Rose of the Day

While I may not be able to manage one a day, I am on some kind of rose mission. Most places only carry a single still rose, and I believe each choice can be used as a representative analogy for each establishment's understated personality or agenda. I'm still debating on how to approach the brut roses, but let's test the hypothesis starting with the stills.

I have two with which to begin:

I have stopped on occasion by The Brickyard on Union on the way home from work, both times to gather my senses after some spontaneous shopping nearby. The bartenders have both been super knowledgable and accessible women, if dressed a bit too casually. Torn denim minis, t shirts, bra straps. Not for me, really. But beyond that they've provided excellent service. Particularly the young lady that poured me an extra "halfie" at no charge.

The Sedna Rose of Syrah from Kate's Vineyard in Napa has stolen my heart. I am a complete wine dilettante, but have been exposed since I was a teen to better wines through my sommelier sister. As I develop my palate and vernacular, I'm understanding that I'm very comfortably and predictably lodged in the New World. I'm okay with this, I have no agenda for pretense. I like "soccer mom chardonnays" just fine, but prefer them on the more complex side such as the 2008 Dutton Goldfield Chardonnay. That said, the Sedna's dark, ripe fruit and vanilla wrapped me in a warm blankie despite the condensation on the glass. So far, this is my winner. But what does it say about The Brickyard?

From my short involvement, this would give me the impression that this poshly sparse and rustic sports bar with healthier food would understand its clientele. The surrounding Marina folks are most likely about on par with me as far as wine knowledge, and I noted the healthy stock of Miller Lite in the can in addition to the city's usual PBR and Tecate fare. This actually raised my opinion, as I am from Mobile, AL and have a deep appreciation for beers meant for high volume consumption.

My next rose of note I tried today in my neighborhood gem, Local Mission Eatery. As I reveled in my baby arugula and grapefruit salad, and downright cried over the stupidity of my open faced asparagus and poached egg sandwich on house made brioche with brown butter hollandaise, I enjoyed a fine rose. My allergies are interfering today, as spring has sprung like an MF up in here, but my overall palate said YES to the 2010 Donkey & Goat Grenache Rose from Mendocino. I'm going to venture that the main nose was all about strawberries, and the perfect medium acidity made it very versatile. Killing with the grapefruit as well as the asparagus-- not an easy feat with this much flavor. I may have to revisit with a clearer nose one day, though.

And what does this say about Local Mission Eatery? That they know a lot about simple food with fine ingredients, duh. With the local trend of comfort food with a flair being the most prominent, finding the balance of familiarity and slightly obscure is where everyone is aiming. In the land of the smug and full-circle uberhip-to-unhip-to-hip-again, I am delighted to test the waters.

Notes on Previous Evening

Note: While it seems just far too obvious and almost boring to me, I'm going to just go on with it and write about my musical experiences here in San Francisco. Perhaps a pattern for spinning will emerge from these little exercises; thus the point of making them public, I suppose.

When my buddy, Alex suggested we go see Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears I immediately agreed. Having heard a bit of their first album, Tell 'Em What Your Name Is, I knew enough about their sound to know it'd be a good enough time. My expectations were low, recalling them to have a bit more shtick than I believe to be necessary. I write now, as I listen to both the debut and the recent release, Scandalous because after the show last night I bought both of them.

The energy of this show was jiggling all over your face from the get-go. They're an incredibly tight little number with a delightfully animated horn section. Comprised of some bazooka-lookin' baritone sax, trumpet, and tenor sax/tambourine/flamethrower. I need to talk about this guy, David McKnight. I have never, ever, seen a more scorching performance out of a tambourine. Thanks for that, bro. An otherwise visually misleading, uniformed crew, the horn section dances sincerely while awaiting their parts. Eduardo Ramirez (bari) and Darren Sluyter (trumpet) give it.

Joe Lewis appears in a baseball cap and dashiki, almost exactly like that one on my Dad, above. Sorta like Darius Rucker's cousin from the actual country. His undeterminable belting is only slightly reminiscent of Eddie Murphy's take on Buckwheat's Greatest Hits, and charming as all get out. I suppose I am struggling, however, with the level of caricature. I still haven't decided how contrived it is, and if it isn't, whether people/I appreciate the sincerity or find it amusing. It makes me want to hear something a little more raw out of them. To straddle that fence of bringing something unfettered to the table while keeping it all meticulously tight is possibly a level of maturity that's yet to be reached here. I would really like to see them get there, though.

"Booty City," a track off of the new album pays precise homage (or rips off, however you feel about that sort of thing) to Mandrill, and the title track "She's So Scandalous" vaguely whispers the bass movement of 2Pac's song by basically the same name. I feel a little bit of Johnny Guitar Watson from these guys, in that it's super slick and shamelessly assimilating from other tunes they love. I always appreciated how Johnny could pull that off and wondered how much criticism he got for doing so, if any. (Essentially, these are also the fundamental elements of hip hop.)

At points in the show Lewis used this jarring vocal effect on his mic that took me to the revival, and at other times the groove was so steady it took me to warm, clean sheets on a sleeping porch. Hailing from Austin, these guys are bringing the Southern elements of big, deep, guitars and funky delta swang. It was a super sexy party, but I have to take off points for lazy between-set tunes. While the compilation album they played is one of my favorites, Chains & Black Exhaust, and features the exact vibe they're striving for, a live DJ would have been more appropriate in my opinion.

Post show we headed down the street to catch friends, Shotgun Wedding Quintet chopping it up in preparation for tonight's edition of the SF Jazz Hotplate series, a tribute to the music of Cab Calloway. Word is, there will be a special guest from local Bay Area hip hop legendary lore. I have a feeling I'll be writing about this one tomorrow....

The Resurrection

So I've been prodded and prompted my several of my peers to do the writing. I suppose I'll start here with demands for my vapid validation and see what type of theme emerges. Current interests: Anita O'Day, the San Francisco Giants, and shopping. That's right, shopping. Like baseball, it's America's favorite pastime, and I'm late to the party.

More to come. Get comfy.

Mike and me.

So my mother calls me and leaves this message on my voicemail, "Your youth is officially over. Michael Jackson is dead. Wondering if you'd heard."

Of course, I'd not been able to answer her call because I was fielding millions of phone calls and text messages and emails and facebook poignance. It's an understatement to say that our generation is taking this kinda rough. We all have a lot to share about our relationship with Mike.

When I was six years old, the only thing on my list to Santa was Thriller. I cared about nothing else, and talked about it incessantly at school. When the flat, roughly 12" x 12" square appeared in tacky paper beneath the tree, I swore it was something else. I had built it up in my mind to be as big as my entire torso, enough to actually wrap my arms around. My sister, Louise had worked at Camelot Music in Bel-Air Mall and brought it home for me. To tell you the truth, I actually spotted it in a bag hanging on her bedroom doorknob prior to the Big Day, but couldn't really believe it was actually about to be mine to behold.

I learned to use our multiple record players at around four years old, having been taught how to lay the needle down ever-so-gingerly on the smooth line in between songs. Albums were something to be handled like china, and respected. I remember learning to hold them between my finger tips on the edges, fearing for my life if I dropped one. Already in heavy rotation at this age were Earth, Wind & Fire's Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 Fool on the Hill, and Prince Controversy. I spent countless hours alone in my room listening to these and learning every little bit of the space between notes and the scant breath here and there. But these were my family's records, and Thriller was mine. All mine.

I gazed at Michael with the big kitty and fell in love with him. Spending so much time alone in my room with this record at such a young age, he was literally one of my friends. Thriller always scared me a little, but I did huge can-can girl kicks to the bit he ripped off from Manu Di Bango in Wanna Be Startin Somethin. I dreamed over he and Paul McCartney (as my sister had taught me all of the Beatles' names and their reverence not long ago), and wished I was the girl they fought over. Human Nature cultivated my first fantasies of a big city, and Lady In My Life just made be feel warm. I honestly felt I knew him. I decided he was my boyfriend, and when I announced it to my mother she discouraged me. So I decided he was my cousin, and I told everyone at school.

Whenever someone's sister or brother would buy the album, I was notified. The kids in first grade at St. Ignatius in Mobile, AL were mystified. I received them graciously. And today I heard from schoolmates that I haven't spoken to in years.

Yeah, we shared a last name. But the intimacy I had with this first album of my very own can only describe the void a child can fill spending countless hours alone in her room, gazing out of the window and petting her Doberman, waiting to go play in the graveyard.

My Christmas Gift.

This year I had a big schedule. I was to make an appearance in Tuscaloosa, AL for a friend's family gatherings, and then immediately depart Mobile to Charleston, SC to join my sisters, mother, father and his wife. We weren't too sure how this was going to go over, as it hadn't yet been tried with this particular wife of Dad's. As it turns out, I have no good material to report. Everyone behaved, and it was a total disappointment. We all ate well and laughed and drank and were merry as shit. I haven't had that functional of a family Christmas maybe ever, and it made me nervous.

But the fun part of the story is this small nugget of humor: prior to departing for Tuscaloosa I happened to experience the mad breaking of a months-old levy with a rather fetching young gentleman, and it left a visible toll on my face. Unfortunately I am a delicate flower. The skin on my chin could not bear to stay around to watch all of that crude sucking any longer, and simply left. My lips were indignant to the abandonment and swelled to a bright red anger, the one closest to my chin even throbbing with fury. So I wake to depart to meet my friend's family for the first time, and I have a nickel-sized patch of skin missing from my chin, and a mouth more opulent than a baboon's swollen, beckoning vagina. I do what I can for the chin, which is moisturize and apply concealer (the effect is something like wet tissue paper on silly putty), and liberally apply lip-plumping gloss. Because I just had to see what would happen. And what happened was massive, shiny, porn lips that I wished would stay forever (they returned to normal size by the next morning).

So I'm in a great mood, it's a beautiful day, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the drive. I'm just outside of Tuscaloosa, and it dawns on me that I have a ton of crap on my floor board. Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of my friend and her family, I stop at a gas station to throw all of the junk out. It's a glorious day in the mid-seventies, and I'm comfortable in jeans and a tailored t-shirt. I gather a full armload of junk into my chest, as I don't want to make more than one trip to the trash bin 7 feet away, and step out of the car to drop it in. Wanting to make this as expeditious as possible, I leave the car running and don't have any hands to close the door behind me. I drop the trash in the basin, wind blowing my hair into my thick coat of lip gloss. As I pivot around, trying to delicately remove the strands of hair from the sap on my lips without breaking the hair or leaving lines of color across my cheek, I watch the car door shut. I'm frozen. Please, don't be locked. Oh, please. But sure enough, that bad boy is barely engaged, but firmly locked. My cell phone and purse inside, and engine purring like a fat cat in the sunshine.

Some bystanders watch as I go through the first several stages of loss; anger, bargaining, depression, yadayada. I finally hit acceptance and walk inside to call Rape-A-Lock. I ask the girls behind the counter if they know anyone who might have a slim jim, because it is the kind of town where Billy might have one in his truck or something. They look at me blankly and shake their heads. But then the blood starts to flow, and the one one wearing large, plastic, vintage floral earrings with her BP golf shirt suggests that I ask the gentlemen at the car wash next door. The light goes off with all of us, and I burst out of the glass doors. I'm bounding across the parking lot with lips shining like-- I have to use this one again-- a baboon's swollen, flushed vulva, my giant hooters grazing my chin every other step, and smiling my ass off at the knights in shining chrome before me. As I slowly become aware of their probable perception of this, I stop the jogging. In fact, as I came to a stop, I found myself standing in the dirt surrounded by about seven men that you might not want to be surrounded by, say, alone at night. I've already called to them about the slim jim, suddenly realizing I was running at them begging for a freaking SLIM JIM. Merry Christmas, fellas.

Two of them take to the task, and they produce very quickly several objects with which to break into a car. This was not to my surprise. They had it open in seconds, and refused to take a dime from me. They saved me from losing $50 and an hour or so to Rape-A-Lock. Merry Christmas to me. The most meaningful gift by far this year.

KJ

Why not?

Okay, I finally have something to say about this election. That's right, two days before I need to actually make up my mind, I finally made up my mind. And it hasn't been easy.

Before this historically massive crux of an election, I have to bashfully admit that I have not been the most politically informed cat. In college I dated this completely crazy but of course, as it always seems to be, brilliant (this is my type in a nutshell) freak of a political science major. As he won academic bowl after academic bowl for the local community college (on Dexadrine), I casually blew off his passions in the interest of his feedback on my then-perfect floating orbs of golden light-- you may call them breasts. Anyway, he about dumped me when election day passed (Clinton vs. who?) and I had no idea. But I had the orbs, so we worked it out.

So now I feel the guilt and embarrassment of this memory (which I have never shared, by the way) as well as the shame when exposed to my father's immense and staggering sense of patriotism. I am the youngest daughter of a WWII veteran; very lucky to have this perspective. He actually lied about his age to go to war as a Marine-- or his parents signed for him, one of the two. Either way, who the fuck would do that today? What are we missing? We are a nation of spoiled asshole brats. It's disgusting, and I am reminded of this every time I watch FOX news with my 81 year old father. It's no rant of his, it's all mine. But to just simply observe the ever-so-slight swell in his chest while casually observing the state of the nation... it's more reverence than you'll get from any half-hearted pledge of allegiance in school or at a ballgame.

I also remember with some embarrassment but mostly as a major turning point, an incident at a party in college where I found myself getting pretty hammered with some fetching Marines. I had already decided I was really conflicted with my deficit in patriotism or even nationalism at this point, and I figured these guys should be able to help me figure it out. Plus, they might be tempted to rescue me from my frightful plight of cluelessness. I asked them point blank: why do I not feel it? What do you feel about our country that makes you do what you do? What am I missing? And the answer was so simple, and it resonates in my head to this day. He said, "We make it so you can say what you just said."

So in effect, we are so freaking spoiled as a nation that we not only are allowed to question our loyalty, our freedom (Michelle?), but even publicly humiliate our leader in wartime. I have a real problem with this. I don't care how much the man might deserve it, but what do we say about ourselves to the world when we mock our President? We may as well mock ourselves, and we do. I'm sorry, it's just tacky as hell. I dare anyone to call President Bush an idiot in front of someone just home from Iraq. I dare you. Not so funny anymore is it? You think he thinks it's funny? Fuck Bill Maher. Fuck John Stewart. Fuck all that Comedy Central bullshit. It's in seriously poor taste. But that's Hollywood for you.

This said, I have searched high and low for answers with both of our presidential candidates. I subscribe to both of their newsletters, I read all of the mud-slinging propaganda on both of them, and have checked all of the facts (myself, not from their own "fact-checker" sections on their websites). And I was still clueless in this age of information. I have leaned to both sides, and ultimately resided in between, wringing my hands and biting my nails. Then I had a moment of quiet, whispering clarity last night.

I was in Blockbuster, cause I'm an idiot and don't do the Netflix thing. (As with most media purchasing or borrowing, I want to touch it-- another post.) Right in front when you enter the rows of jackets, there was a display with previously viewed DVDs. It had several copies of Barack Obama: Who Is This Guy? (or something to that effect) on it, and I briefly thought to pick one up. But I had kept walking to review the other selections first. As I was scanning the jackets on the New Releases wall, I hear behind me this child's voice, a whisper of wonder, like glimpsing Santa Claus on a Coca Cola commercial-- it couldn't have sounded more utterly American,

"(gasp!) Barack Obama!"

And I could hear him pointing to a buddy or sibling, I didn't turn around. Then,

"I love you, Barack Obama."

I froze right there as tears came to my eyes. And a million romantic thoughts tumbled through my brain that ultimately asked, is it just too awful and naive to look up to someone this way? Can there really, actually be Hope? Is it not just clever campaigning? Could we actually have reverence as a nation, as this child does? Is it just too scary to posit such a thing?

It may be romantic. But no media could replicate the voice of that baby. And he surely learned it from Momma and Daddy (or maybe just Momma?), but I've never heard that kind of wonder out of anyone's mouth in regards to one of our nation's recent leaders. Why not go for it?

KJ

Huh.

Holy shit, that WAS vacuous.

KJ