When I search through the haze of the years of my youth, through the assimilatory trudging, the beer foam and pot smoke, the slide show of my memory pauses on the back of an old Acura Legend. The smells work to polish the clarity the picture, but they’re too complicated to do anything but enhance the overall mystique of the hazy visions of a raw bench seat. There’s the distinct smell of harbored sweat, heated and preserved by three or four sets of snowboard boots. A grease-blotted McDonalds bag releases the remnants of the egg-and-sausage-and-cholesterol drive-through breakfast. The car reeks of sleep and unbrushed teeth; the dankness of the morning is corralled and weighted by a convenience store air freshener, two months past prime, working its strawberry-powered ass off to disguise the musty bubble. No one in the car seems to notice any of the pungency as the Legend careens along the precarious banks of the American River Canyon, and three, four, sometimes five voices bounce along with every bloody word to a cassette of Sublime’s 40 oz. to Freedom. Yes, in my memory, Sublime has a wetness to it, a nearly-dead smell that refuses to unstink.
The Acura was also a time machine. Bradley Nowell had been dead for nearly three years, and as those winter days bore on, we did our part to keep him—along with the possibility that he and his Long Beach band might not have found another way to obliterate their chances at success—alive and well. We poured through the idiosyncrasies of his music, Saturday after Saturday, as we bobbed and bounced our way to the ski ranch. We investigated from where the dialogue in the track “40 oz. to Freedom” came. We reported the results of our mission to procure pre-Second-hand Smoke translations of the song “Chico mi tipo.” We emulated the way Bradley whistles to Toby Dog and Louie Dog in the “Thanx Dub,” not to mention the drawl of his “NKOTB” call out, and “thesouthsidepardemcapreed?wassupduuuude?” line we could never quite figure out. I’d never heard the Dead’s cut of “Scarlet Begonias,” but it didn’t stop me from signing about “nitrous, opium, acid, heroin, and pcp” on the Sublime cut. One infamous trip up the hill, in a foreign car this time, my cousin Lindsay and I sang the entire album in protest of the bearded asshole behind the wheel (her mom’s boyfriend) who believed a radio, knuckle-dragging snowboarders, and teenage fun were all a waste of time because skis were holier than the two planks nailed to Jesus.
40 oz to Freedom was certainly the snowboarding soundtrack, but it permeates my other memories. My copy never made it back into the giant 200-disc carrying case; it either played in the Camry's discman-a-la-tape-coverter CD player or sat in the console while some other band, probably Unwritten Law, took its turn. Unlike later Sublime albums, it wasn't just a collection songs. The album itself was a self-contained trip that actually suffered when played in segments.
It’s only now, after seeking out countless versions of “5446 (That’s My Number)” and the post-40 oz. radio play of “Badfish,” after linking the verse, “My name is Eric I have nothing to say / ‘Cuz I am not a fucking D.J.” to Gwen Stefani’s presence on Second-hand Smoke’s “Superstar Punani,” after the inundation and exposure and tracing the reggae roots and the bonus cuts appearing on subsequent posthumous releases, this mammoth album of my teenage years holds absolutely no relevance in my current life. None. I possess not the patience, desire, or palette to travel that canyon road. The deep white promise in the rhythmic chanting of "she picked up a rock / threw it at the car/ hit him in the head / now he's got a big scar" before trading the hot stink of youthful subversion for the fresh mountain air is no longer tantalizing, even for old time’s sake.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
my teenage daughter
the alarm clock in her stomach sounds
precisely at 5:55 am. i hit snooze
until an ally she's never met
ascends at its pre-set 6:15 and
by then
her throat is sore and
she is trying to open the bedroom door through a gap
by the floor, hoarsely screaming all the while.
sometimes i hear her burst about an open room,
exercising, i suppose. later, proudly looking at the world
through a window and, still later
sleekly stalking along between the curtains
and the French door.
it has come to my attention that this has caught attention.
she is a sheltered girl who stays in-
doors, biding her time on the couch
or on the bed asleep like
a duck with its bill tucked
neatly into its feathers. she hunts
springtime spiders, watches crime procedurals
on television and begs on hind
legs for canned pumpkin.
but attention comes with bristly outdoor fur
and unclipped nails.
the tramps of streets with their too-long glances
at the French door. they speak in games and
gazes and sandpaper tongues without discipline or curfew.
today i found a dead bird
on the stoop. we are
parents in a sea of sharks.
precisely at 5:55 am. i hit snooze
until an ally she's never met
ascends at its pre-set 6:15 and
by then
her throat is sore and
she is trying to open the bedroom door through a gap
by the floor, hoarsely screaming all the while.
sometimes i hear her burst about an open room,
exercising, i suppose. later, proudly looking at the world
through a window and, still later
sleekly stalking along between the curtains
and the French door.
it has come to my attention that this has caught attention.
she is a sheltered girl who stays in-
doors, biding her time on the couch
or on the bed asleep like
a duck with its bill tucked
neatly into its feathers. she hunts
springtime spiders, watches crime procedurals
on television and begs on hind
legs for canned pumpkin.
but attention comes with bristly outdoor fur
and unclipped nails.
the tramps of streets with their too-long glances
at the French door. they speak in games and
gazes and sandpaper tongues without discipline or curfew.
today i found a dead bird
on the stoop. we are
parents in a sea of sharks.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Kitchen
Stephanie told me, "It's the best food you'll ever eat," and it did not disappoint. No offense to the countless mothers, fathers, and chefs who have prepared food for me in the past, but The Kitchen is really the end-all, be-all for fine dining and culinary showmanship. (I've even heard it trump Napa's renowned French Laundry.) That said, the evening celebrating of my 26th year was a blissful 4-plus hour love affair with food, wine, and the divine.
The Kitchen restaurant is a single-seating establishment. The door opens for 55 or so patrons at 7:00 sharp, and they invite you to stay as long as you like. There's no rush to turn your table, no librarian-esque murmuring, no awkward bill placement; it's an experience made especially for relishing.
First, you meet chef Noah Zonca, a boisterous man busily pacing between appliances and dangling pots, who gives you the run down. January's menu consists of three plates, a self-serve sushi and sashimi break dubbed "intermission," a final protein plate, a white-gloved tea service and coffee session, and the dessert course. All in all, it's a six course wonderland of succulent flavors and savory moments. Because we sat at the bar surrounding the kitchen, we were afforded excellent views of each item's plating.
Below is a recall of the evening. The menu descriptions are included below each dish as it arrived at my place setting.
We started the evening with a Mendocino's Vision Cellars Pinot Noir. Behind is a huge bowl of walnuts and the kitchen.
Chef Noah Zonca parading the Maine lobster I would eventually request seconds of.
Plating the first course.
Opening Dish
The Kitchen 'Pork and Beans' with Local Ham Shanks, Marrow Beans, Parmesan Bread Pudding and Buttered Brussels Sprouts Leaves
Second Plate
A Salad of Winter Oranges and Endives with Arugula, Dungeness Crab, Preserved Meyer Lemon, Herbs and Willapa Bay Oysters.
Adding the broth to, yes, a lobster pot pie.
Third Plate
Maine Lobster-Black Truffle Pot Pie and 'Rice Krispie' Rock Shrimp.
Switching over to Napa's Modus Operandi “Vicarious,” a meritage blend, prior to our sushi and sashimi intermission (not pictured).
Fourth Plate
Mustard Basted Lamb Rack, Oxtail-Cipollini Onion 'Empanada', Creamed Shaved Potatoes, Cabernet and Thyme.
This is the spread for the white glove tea service. You simply approached, asked for a particular flavor, blend or herb, and watched as your choices were cut, shaved, potted, and steeped. We also enjoyed locally grown coffee before...
Dessert is Served
Brioche French Toast with Hazelnut-Maple Jus, Espresso-Cinnamon Butter Ice Cream and Peppered Bacon Brittle.
If you have a fondness for food - whether you cook it or just love eating it - I can't imagine a better location to celebrate your passion. It's not just a pricey restaurant, it's an open kitchen, an unassuming mecca for innovation and purity. The food is local when feasible, fresher than local grocer, and organic and free range. Above all, The Kitchen makes the magic accessible to anyone who, like me, marvels at how so many oddities can collaborate at a particular time, place, and temperature and set the tone for every meal that follows.
The Kitchen restaurant is a single-seating establishment. The door opens for 55 or so patrons at 7:00 sharp, and they invite you to stay as long as you like. There's no rush to turn your table, no librarian-esque murmuring, no awkward bill placement; it's an experience made especially for relishing.
First, you meet chef Noah Zonca, a boisterous man busily pacing between appliances and dangling pots, who gives you the run down. January's menu consists of three plates, a self-serve sushi and sashimi break dubbed "intermission," a final protein plate, a white-gloved tea service and coffee session, and the dessert course. All in all, it's a six course wonderland of succulent flavors and savory moments. Because we sat at the bar surrounding the kitchen, we were afforded excellent views of each item's plating.
Below is a recall of the evening. The menu descriptions are included below each dish as it arrived at my place setting.
We started the evening with a Mendocino's Vision Cellars Pinot Noir. Behind is a huge bowl of walnuts and the kitchen.
Chef Noah Zonca parading the Maine lobster I would eventually request seconds of.
Plating the first course.
Opening DishThe Kitchen 'Pork and Beans' with Local Ham Shanks, Marrow Beans, Parmesan Bread Pudding and Buttered Brussels Sprouts Leaves
Second PlateA Salad of Winter Oranges and Endives with Arugula, Dungeness Crab, Preserved Meyer Lemon, Herbs and Willapa Bay Oysters.
Adding the broth to, yes, a lobster pot pie.
Third PlateMaine Lobster-Black Truffle Pot Pie and 'Rice Krispie' Rock Shrimp.
Switching over to Napa's Modus Operandi “Vicarious,” a meritage blend, prior to our sushi and sashimi intermission (not pictured).
Fourth PlateMustard Basted Lamb Rack, Oxtail-Cipollini Onion 'Empanada', Creamed Shaved Potatoes, Cabernet and Thyme.
This is the spread for the white glove tea service. You simply approached, asked for a particular flavor, blend or herb, and watched as your choices were cut, shaved, potted, and steeped. We also enjoyed locally grown coffee before...
Dessert is ServedBrioche French Toast with Hazelnut-Maple Jus, Espresso-Cinnamon Butter Ice Cream and Peppered Bacon Brittle.
If you have a fondness for food - whether you cook it or just love eating it - I can't imagine a better location to celebrate your passion. It's not just a pricey restaurant, it's an open kitchen, an unassuming mecca for innovation and purity. The food is local when feasible, fresher than local grocer, and organic and free range. Above all, The Kitchen makes the magic accessible to anyone who, like me, marvels at how so many oddities can collaborate at a particular time, place, and temperature and set the tone for every meal that follows.
The Run to Feed the Hungry, 2008
It wasn't so much about the run itself, Sacramento's premier Thanksgiving Day event, but the plan that infiltrated a seemingly normal tradition. To avoid the hassle of parking at Sac State, the plan was to ride bicycles from the Don-Maben house through the East Sac suburbs. After Stacy and Mike's slow-rolling two seater fell back, I began experiencing some suspicious "bike trouble" of my own. Here's a rundown:
On a knee, waiting for Stephanie to realize what was going on.
The revealing of the presumptuous shirt. I wore this the last mile of the 10K; it was like having a congratulatory cheering section for our engagement.
Quite happy indeed!
Post-race, looking happy and trying not to shiver.
More information on the wedding itself, the wedding party, and some fine Zook/Petty trivia available at our wedding website.
On a knee, waiting for Stephanie to realize what was going on.
The revealing of the presumptuous shirt. I wore this the last mile of the 10K; it was like having a congratulatory cheering section for our engagement.
Quite happy indeed!
Post-race, looking happy and trying not to shiver.More information on the wedding itself, the wedding party, and some fine Zook/Petty trivia available at our wedding website.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The end of the beginning.
It's Sunday morning before the election. We just gained an extra hour of campaign time--and an hour, as big media insists on telling me, can make or break the election. But as I see, from this round little table in this caffeine hub, the election is already made (and broken, for that matter). If you haven't witnessed what's shaping up on the streets and in the hearts and minds of the populous, if it's not apparent to you yet, the shift is on.
This morning, whether resulting from the coffee or the cleansing rain--or both--the best examples of the shift became apparent. Here's a lackadaisical compilation.
1. Buttons. Buttons! In this fashionista-driven, uber style conscious society, who'd have thought the political button would make a comeback? But they're everywhere, and they're all Obama/Biden aluminium. They make yard signs and bumper stickers look like prehistorical relics. The energy of this campaign has made politics hip again.
2. Political Know-How. For the first time in a long time, political awareness isn't funneled through old and white and seasoned. It isn't about being told what's at stake and choosing between one or the other. This time around it's about being cognizant of the people and what we need out of them. My favorite part about the Obama/Biden ticket is the way it satisfies the needs of expansive democratic base while clearing room for dissatisfaction. People can support the candidate and simultaneously lodge complaints about what they feel still needs to be done. That's what hope does. It doesn't say, "Sacrifice your core beliefs this time around." It says, "I'll offer time to make room for that." I don't find that everyone's absolutely in love with every last word or policy the candidates are offering. I get the impression that we know perfection isn't possible. But I feel like everyone understands the stakes and how charisma and a brain give hope there will always be room to work on those differences.
3. The Self. More importantly, the role of the self. This is actually the reason I decided to make time to blog today. I heard a young man behind me in line professing to a friend that he met an Obama employee in Florida, got his number, and was hoping to find work there in some capacity soon. While he framed his anecdote in the familiar I'm-sought-after-because-I'm-qualified tone, I started thinking about what lies at the core of such a story. What I found was Obama's community organizer spirit and the drive and direction of the country when he enters office. This employee mentioned is a product of an organizer and his belief that through networking and service, every man, woman, and child can make a difference. While I don't doubt the qualifications of the man in line--he might very well be a political juggernaut--I know that same phone number was cast out like a net into the sea. It's realization of the Obama philosophy that everyone is qualified.
I'll be 26 in January. I recently realized this means that I've had a Bush at the helm for 16 years of my life. Sixteen years of a philosophy that not everyone is qualified; that some must decide for all. How can our elders wonder why the youth is so energized about Obama?
Here's how. I'm from a long line of conservative republicans; small-towners who want limited government and less taxes. Such political beliefs are sensible, but they're no longer what constitute being a republican. Republican policies have shifted into specified scare-tactics, a binary us/them mentality that situates every change as a threat. They claim that arguments for global warming threaten our economy of driving and producing (rendering public transit socialism and carbon emission caps as a clamp on free markets); gun control infringes on the God-given right to make food of an animal (and no guns means you're defenseless against pickpockets and terrorists); gay marriage jeopardizes the family (although we shattered that porcelain long ago). Keep running your own list. If you're republican, what aren't you afraid of?
The most puzzling thing is how those who argue for small government can claim to be republican when this is the administration that passed the Patriot Act. That's the biggest, scariest, most involved monster ever created.
Change is unstoppable, real, and constant. But what's left to complain about? Politics is again hip for the masses. Young voters are motivated. Voter turnout will shatter records. A majority of Americans do not want to fight in misbegotten wars. Common citizens are donating their money and their time for a unified cause. A man with a black father and a white mother is running for president. Never before has America looked more American.
This morning, whether resulting from the coffee or the cleansing rain--or both--the best examples of the shift became apparent. Here's a lackadaisical compilation.
1. Buttons. Buttons! In this fashionista-driven, uber style conscious society, who'd have thought the political button would make a comeback? But they're everywhere, and they're all Obama/Biden aluminium. They make yard signs and bumper stickers look like prehistorical relics. The energy of this campaign has made politics hip again.
2. Political Know-How. For the first time in a long time, political awareness isn't funneled through old and white and seasoned. It isn't about being told what's at stake and choosing between one or the other. This time around it's about being cognizant of the people and what we need out of them. My favorite part about the Obama/Biden ticket is the way it satisfies the needs of expansive democratic base while clearing room for dissatisfaction. People can support the candidate and simultaneously lodge complaints about what they feel still needs to be done. That's what hope does. It doesn't say, "Sacrifice your core beliefs this time around." It says, "I'll offer time to make room for that." I don't find that everyone's absolutely in love with every last word or policy the candidates are offering. I get the impression that we know perfection isn't possible. But I feel like everyone understands the stakes and how charisma and a brain give hope there will always be room to work on those differences.
3. The Self. More importantly, the role of the self. This is actually the reason I decided to make time to blog today. I heard a young man behind me in line professing to a friend that he met an Obama employee in Florida, got his number, and was hoping to find work there in some capacity soon. While he framed his anecdote in the familiar I'm-sought-after-because-I'm-qualified tone, I started thinking about what lies at the core of such a story. What I found was Obama's community organizer spirit and the drive and direction of the country when he enters office. This employee mentioned is a product of an organizer and his belief that through networking and service, every man, woman, and child can make a difference. While I don't doubt the qualifications of the man in line--he might very well be a political juggernaut--I know that same phone number was cast out like a net into the sea. It's realization of the Obama philosophy that everyone is qualified.
I'll be 26 in January. I recently realized this means that I've had a Bush at the helm for 16 years of my life. Sixteen years of a philosophy that not everyone is qualified; that some must decide for all. How can our elders wonder why the youth is so energized about Obama?
Here's how. I'm from a long line of conservative republicans; small-towners who want limited government and less taxes. Such political beliefs are sensible, but they're no longer what constitute being a republican. Republican policies have shifted into specified scare-tactics, a binary us/them mentality that situates every change as a threat. They claim that arguments for global warming threaten our economy of driving and producing (rendering public transit socialism and carbon emission caps as a clamp on free markets); gun control infringes on the God-given right to make food of an animal (and no guns means you're defenseless against pickpockets and terrorists); gay marriage jeopardizes the family (although we shattered that porcelain long ago). Keep running your own list. If you're republican, what aren't you afraid of?
The most puzzling thing is how those who argue for small government can claim to be republican when this is the administration that passed the Patriot Act. That's the biggest, scariest, most involved monster ever created.
Change is unstoppable, real, and constant. But what's left to complain about? Politics is again hip for the masses. Young voters are motivated. Voter turnout will shatter records. A majority of Americans do not want to fight in misbegotten wars. Common citizens are donating their money and their time for a unified cause. A man with a black father and a white mother is running for president. Never before has America looked more American.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Stephanie's Birthday
In somewhat crafty fashion, I whisked Stephanie away for her birthday weekend. Accompanying her birthday card on Wednesday she found a birthday greeting from a caricature of the governor. The next day she found, looming above the caricature, an artist's rendering of a bear. The two were half-assed clues for her birthday trip to the Black Bear Inn in Arnold, California. Here are some pictures from our weekend in the Sequoias of the Calavaras Big Trees.
The Black Bear Inn Bed & Breakfast
Stephanie inverting the once popular "Hug a Tree" slogan.
Me out to prove the legitimacy of the "Big Trees" title.
One of many tree tunnels.
Early settlers cut this in order to lure visitors away from the popular forests of Yosemite.
We enjoyed a terrific weekend. The B&B was both peaceful and elegant, and the amenities were awesome. We took advantage of the afternoon wine and cheese snacks, the on-site spa, the serene yard and private setting, and the close proximity of (quirky) restaurants. The only complaint might be to the trees themselves, who with the help of their sap and pine needles, constructed additional soles for our shoes.
The Black Bear Inn Bed & Breakfast
Stephanie inverting the once popular "Hug a Tree" slogan.
Me out to prove the legitimacy of the "Big Trees" title.
One of many tree tunnels.
Early settlers cut this in order to lure visitors away from the popular forests of Yosemite. We enjoyed a terrific weekend. The B&B was both peaceful and elegant, and the amenities were awesome. We took advantage of the afternoon wine and cheese snacks, the on-site spa, the serene yard and private setting, and the close proximity of (quirky) restaurants. The only complaint might be to the trees themselves, who with the help of their sap and pine needles, constructed additional soles for our shoes.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
An Open Letter to the GOP
Dear Grand Old Party,
I feel like the use of the word "old" in this letter's title is appropriate because I feel like I'm talking to an ancient version of myself. I mean, we're made of the same blood and bones, but we're just so far apart.
Like this whole Sarah Palin thing you're doing. I'm really happy to see that you've let a women into your fortress, but it isn't really all that groundbreaking when you remember we did it in 1984. It isn't really all that heartwarming to hear you proclaim your excitement, since, well, it just makes you seem old.
Then there's the pro-life/pro-choice debate we've been having. Really? Still? I'm not against a woman choosing to have a child, but I'm not for forcing a rape victim to conceive. Are we still having this conversation? Are you somewhere where they're selling leaded gasoline right now?
Which brings me to this whole "junk science" thing called Global Warming. Are you still denying it's existence? Didn't you put a VP candidate on the ticket who had the fortune of watching the snow and ice melt firsthand? It seems like she'd be a great way to perform your usual bypass of scientific community, no? I know, I know, I'm giving her too much credit by hoping she governed with her eyes open.
And I can't help but think about how this Second Amendment keeps coming up. We don't have any militias, so using the second amendment to justify gun use is archaic. Just wondering, are you arguing by candlelight over there?
And there are so many gay and lesbian men and women giving us firsthand accounts of what it's like to be gay that it's hard to take your curmudgeonly dated account of it. You live in a divorce-ridden country that reinvents daily what constitutes an American family, yet you push an agenda that attempts to define it. I'm having a hard time understanding your logic, old man, or maybe you're being drowned out by the fuzzy reception on your rabbit-eared Panasonic.
We in the blue have decided to take somewhere great, somewhere where you don't have to feel old and alone. It'll okay. It'll be like a vacation. In four years when you start itching to come back, you'll hardly recognize the place. But it's all for the best, because we're going to fix it up and keep it clean for your eventual arrival.
Now go pack your bags and then take your nap. We'll wake you up on a Wednesday in November.
I feel like the use of the word "old" in this letter's title is appropriate because I feel like I'm talking to an ancient version of myself. I mean, we're made of the same blood and bones, but we're just so far apart.
Like this whole Sarah Palin thing you're doing. I'm really happy to see that you've let a women into your fortress, but it isn't really all that groundbreaking when you remember we did it in 1984. It isn't really all that heartwarming to hear you proclaim your excitement, since, well, it just makes you seem old.
Then there's the pro-life/pro-choice debate we've been having. Really? Still? I'm not against a woman choosing to have a child, but I'm not for forcing a rape victim to conceive. Are we still having this conversation? Are you somewhere where they're selling leaded gasoline right now?
Which brings me to this whole "junk science" thing called Global Warming. Are you still denying it's existence? Didn't you put a VP candidate on the ticket who had the fortune of watching the snow and ice melt firsthand? It seems like she'd be a great way to perform your usual bypass of scientific community, no? I know, I know, I'm giving her too much credit by hoping she governed with her eyes open.
And I can't help but think about how this Second Amendment keeps coming up. We don't have any militias, so using the second amendment to justify gun use is archaic. Just wondering, are you arguing by candlelight over there?
And there are so many gay and lesbian men and women giving us firsthand accounts of what it's like to be gay that it's hard to take your curmudgeonly dated account of it. You live in a divorce-ridden country that reinvents daily what constitutes an American family, yet you push an agenda that attempts to define it. I'm having a hard time understanding your logic, old man, or maybe you're being drowned out by the fuzzy reception on your rabbit-eared Panasonic.
We in the blue have decided to take somewhere great, somewhere where you don't have to feel old and alone. It'll okay. It'll be like a vacation. In four years when you start itching to come back, you'll hardly recognize the place. But it's all for the best, because we're going to fix it up and keep it clean for your eventual arrival.
Now go pack your bags and then take your nap. We'll wake you up on a Wednesday in November.
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