Here and There

I brushed off your endorsement when I got wind of it early in the day. But damn you, you made me watch your speech.

And now I copy the embed code with wet eyes. Yes we can!

… “fudging” a dessert recipe, twice, is small “cookies.”

I couldn’t help myself. I am my father’s son, it appears.

Do not give a misbehaving child what (s)he wants.

And with that implicit analogy, this blog now turns its full attention toward taking down John McCain. Reader submissions are accepted.

The aim will be to expose John McCain for what he is — an old-school politician, beholden to special interests with deep pockets who play by their own rules. The arguments about approach to government are tired, but must be hashed out. The real question is who these candidates are, what they represent, and how they will lead and represent the United States of America at home and to the world.

Given these tenets, the choice should be pretty clear, methinks.

Had to repost this brilliant item from Jodi Lipper and Cerina Vincent at HuffPo: “Where Mayo Goes to Hide“

Okay, everyone and their mother is posting this story from my employer on why pizza in San Francisco sucks so hard.

I came to SF from NYC eight years ago, steeped in pizza lore. I’m all Napoli and New York. Screw Sicily and Chicago.

But I must say that you just have to suck it up and acclimate. Joe Brown, my friend, my colleague, you live here now. True, New York is home, and please, relish its cuisine as you wish. I still dream about Texas soul food, Mexican food, and outdoor barbeques, all of which are attempted here in the frigid to luke warm Bay Area.

But I’ve learned to love certain efforts at pizza out here. Namely, Pauline’s and Little Star, Delfina Pizza, and (as Joe mentions in the article), Tomasso’s. There’s also Lane Splitter in the East Bay. And props to Arinell (SF and Berkeley). It’s all different, but it’s good.

And for the record: as far as the pie goes, Little Star thin is the best we’ve got out here.

By Slice, the pizza blog, courtesy of Kottke.

What’s so wrong with mushrooms, really?

In the 1970s, the seemingly never-ending war in Vietnam begat race riots, draft dodging, the Hippie movement, student uprisings, the sexual revolution, and more. It expedited feminism and civil rights, and changed music, fashion, and even the political landscape (and, I’m willing to guess, food, art, architecture, and flower arranging, to name a few).

Fast-forward 30 years, and the moral morass, the lethargy and indifference, the deep-seeded need for distraction caused by the seemingly endless war in Iraq has given us … lolcats.*

* Disclaimer: I’m in no way pretending that lolcats are a new phenomenon. Nor am I pretending the my ~April 2007 introduction to them was on the cusp of their popularity. I just woke up today and realized I’ve yet to chime in on them. Enjoy.

This is the first installment of a new feature on Here and There, tentatively titled “mepedia.” I hope you enjoy.

These are some of the things I learned yesterday, Monday, August 13, 2007:

* Karl Rove will resign from the Bush administration at the end of August. Reactions are expected and generic, but my insight is that the “family” excuse is to politics what the “busy” excuse is to the rest of us. Sort of. At least in its transparency.

* Brooke Astor dies. Okay, “news” of a 105-year-old woman dying isn’t exactly, well, news. But I’d like to give my boss props for calling this one the night before (Sunday) on, as far as I can tell, absolutely no evidence. He also mentioned some friends of his at The New York Times who had Astor and Pavarotti on their death watch. Luciano lives another day.

* Finished an article in the August 13, 2007 issue of The New Yorker about Lesch-Nyhan syndrome, a rare, fucked-up disorder found only in males in which the sufferer is compelled to destroy himself. It manifests most readily in the eating of the fingers and lips. Article mentions a spectrum of self-mutiliating behavior that encompasses a bad habit of mine: eating cuticles till they bleed. Help! Danger!

* After going over a story on transit-oriented development somewhere in the Peninsula (in the city of San Mateo, I believe), a coworker told me about the idea of arcology, or massive structures of huddled humans living in a sustainable, ecologically sound way.

* From visiting the wikipedia page on arcology, I found the concept of the count noun, such as “cattle” or, formerly, “fish.” Never knew that term, but it’s handy for making people think I’m some kind of grammarian.

* Toward the end of the shift last night, a coworker informed me of Van Halen’s reunion tour, which former bassist Michael Anthony will unfortunately not be taking part in thanks to his sacking by Eddie van Halen earlier this year. The younger van Halen brother replaced the band’s longtime bassist (and proud purveyor of the Jack Daniels bass guitar) with none other than his own son, 16-year-old Wolfgang van Halen. Natch.

* Read somewhere that the new Minneapolis bridge(s) will have five lanes each way. Well, the smaller bridge didn’t work, so what else to do but build bigger??

* Another New Yorker tidbit: From James Surowiecki’s Financial Page, learned the term rent-seeker, describing “a company [that] seeks to manipulate economic conditions rather than actually create value.” Sounds vaguely familiar.

* Finally, began an article in the same New Yorker about elaborate, highly lucrative European olive oil scams. Learned a little about the process of making olive oil, which the author describes as similar to juice extraction. Also learned that olives are closely related to cherries and plums (and mangoes, which the author omitted), all of which are known as drupes. Nice word.

Or, a weekend adventure in Central Coast California.

(Warning: This is a long travelblogue post)

We left the Bay Area sometime shortly after midnight Thursday (technically Friday, but I’ve never been one to relent to the nextdayness of post-midnight hours). We drove straight through down U.S. Highway 101 from San Francisco to Paso Robles, a distance of 204 miles. We took the first exit in PR and meandered some back roads, eventually heading back toward 101 to a motel parking lot, where we parked and did our best to sleep.

Next morning (now, admittedly, Friday) we had breakfast at Denny’s. We got mistaken there for a couple who had come to the “restaurant” months ago and left upon feeling altogether ignored by the Denny’s staff. Nope, not us.

After our “meal” (read: pancakes with piles of “strawberry” goo), we headed down state Highway 46 eastdound to Firestone winery, a modernish estate with few visitors at 10:30 a.m.

A very friendly worker treated us (and they allowed Gida to come inside) to a nice, $5 tasting of five-plus wines. We left with a bottle of Cabernet Franc Rosé and Riesling.

After a short pause to sober up completely, it was time to head west on 46 to Eagle Castle.

The woman pouring our wine here was less than enthusiastic, yawning and just barely looking us in the eye. Maybe it had something to do with her glittery “Wine Princess” shirt. The wines were mediocre, but they did offer a nice late harvest Viognier that we picked up. And, I mean, it’s a castle. WIth a moat.

Hunt Cellars was our anamoly winery. The only reason we stopped off here was the namesake factor. Unlike most other area wineries, Hunt had shade trees, and it was hot, so we cooled off a bit before tasting.

Oddly, the tasting room’s decor smacked of my parents’ house in Texas:

More mediocre wines, but I felt compelled to buy some member of my family a bottle, so I left with their “Moonlight Sonata” Chardonnay. Interestingly, Hunt’s winemaker, David Hunt, is blind. That doesn’t stop him from being photographed for multiple chamber of commerce-type photos, sans protective shades.

It was here that the first celebrity mistaken-identity incident took place. “You look like, ah god, who is it?” “Andy Dick,” I replied, without hesitation. “That’s it!” he said. “And she looks like someone, too.” “Angelina?” “Yes!!! What’s up, Brad?”

From Hunt Cellars, we drove farther west on 46 to what was billed as “punk rock wine,” Four Vines. I wasn’t disappointed. First of all, they let Gida in and gave her treats. Nice. Secondly, upon entering the tiny tasting room, a very loud winery worker launched into how much I looked like Andy Dick. Wow, I thought, is my hair that curly today? “I hope I’m just not half as annoying as that guy,” I said, spending my stock response all at once.

Four Vines was great. Very down-to-earth, both in wine and people. We ended up buying a bottle of their “Loco” Tempranillo blend, but tasting “Naked” chardonnay, “Maverick” zinfindel, and, honestly, I forget what else. And we were graced with Four Vines tattoos.

Then we continued down a beautiful stretch of road to Cayucos, a non-sleepy coastal town. To change into beach clothes, we stopped into the Cayucos Saloon, whose motto is “Liquor in the front, poker in the rear.” I know, original, eh? I’m bummed I forgot to get a T-shirt or hoodie from that place.

Wine tasting finished for the day, we plopped over to the beach and did a little relaxing and a little wading. Well, not wading exactly. The water was still so cold, I only allowed my ankles such a privilege.

We finished the trek to San Luis Obispo, driving past Morro Rock, which had just begun to be enveloped in fog, and some lovely smoke stacks.

Down the road from our motel was the famous Madonna Inn. I’ll let photo tell the story.

We ended up having decent-enough Mexican food at Vallarta in SLO.

Next morning, we presciently choose IHOP over Applebee’s for breakfast, then made our way to Tolosa winery. Tolosa had great wines and a very modern design. Here, we did a spot of vineyard frolicking, then took off with our Chardonnays and bottles of Pinot Gris in tow.

On to Edna Valley vineyard, with its crowds and excellent views.

In the parking lot at Edna Valley, we saw a stretch-limo version of the ZZ Top car.

It was basically a newly made, old-timey car, and tiny as hell inside. But what eye candy.

Our last winery, Talley, was the best. It came recommended by a friend, and though the tasting room itself was nothing to write home about, the wines were superb. We left with a 2005 Riesling and a 2005 late harvest Riesling. From the Bishop’s Peak Vineyard, with whom Talley partners, we got a Paso Robles rosé, a 2004 petite sirah [sic], and 2005 “Stone Cold” Chardonnay, easily the best late harvest Chardonnay I’ve ever had.

After a quick stop for lunch in Arroyo Grande, which ended up being a failed attempt to find paninis, we ended the trip with a stop at Avila Beach. Avila had been billed as having the warmest waters in the region, and what sage advice that was. It was a nice, long beach, and surprisingly, the hundreds of people out enjoying the warm weather didn’t bother me. What did was the fact that Avila doesn’t allow dogs on its beach before 5 p.m. What???

The water is warm there because its mostly protected from the current by a jut of land out into the ocean. Nice work, earth. We got in up to our waists, a rarity in the Pacific.

On the three-hour trip back home, we decided all the warm weather and beach dwelling inspired a seafood dinner, and so we went to PJ’s Oyster Bed in San Francisco.

All in all, it was a highly recommended easy weekend getaway from San Francisco or Los Angeles. And, as with every trip I’ve taken since I moved to SF seven years ago, I was happy to be home, even if it was cold and foggy.

Saw this product a few weeks ago at a Cost Plus World Market. Thoughts?

I’ve never really had a big problem with pigeons. The debate abounds, everywhere. Every city I’ve lived in, I’ve run into people who can’t stand the sight of the animals, dead, alive, or in fecal form.

But recently, the anti-pigeon netting on my house went out, and a group of the creatures has begun to nest up on a ledge about 10 feet above my door. First I noticed the area just outside the door covered in their poop. Then it went away.

Now it’s back with a vengeance.

But …

The reason for this post has as much to do with my dietary habits as it does the degradation of my domicile.

I tend to get into ruts with what I eat. For the last few months, I’ve had two chicken tacos from the same taquería just about every day. For dinner, I’m on a streak of turkey sandwiches from the same deli near work.

Lately, though, with the pigeon infestation, and consequent repulsive smell just outside my house, I’ve had to swear off all forms of poultry. I’ve just got too strong an associative mind. I eat chicken, and no matter how well-asada’d, I taste pigeon. Ditto the turkey sandwiches.

It’s a sad story. I’ll keep you all posted on my reintroduction to poultry. Until then, it’s vegetarian burritos and tuna sandwiches (on light rye, of course).

Utter hilariousness that touches on why you can’t get a decent burrito in NYC (has a direct relation to why a cheap, decent slice of pizza is impossible to come by in SF).

I’m at the morning cafe. Just got here, really. On a new, so far successful program of waking with most of the rest of the world, meaning before 9 a.m.

I sit next to two older women, both wearing Golden Gate National Park fleece vests. They seem nice enough. A few minutes into sitting here, one of them leans over and says, “Excuse me. I’m just curious. Do you have a job? Or do you go to school?”

This was no presumption, no condescending inquiry on her part. It’s a legitimate question I’ve wondered since this place opened. Where do all these patrons come from? What do they do to earn their rent? And do they really have so much time to pile up dishes and scatter muffin crumbs on the table?

This place isn’t alone. In most popular cafes around town (and, I’m sure, in others towns as well), there are dozens, scores maybe, of people, typically in their twenties and thirties (okay, sometimes older too), spending all day in front of novels, laptops, spreadsheets, blogs, news sites, Photoshop or InDesign documents, dissertations, book reports, games of Scrabble … I don’t know. But they’re there.

I kindly told these ladies I work at a newspaper, so I go in when the sun goes down. Not entirely true (it’s still light out at 2 p.m.), but an easy enough explanation. Maybe everyone has an easy explanation.

Saturday mornings at cafés and restaurants. Couples EVERYWHERE! A stark contrast to those same venues during the week.

If you’re thinking, “Gee. No duh,” see the title of the post (a new category, too), please.