'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.