Happiness is ... apparently up for debate.

Little known fact about me: I used to be a comics editor.

It's true. For about six months give or take I was the comics editor at the Merced Sun-Star, where I had my first newspaper job.

Let me tell you, I really ruffled some comic readers' feathers during the time. I wrote a column suggesting we yank all these timeless comics (For Better or For Worse, Blondie, the Family Circus) to make room for some of the newer ones on the scene (Rose is Rose, Get Fuzzy, Non Sequitur). I also suggested Dilbert. People were not happy with me.

I didn't say I was going to actually do it, I was just making a suggestion. The purpose of the column was to introduce an election for the most popular comics. We threw some of my new favorites in the mix as well.

The three with the most votes? For Better or For Worse, Blondie, the Family Circus.

C'est la vie.

I do not know my comics as well as I used to. But I still love them, especially Peanuts.

I will leave you with these from "Happiness is a Warm Puppy," which I picked up on a recent trip to the museum in Santa Rosa. (I. Love. This. Book.)

"Happiness is a bread and butter sandwich folded over."

"Happiness is three friends in a sandbox...with no fighting."

"Happiness is walking in the grass in your bare feet."

"Happiness is one thing to one person and another thing to another person."

Now that is something we can all live by right now.




By the way, did you hear Archie is going to marry Veronica? I couldn't believe it either.

You are not Hunter S. Thompson

I finished reading "The Night of the Gun" by David Carr on the N-Judah ride home last night. I did not get this book at all. In fact, I thought about throwing it in the trash before I finished the last 10 pages.

But, I did read all 389. Blech.

This author and reporter (currently a columnist for the New York Times) decided to investigate the black hole that was his life in his 20s and 30s. He was smoking crack and shooting cocaine. Selling. Beating girlfriends. Going to jail. Going to rehab. Somewhere in there he has twin baby girls with a woman who is also using, and he somehow gets custody of them. He cleans up until the girls are teens and then starts to rage with the booze and ends up in detox.

My problems with this book started with the cover:

Problem #1:
The subtitle schtick: "A reporter investigates the darkest story of his life. His own."

Dun dun dun.
(And it's written in a cheesy graffiti font.)

Problem #2:
The picture of the author with his twin girls at about 3 years old.

Problem #3:
It's dedicated to "the magic fairies," his wife and three daughters.

Dude. Duuuuuuuude. This is not "his" story. It is (mostly) about the childhoods he decided to give the twins, I'll give him that. But, the photo, come on. They're not baby girls anymore. He screwed up their childhood. Hard. Yes, they are capable women in college now. It's called survival. And seriously, "magic fairies?" This guy is truly living in a fantasy world. His own.

I do not understand why a person, a professional, a father would write such a thing after everyone involved has emerged alive. You made it! You're sober! You have a job! They don't hate you (well, not to your face)! I'm sure there was a "family talk" about the whole project and everyone was on board and agreed.

But he should have just given them peace.

Cocktails yummy enough to read

I want to sing a little song for the cocktails menu at the Alembic bar on Haight Street.

The back story: While I have been to this bar a number of times, my friend Sarah and I were celebrating her 31st birthday on this particular occasion. We ate: pork belly BLT sliders, a salad with grilled Monterey squid, and I can't remember the third dish because the first two were so amazing.

More importantly, we drank:
(descriptions are directly from the bar's site)

Cocktail #1
Strawberry Alarm Clock: This psychedelic jam is the perfect way to wake up anytime of day. Sweet vermouth and strawberry puree all twisted up with stranahan’s grand mesa malt whiskey and spiked with little shot of tabasco, topped off with a tiny dose of parsley and peppermint oil. Turn on, tune in. Good sense be damned.

Cocktail #2:
The Clover Cocktail: One of our favorite pre-prohibition cocktails, this number harkens back to a time when the distinguished gentlemen of Philadelphia would gather at the Bellevuestratford Hotel and raise glasses of (what else?) pink frothy cocktails. We pluck some raspberries from our garden, whip up a little syrup, drop it in some gin, add a splash of lemon juice and some egg white and shake the hell out of it. Seasonal and timeless. Oh, yeah, and pink!

Now, these are not slam, bam, thank you ma'am cocktails.

Me: Wow, I can't believe I'm only a little buzzed.
Sarah: Yeah, if you get drunk, that's your fault not theirs.

True dat.

Besides that, the writing is superb. Each blurb tells a story behind the drink, whether that's how it's made or who drank it first. Yeah, drink, drank, drunk. Whatever.

Highly recommended: the Alembic bar cocktail menu for fantastic reading. You do anything else, that's your own fault.

Two pieces of ice? Anyone?

I'm starting this blog now because, well, I need a job. No, I want a job. I could try to live it up for a while on funemployment, but who am I kidding? I come from a blue collar family and have had a job since I was 13. It has really been such a natural progression since then, from filing X-rays in tiny envelopes for the dentist my mother worked for in 1990 to working as a freelance copywriter at Bare Escentuals Beauty in 2009. It all made sense. The next step was always so obvious.

I mean really, I have worked at:

• A movie theater serving popcorn with butter flavoring (not butter) and sweeping up candy wrappers.

• A retirement home serving veggies and other very specific orders (like a glass of water with 2 pieces of ice).

• A department store selling Levi's to teenagers with their moms' credit cards.

• A university's student business office, where I think I did something along the lines of accounts payable but I might have just been filling out forms with multiple carbon copies.

Sigh.

It was all such a natural evolution.

It's too bad where I'm going after Friday, July 31 is a mystery.