gabriel, Pat Metheny, Willie Nelson, and Tom Petty among others. A Canadian national treasure Joni Mitchell was awarded a Companion of the Order of Canada, only the third recording artist to have that honor bestowed. Leonard Cohen, and Gordon Lightfoot are the other two.

2. Blue is the Warmest Color. I went. I watched. I loved it. Like all thought provoking artistic endeavors which differ from subjective concepts of the norm, there is a shit storm that surrounds it. Banned in Idaho. As an artist, conservative backlash like that, um, bring it on. Can't stand the heat? Get out of the fire. The author, Julie Maroh, of the book, 'Le Blue est une Coleur Chaude which the movie was based on blasted what she saw. I respect Maroh's critique, but when you give your work up to another medium, visions often collide. Abdellatif Kechiche, the director, has been smacked down by his two young actors. The 10 minute scene has been dissected over and over again. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, you've been floating with Bullock in another galaxy. Is there a lot of 'skin?' In the context of the story, no. In the actual protracted scene, yes. Understand this, though, this is a very French film. It's 3 hours. It is packed with dialogue. Tight camera shots. Intimate excursions...dining, bars, school, demonstrations...hand held cameras; roiling tension, vulnerability, and growth. This is not just a coming out. It is Adele's story. Mostly. And Emma's too. It is a complex journey which spans 5 years. It is ultimately unrequited love. This is not a film for everyone. No doubt there will be dialogue and bitching for days. But, if you're living outside the lines, that's nothing new. Kudos to the French jury for presenting the Palme d'Or, Cannes, 2013 to this movie. It took stones. In years to come, this film in every aspect, will be the benchmark by which all others in this genre are measured.

'If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear...'

If you know the rest of the lyrics, then maybe you were part of the fabric. Summer of love. 1967. Legend has it that John Phillips of the Mamas and the Papas wrote the song in 20 minutes. The Euros embraced it; the song holding #1 on charts across the pond. Back home in the States, the whiff of incense and weed beckoned. Everybody wanted to come to San Francisco.

But, if you missed the wedding then, it's hard to take you on that magic carpet now. You had to be there; the unchecked pandemonium; the liberating self-discovery; the claustrophobic, condensed adventures within the Haight Ashbury.

Lone Mt. College, class of 68. Fuckya! Several blocks removed from the Panhandle, hippie hill, and that infamous intersection. 45th reunion. For approximately 5 hours, down at 'the' wharf, is there any other, past the watering hole along the Embarcadero where most of us bellied up to the bar with our fake id's...colors became more luminescent, edges softer, depth of field: no LSD. Who we had become, expansive; prodigious unfolding mysteries. Generous in the noon light. Dispatched middle-age. Post menopausal. Bound up in a love affair, that spans decades. Like clusters of stars that illuminate and dazzle existentially, migrating in and out of galaxies, we are there. If you're lucky, you can place the face with the name. But, who cares? Intimacy sweeps the room. For those fleeting moments, you remember where you were and who you broke bread with. That is what you take back with you. Resonating. Across the miles.

...Sent to Draaaain..

1.Yeah, slow night on the telly, but wait, what's this I see? Why it's the film, 'Lincoln.' Which I brushed aside when it was in hyper distribution. Darling of the critics, starring the male 'Streep.' The chameleon. The great Daniel Day Lewis. Hardware spilling from his trophy case. I watched, dazzled by the brilliant performance. And what tweaked a nerve, as I poured myself a
shot of Jameson, is politics have not evolved; it could be 1864 up on Capitol Hill today. Or as Yogi Berra would exclaim: 'it's deja vu all over again.' Befuddlement reigns. A group of white men are holding the country hostage. Over a bill which is Law. Dopily, I went to one of my favorite government weather sites for a weekend update and found it blacked out, a tiny casualty of this childish tantrum. If this is a pissing contest, fellas, the train has already left the station, and you're pissing into the wind.

2. In October, it's always Smashing Pumpkins time. Half Moon Bay. The top of the heap, my friends. Slabs of fields emerging from the fog, splashed with orange from the road to the seashore; magical buoys heralding costumes. Candy. The occasional trickster.

3. 'Blue is the Warmest Color.' Awarded the coveted PalmeD'Or, the highest honor at Cannes this year. Tunisian Director, Adellatif Kechiche. French actors, Lea Seydoux and Adele Exarchopoulos. Apparently, the Director is fuming over the interviews given by his young stars, who have criticized his filming technique, in particular the 10 days it took to film the central erotic segment of the movie. Kechiche wants distribution stopped. Film opens Oct 25th. What this guy needs to understand is that

his train has also left the station.

Tricks

First rain of the fall. So long summer, we hardly knew you. It was an odd weather pattern, not the usual debilitating heat, playing tricks on my tomato crop. A flat season most def. The Julietts didn't

spawn prolifically; the black Cherokee snubbed it's crop at the fog and one of the early Girl's up and died. Bring on the pumpkins.

1. Obi-Wan addressing the Imperial Republican House: "This is not the Bill (Obecare) you want. It has already passed. Move along now. Back to your sandbox."

2. The Pope might need a Jedi mind trick too. He may sound like he's backing off abortion and gays.  But, he's not. It's all feeble talk. Let's see the walk.

3. Meandering through the cemetery, there isn't a better place to conjure up the lives of others by their headstones. Or the lay of the land through it's dichotomy. The Asians, Jews, hoi polli, and soldiers, populate the bottom tier, the ground floor. Rising above in varying levels, the crypts of the wealthy, layered and insulated from the dust below. Flowers, offerings of food and incense, balloons and totems of rocks dot the graves. Markers on top of markers. The best? I have walked, jogged, past a large pinkish headstone at least 100 times, and it never fails to disappoint; someone, friend or family, always leaves a consumed 5th of whiskey or an empty pint bottle tilted carefully against the memorial. Sometimes it has flowers in it, more often then not it is just the bottle nestled there among the blades of grass. Never fails to make me smile.

4. When you're not sunk into the couch watching the NFL, stream Borgen, or Spiral. Two worthy series from the Euros. One is Danish, the other French. These are good riveting productions.

Tall in the Saddle

1. Elmore Leonard died last week. He was 87. Most notably recognized for his crime/noir fiction, Mr. Leonard's (he is esteemed and ranks high in my pantheon therefore, 'Mr') works first caught the attention of Hollywood in the 50's. However, it was a novel, 'Get Shorty' and a subsequent movie in 1995 that catapulted Mr. Leonard into the public eye. Another novel, 'Rum Punch' attracted Quentin Tarantino, who adapted and cast Pam Grier into the title role and called the film, 'Jackie Brown,' arguably the best movie that QT has ever made. A short story of Mr. Leonard's, 'Fire in the Hole,' is the underpinning for the successful cult series, 'Justified.' But back to the 50's. I'll bet that only true aficionados knew Mr. Leonard was a prolific short story Western writer. His dialogue and his obvious fondness for Western genre became a source, a flowing river of gold, for films such as: Valdez is Coming, Hombre, the classic 3:10 to Yuma, Joe Kidd, and a movie I recently watched, and which some refer to as the best Western of the 50's, The Tall T. Elmore Leonard. He was old school. Colorful. And a man among boys.

2. Best summer reading: 'Canada' by Richard Ford. 'The Art of Fielding' by Chad Harbach.

3. Monday. Honor Labor.

Uh, Who dat...

1. From personal experience, the poetry/lit circuit...was both fascinating and brutal. All alone on stage, or behind a podium in a well lit room, being 'on' never felt comfortable to me. The intellectual property was there; I owned it. Committed to paper. It was crazy. Sometime, I was so ebullient from the read, it would carry me for days. Other sessions were tainted by....intense stage fright. Which brings me to the best movie I've seen all year, '20 Feet from Stardom.' An indie production which
'fronts' the backup singers, most notably, Darlene Love, Lisa Fischer, Merry Clayton and Judith Hill who we've all heard behind Luther Vandross, Springsteen, the Stones, David Bowie, Sting etc. but never really knew who exactly some of them were until now. From the opening beat of Lou Reed's 'Walk on the Wild Side,' to his iconic line: 'and the colored girls go, Doo do doo, doo do doo, doo do doo.' this movie will enlighten and blow your mind. Anyone who has hummed a melody or sung lyrics from a radio tune should see this indie, and shame on you if you don't. Face it, it takes a gigantic ego to front a band; on the other hand, the backup singer (s) are unique quasi mysterious partners. Who give it all up to let it rip behind the lead vocal. It is the ultimate 'having their backs.' You might be humming after you see this film,  but music will never sound the same
again. This is a great enriching tribute.

2. The accompanying photo: left to right: Jo Lawry, Judith Hill and Lisa Fischer.

3. Completely comatose on my couch the other night, I was awakened by the Amber alert which exploded from my cell phone. That was some scary gloom and doom shit. Who knew the phone was linked into the alert???

"It takes a train to..."

1. One of the greatest Dylan songs ever. 'It takes a lot to laugh, it takes a train to cry.' A song title with your name on it, if you've known the blues. Plug it in, and steep yourself. My default association tale...At midnight, if I'm lucky, after just settling in, far far away, but not far enough, comes the wail of the Amtrack. Starlight route? For five to ten minutes, the engineer launches the melodic train code. This is not your grandfather's steam engine whistle, but a deeper, richer tone resonating over the somnolent city. I never rode the rails until I was well into my 30's. I'm a child of the jet age. The fastest way off the island (I'm not talking Survivor) was through the air. Trains. Def old school. And with with a mystery destination every night.

2. Aftermath of the Trayvon Martin verdict. I happened to be driving through downtown Oakland, a couple of days after the demonstrations. Block after block had establishments with every window broken, boarded up. Oakland, the city, that needs merchants to bolster their sagging economy keeps taking it on the chin. Uh, soon there might not be a there, there.

3. Orange is the New Black. If you've been in outer space and just returned,
this is a Netflix series based on Piper Kerman's book detailing her incarceration for 15 months in a woman's minimum security prison. The telly show takes liberties; the series' genre is comedy-drama, and falls under the 'chick flick' (who cares?) label. It is a raunchy, incredibly funny, frank,  production rift with characters rarely seen on the networks: African American and Hispanic woman who are not just window dressing but an inclusive significant part of the entire collage.

4. Eshleman Hall. Demolished. Gone. Built in 1965 on the Univ of California, Berkeley campus and primarily housing student organizations; site of demonstrations and protests, vandalism, numerous thefts, two fires, a murder in 1992, Grace Asuncion, a cold case, and the barrier from which CeCe flew...wounded, we were young then but will never forget.

...'A-Riding on a pony...'

Childhood memories aside, the song 'Yankee Doodle' will forever be associated with Jimmy Cagney's 'Yankee Doodle Dandy.' 1942. A film about the great George M. Cohan. Waking up this fine morning, (any morning you're above ground is a fine one I heard some old degen mutter at the racetrack one day) and after my tea and donut, I googled and wiki'd
(utopian tree of knowledge) Yankee Doodle. Not so much for Yankee; hey, the 21st century Yanks wear blue pinstripe unis and play ball.  But for the word 'doodle. ' This is what I discovered. 'Doodle' in low German is thought to be a 'fool.' The word 'macaroni' refers to foppish manners ie gay (1774!). Um, so according to our sources, the original Yankee Doodle was written by a British Surgeon pre-revolution mocking the Yanks in the French and Indian war. The Yanks recognizing a sprightly tune co-opted the music and added their own verses; the rest is history.

In the spirit of the day, I'm instituting and presenting the 1st annual 'Fireworks Award.'

1. Senator Wendy Davis for her tenacity and neon Mizono sneaks.
2. The 'Supremes' for stepping up to the mic and ruling.
3. Edward Snowden for spilling the beans. Hey, no discrimination here.
4. KStew for her ballsy outfit at the Chanel couture show in Paris.

Enjoy the day. Good friends with their stories. And free flowing beverages. The grilling, salads, ice cream and toppings. The kids getting older, and almost out the door, but never too old for the after dark show. Pyrotechnics flare and rule! Be safe. Last year, we burned the front door mat and scorched a hole in the living room. But, that's another story.

Fading to Black

1. Thirteen years ago, I bit the bullet and added HBO to my satellite network. For a long long time, I resisted the lure of the luxury channel; I didn't need no stinking recycled movies, or pretentious hyper produced telly series, no sir,  I was having none of it, holding the bull at bay, and keeping the change in my pocket for other amusing hobbies, until...The Sopranos. For those of you who missed the wedding, the six season run of the greatest series that ever laced them up under cable lights, it's not too late for you to re-live the moments. Whatever came after The Sopranos, touched the cloak, but never the master. The Sopranos, my friends, danced every dance, and hit all the fucking high notes. 'The Wire,' 'Six Feet Under,' 'Deadwood,' etc etc emulated, genuflected and kissed the ring. My brother in law once wondered out loud if he wanted to invite the series into his living room every week. The truth was that The Sopranos brought droves of men to the Sunday night viewing. The writing was superlative. The camera work richly composed and lit. There was something for everyone. And when the opening chord of 'Woke up this morning' by Alabama 3 fired up the show, it was money. The most successful cable series, eva. James Gandolfini was a man (bada bing!) among the boys. Tomorrow night the lights on Broadway will dim for one minute in his memory...the ultimate thespian accolade.

2. Mad Men. Close but no cigar. See above. Season finale left no stone unturned. The final 10 seconds close again, but...

'You load 16 tons, and what do ya get..'

1. With apologies to Tennessee Ernie Ford and Lena...uh, if you're a woman, you make exactly .77 cents to the 'man's' dollar while you're grinding away elbow to elbow in the salt mines. Don't have a college education? A woman of color? Hispanic or Black? Hey babe you're earning approximately .68 cents, retro, to the buck. Yesterday, was the 50th anni of the signing of the equal pay act. And no, we haven't come a long way; the gender gap is still held hostage by the prickly zipper. A seminal moment for me: a printing job I stumbled upon down in the western Oakland warehouse district; a stone's throw from deFremery park, site of the Black Panthers rally's. The shop was youthful, filled with vibrant, brash individuals who believed in equal 'everything' much to the owner's outrage and chagrin. My first day on the job, I heard the tapping of a razor blade on a light table.  And knew illicit adventures beckoned. Unionized, every contract negotiation was brutal. In the end, equal pay, a concept, which never existed before for any of us sparked and burnt like wild fire. It was the 70's.

2. Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer. HBO. A documentary. Somewhere in the Gulag deep in Mother Russia, Nadia and Masha are serving out their 2 year sentence for 40 seconds of theater in a Moscow Cathedral before a shocked congregation. With one act, three women belonging to the Pussy Riot collective exposed Putin and his government as draconian neanderthals, scared shitless, by masked neon balaclava'd women engaged in guerrilla punk music and going all H.A.M on them...the thing is, now more than ever, the whole world was, and is still watching.

3. Game of Thrones. It was the shizzil. Good summer reading if you can't wait for next year.

Highway or...

A decade ago, learning everything we know vaulted from the telly into our living rooms at night; now everything we know flashes, warp speedo, onto our personal electronic devices 24/7. And it's free! And it's the people's forum.

Thus, my friends, here are some Mother's day facts. From our pal,wiki, of course. In 1870-1880, Protestant schools observed holidays such as Children's Day (how thoughtful) Temperance Day (opps), Roll Call Sunday (more wiki), Decision Day (ditto) and Missionary Day (whaaat). Anna Jarvis, considered the 'mother' of MD, along with a Philly merchant, John Wanamaker established the first official recognized day May, 1908 in Wanamaker's auditorium to honor her deceased mother.
White carnations, 500 of them rolled out that Sunday by Anna Jarvis, symbolize the day.

Raised in a strict traditional way, my mother as a parent did not fall far from her hard ass father's tree. She was always the bad cop in our home. I once called her a 'tiger' which upset her, and my father laid the wood that night. Our various residences reflected her meticulous order. Of all my aunts, my mother was wonderful in the kitchen. Where she belonged? Uh, not really. For decades, my siblings and I were shits. Our lifestyles, our choices, were confusing. She never understood them, and never capitulated. It was her way, or the highway. When she died, we found a cardboard box, containing birthday cards, mother's day cards and other holiday memorabilia sent from various way stations over the decades by her wandering children. Never expressive emotionally (she would have dropped on a sword rather than admit she was wrong), that dusty box, a nugget in a grove of palm trees, articulated the words she could never say.

Remember your mother, and while you're at it, remember that:

Every Sunday: dessert and deliciousness abides with Mad Men, and GOThones.

Spanning the Globe

1. May 1st is International Worker's Day, a holiday in approximately 80 countries around the world. Our frame of reference here is Labor Day, but in various establishments throughout this nation today, in solidarity with their sisters and brethren across the continents, various elements of the work force shut it down. I was reminded of this when friends of mine tried to buy a pizza and discovered the bakery was dark; a note taped neatly to the door: May Day. 'Commies,' my friends muttered and wandered off to debate what's for dinner. For some of us though, May 1st was not a contemplation of the fields of labor, but rather the plucking of plumerias from a neighbor's tree, stringing them into garlands of fragrant leis for 'May day, or Lei day; a celebration of the island culture, the land, and it's native Hawaiians.

2. The flood gates are open. Jason Collins let the dogs out, and the whole world is watching now. The Boy scouts just gulped. Whither the NFL? Is it ripe for the plucking? The sensational revelation, confession, of his gender preference, dropped Jason Collins onto the cover of Sports Illustrated. Which professional athlete will step through the door next? And when will this personal statistic stop being news?

3. A tip of the cap to the citizens of Boston and it's surrounding boroughs. There is an esprit de corps, a steadfastness that we,who reside in the West, admire; to the inhabitants of the right coast, drinks on the house to your resilience.

4. The grandest 2 minutes in sports this Saturday. The Kentucky Derby. If it's raining in Louisville, a long shot. You can never bet too much on a winning horse. Some wise old man once told me that.

5. Sunday. Cinco de Mayo. Happy Birthday, Alex.

Chickaluma

1. Put down some tomato plants yesterday. It seemed as good a time as any; the skies were a brilliant blue, the winds had finally skedaddled behind the hills and into the next valley, while overhead the sun was just beginning to break through. Put my foot behind the shovel and dug 3 holes. A couple of worms inched away as the chicken manure was layered with top and bottom soil. This year, we're experimenting with a new soil amendment: non-fat powdered milk. I kid you not. While hunting for a tomato blossom rot remedy (tried gypsum last year and it worked so-so) I came across a you tube video featuring a gardener from the mid-west whose bumper crop of tomato plants looked like redwoods! Before wrapping up her spiel, a box of powdered milk was produced. The same box that my mother one summer, in some weird insane moment, decided to experiment and substitute cow's milk with powdered milk which was mixed (like kool aid) in a glass right in front of our eyes, and tasted like shit. It was the kind of flashback that wasn't very meritorious, but those tomato plants in the background glowed like they were rooted in the mother lode of all mulches. The Black Krim, Juliets and heirlooms are all on 70 day notice.

2. Petaluma. Butter and Egg days are April 27th and 28th. It's like the annual rodeo. It's old school, a small town parade celebrating the history of an area which used to be called, 'the egg capitol of the world.' Flanked by rich farm land, the Petaluma river, became a fulcrum for ships carrying produce and grains back down to San Francisco and the outlying counties. Chickaluma was the nickname bandied around in it's glory years. But, Petaluma is a Miwok word which means the backside of hills. Films needing an old fashioned nostolgic era have been filmed here: American Graffiti, Pleasantville, Peggy Sue got Married, Cujo (whaa?) and Tree of Life (Nooooway). Egg and Butter days. What once was...

We Got Next...CAL 65 UGA 62

The team that was missing all those years in the Bay Area finally showed up and decided to ball. For decades the doormat to the juggernaut in Palo Alto, and often pushed around by the inner city play of the LA teams, the Cal women laced it up and strapped it on this season. Not since the great point guard play of Milicia Vukadinovich in 1992 and 93 who willed those Bear teams to NCAA post season berths has there been so much court n spark, pyrotechnics, at Haas Pavilion. Fueled by their young coach, Lindsey Gottlieb, the Bears lost only 3 times this season. You can talk about all the 'dream teams' you want, and you can recruit a 6'8" forward that can slamma jamma in your face, but if the coaching, the think tank, the 'brain trust' isn't operative, all the recruiting and scholarships in the world will not bring the hardware back home. In what had to be the ugliest first half of an NCAA tourney, where neither team could hit a bucket, an obvious media 'bummer' for ESPN, both teams continued to fumble around in the second half. Down by 8 at some point, the Bears poor free throw shooting biting them in the ass, the team sucked it up and dug deep. So did Georgia who were on the ropes but furiously tied the game, sending it into OT. OT? No Fear. The Bears had already seen that movie twice in the post season. Led by Layshia Claredon's 25 points, and their dynamic Coach the Cal women are on the sugarland express, heading for the 'Big Easy' They are the first Pac 12 team since 1988, other than the one in Palo Alto, to scrap their way to a Final Four berth. Don't wake me till Sunday. I'm living the dream.

Sweet Sixteen

1. I'm not talking birthday. I'm talking the NCAA women's basketball tourney. The Cal Bears who have advanced only once before to the round of 16 are in Spokane gearing up for their match with LSU. Media talking heads continue to dismiss women's b'ball as boring, slow as molasses, laughable. And they criticize the tournament because the seeding for the schools rarely change. The elite programs make their run year after year: UConn, where by the way, this sign was spotted in the rafters...'UConn, where the men are men and the women are champions,' Stanford, Baylor, Notre Dame, Tennessee etc. all have the hardware. The high flying point guard in the photo, Brittany (hey we have our own Brittney) Boyd, uh seems to be soaring over the hardwood, not mired in deep whatever. Look, women play beneath the basket. Execute the concept of X's and O's. And back door at their own pace. Ridicule? Bring it. We're already in your gym. And standing at the 3pt line. Time to get over it.

2. The men. Hey, I'm all about equality. So many upsets. And so much crying. The darlings of the tourney are Florida Gulf Coast, and the Wichita Shockers. The schools from small conferences. A not so predictable champ: either Duke, or the Florida Gators.  My bracket: dead. dead. dead.

3. Got a new cell phone yesterday. A thing of beauty. And have I dropped it yet? Why, yes. Right out of the box onto my table. Way to go.

4. The Supreme Court. Is equality 'just another word for nothing left to lose'?? Come on now, show the love.

Burning Daylight

1. Have I really been playing hooky for a month? Uh, not really. But, a flight of fancy (domestic biz) did transport me out of Cali to Aloha land. No malasadas. No Lappert's. Not even a finger of poi. It was that sad. The wheel of fortune is a fickle bird. Sometimes you cavort. And sometimes the cavorting flat lines. So, there I was caught in the middle of a tropical rainstorm... For 24 hours the islands were pummeled by rain which originated from Kauai and then sourced (mid stream)  the big island of Hawaii. Huh? I didn't understand it either and just enjoyed the show. Diamond Head lay shrouded behind a wall of mist. It was a different look for the old lady. I finally did stop at the Liliha Bakery for dinner. 24/6 days a week. And ate at the counter which might accommodate 16 diners? No rez. Just a line out the door. Every single day. I had the mahimahi. Two fillets as big as my head. For dessert, the coco puffs. Yeah, island style.

2. Ina Donna Coolbrith, California's first Poet Laureate, had a birthday on Sunday the 10th. I passed her gravestone today and chest bumped her.

3. The Pope. An Argentinian. Who knew? Was Vegas laying odds? Jose Bergoglio. 100-1. There's no crying in Argentina today.

4. Banshee. On Cinemax. The most interesting, provocative character in cable history: Hoon Lee as Job. More of him, please.

5. Almost March Madness. Congratulations to the Cal Bears Women's Basketball team who won the Pac 12 title. A first. Coach G, Lindsay Gottlieb, brought the slamma jamma.

'Second verse, same as the first...'

1. Today, I used the Graceland plate, plopped the donut on it, lit the
candle, congratulated myself on waking, conjured up some deep (not too) thoughts, and blew that bad boy out. Time just slides past your arch way when you're having fun. Earlier, I grabbed the fastest steed I could rope and giddy upped to the gym. Veni, vidi, vici.

2. Da Pope. Pro choice won't be waving their white hanky's. And the LGBTI nation referred to as 'evil' by his royal Vatican highness, will be jamming in the streets Feb. 28th. Before pointing the finger, externally, the Vatican should take a long, long look at their own shit; there have been numerous allegations of corruption, scandal and political infighting within the college of Cardinals. Unable to damage control the decades of sexual abuse, the VatiLeaks (the Butler did it!) scandal exposed how surreal, conservative and out of touch this Pontiff has been.

3. Yeah, 'Who's got it better than us?' 'Everyone!!' The collective cry of the 4,200 passengers of the Carnival cruise ship that were stranded at sea for 5 days without the amenities...

4. The Super Bowl. I told you so.

5. Is Jessica Chastain's performance really going to go down with the sabotaged ZD 30?

6. Uh, that fireball that showered Siberia. What if the meteor trailed
across the sky, Dec.21, 2012. Just saying...

Bambi and the Bowl

So yesterday, the big news in the sports world was the revelation that a spray made from deer antlers contained a PED (performance enhancing drug) uh, closely related to the banned human growth hormone which is a no-no in all professional sports arenas. Prominent names allegedly associated with the spray were dribbled to the media. Nexxxxt.

For 4 hours on Sunday, fans, friends, and soon to be tavern friends will be riveted to the telly watching the agony and the ecstasy of arguably the greatest sport ever played. Millions of bucks will be spent by big corporations as they try to hypnotize and razzle dazzle with techno commercials. Some of them will be very very good. But I digress. Fueled by all the alcohol swilling, or not...platters of carbs will be consumed; gut bombs, you have never seen before, never will ingest again, or even consider ingesting, except on this one day of the year will pass blindly from hand to mouth. In a moment of weakness, spurred by some cosmic desire to share, all misty eyed with jealousy because I will be cavorting in a roomful of vegetarians, I unveil before you one of the greatest game day recipes ever conceived which my friend, Janet, sent me a couple of seasons ago. It is called Cheddar Bacon Ranch Pulls. The ingredients are: 1 unsliced round loaf of sourdough bread (make it round); 8-12 oz of cheddar cheese thinly sliced; 3 oz bag of real bacon bits (!!); 1/2 cup of butter melted, and 1 tbs. ranch dressing mix. Salivating? Go online and dive into the entire stream of deliciousness. Warning label: if there are 4 of you, one of these cardiac bombs is not enough.

SF 49ers vs. the Baltimore Ravens. I grew up sitting on backless benches at Kezar and met Frankie Albert, Hugh the King, and YA Title. I went to training camps and watched the rookies vying for their future dream. The 49ers are imprinted on my DNA! And yet...when the last cleat has vacated the gridiron on Sunday, something tells me a Raven will be cackling overhead...Enjoy the spectacle.

'Truth be told...'

That's one of my friend Dave's 'go to,' stock pattern reliable phrases. If it doesn't come drop from his lips, it just doesn't sound right. When I was 7, I made my 1st confession. To a man. In a dark box. I think my head barely reached the bottom of the screen. We were told the priest couldn't see past the screen. As if. Now that I know there is such a thing as gender inequality; I have a lot of burning questions surrounding all those, 'true confessions.'

1. Golden Globe. Or Globes, remains the rollicking, alcohol infused, numero uno hardware event of the year. Left for DOA by the white male majority of the Academy Awards, and ripped by the uptight Congressional Committee, Kathryn Bigelow, and ZD30 got a huge boost when Jessica Chastain (who could have gone down with that ship as collateral damage) picked up the hardware for Best actress/actor in a dramatic role.  The most agonizing moment of the evening was Jodie Foster's speech after being presented with the Cecil B DeMille award for her body of work. Nervous, edgy, Jodie officially 'came out,' in a cloaked -between-the-lines sorta moment. Hey babe, your tribe always knew it. You're queer. You're here. Everyone get used to it.

2. Lance Armstrong. And Oprah. Who cares about contrition. The years of lies, and ruined lives will be the legacy. 'Truth be told.' Not in this lifetime.

3. Abigail Van Buren. Dear Abbey. Smart. Snappy. And to the point. I preferred her twin, Ann Landers, and as kid read both their columns. Ann seemed more like your favorite aunt dishing out the advice. Abbey, blunt, cut to the chase. What a run they both had! A public forum. Free advice. What's not to like? Pauline Friedman Phillips aka Abbey died today after a long battle with Alzheimer.

...'A real live wire...'

Behind the shades, Kathryn Bigelow directing Jennifer Ehle in the polarizing, sizzling, Zero Dark 30. Gagging on my tea and biscuits, Saturday. WTF? A congressional committee led by Senator Dianne Feinstein is calling for an investigation of the CIA and whether or not it leaked classified intel to Bigelow, and screen writer, Boal. Demonstrators lined up right behind DiFi to shovel anti torture, anti war protests onto the steaming heap. Everyone wants a piece. In another decade free pub, is always a good thing, right? When it comes to art, who doesn't love controversy.  So there I was, spent and riveted by Bigelow's film. Mesmerized by Chastin's performance. Does she ever in her life time receive another role like this? Who knew that a woman was the lead dog, responsible for fingering the compound and taking out OBL? Not me. The scenes depicting water boarding et al were disturbing. But to deny that the USA doesn't torture is bullshit. What's really going on here is that the film, blocked it, boxed it, and showed it. Zero Dark 30 is not a documentary; for fuckssake, this is a Hollywood production. Poetic license rules. The greatest manhunt in history doesn't take place in a perfect world: a world without war. Yesterday, as the credits rolled, in the dark, a woman seated right behind me screamed that the war was about oil and blood money. A guy responded that he fucking served in Iraq. Another voice yelled what about the 4,000 who died. The theater never turned on the house lights. Outside there were a couple of security guards. Controversy. Dialogue. Bring it on. Zero Dark 30 is the film of the year.